BLEAK HOUSE

Transcription

BLEAK HOUSE

ELECBOOK CLASSICS
BLEAK
HOUSE
Charles Dickens
ELECBOOK CLASSICS
ebc0002. Charles Dickens: Bleak House
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BLEAK HOUSE
Charls Dickens
Blak House
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CONTENTS
(Cick on number to go to chapter )
Chapter 1. In Chancery ........................................................................8
Chapter 2. In Fashion .........................................................................17
Chapter 3. A Progress.........................................................................27
Chapter 4. Tescopic Phianthropy .................................................53
Chapter 5. A Morng Adveture .....................................................70
Chapter 6. Quite At Home..................................................................89
Chapter 7. The Ghot’s Walk ...........................................................118
Chapter 8. Coverig A Multitude of Sins.......................................132
Chapter 9. Sign And Toke.........................................................159
Chapter 10. The Law-Writer............................................................180
Chapter 11. Our Dear Brothr.........................................................195
Chapter 12. On The Watc...............................................................215
Chapter 13. Esther’s Narrative........................................................235
Chapter 14. Deportment...................................................................256
Chapter 15. Be Yard .......................................................................285
Chapter 16. Tom-All-Alon’s ...........................................................306
Chapter 18. Lady Dedlok................................................................337
Chapter 19. Movig On.....................................................................361
Chapter 20. A Ne Lodger...............................................................380
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Chapter 21. The Smaleed Family ...............................................400
Chapter 22. Mr Bucket .....................................................................424
Chapter 24. A Appeal Case ............................................................467
Chapter 25. Mrs Snagsby Sees It Al ..............................................492
Chapter 26. Sharpshooters ..............................................................504
Chapter 27. More Old Soldiers Than On .....................................522
Chapter 28. The Iromaster ............................................................540
Chapter 29. The Young Man............................................................556
Chapter 31. Nurse And Patit .......................................................591
Chapter 32. The Appoited Ti ...................................................612
Chapter 33. Interlpers ....................................................................631
Chapter 34. A Turn Of The Scre ..................................................651
Chapter 36. Chesney Wold...............................................................692
Chapter 37. Jarndyce And Jarndyce ..............................................713
Chapter 38. A Struggl .....................................................................739
Chapter 39. Attorney And Client ....................................................754
Chapter 40. National And Domestic...............................................775
Chapter 41. In Mr Tulkighrn’s Roo ........................................791
Chapter 42. In Mr Tulkighrn’s Chambers.................................803
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Chapter 44. The Letter And The Answer ......................................834
Chapter 45. In Trust..........................................................................844
Chapter 46. Stop Him! ......................................................................861
Chapter 47. Jo’s Will .........................................................................873
Chapter 48. Clog In ......................................................................893
Chapter 49. Dutiful Friendship .......................................................915
Chapter 51. Enlghted ..................................................................948
Chapter 52. Obstinacy.......................................................................963
Chapter 53. The Track......................................................................978
Chapter 54. Sprigig A Mi.........................................................994
Chapter 55. Flight............................................................................1023
Chapter 56. Pursuit .........................................................................1044
Chapter 57. Esther’s Narrative......................................................1055
Chapter 58. A Wintry Day And Night...........................................1079
Chapter 60. Perspective..................................................................1116
Chapter 61. A Discvery .................................................................1133
Chapter 62. Ather Discovery .....................................................1147
Chapter 63. Steel And Iro ............................................................1160
Chapter 65. Begig The World................................................1186
Chapter 66. Dow In Lire ...............................................1196
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Chapter 67. The Cloe Of Esther’s Narrative..............................1202
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Chapter 1
In Chancery
L
odon. Michaelmas Term lately over, and th Lord
Cancellor sitting in Lin’s Inn Hall. Implacable
November weathr. As much mud in th strets, as if th
waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it
wuld not be wnderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty fet long or
so, waddling like an elphanti lizard up Holborn Hi Smoke
lowring dow fro chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzl,
wth flakes of soot in it as big as ful-gro snowflakes—go ito
urnig, o mght iagi, for the death of the sun Dogs,
indistiguishable in mire. Hors, scarcely better; splashed to
their very blkers. Foot-pasgers, jostlg one another’s
umbrelas, in a geral infection of ill-temper, and losng thr
foothold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other footpassegers have be slipping and sliding si th day broke (if
this day ever broke), adding ne deposits to th crust upo crust
of mud, stikig at those pots tenacously to the pavemt, and
accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, whre it flows amg green
aits and meadows; fog dow th river, whre it rolls defiled among
th tirs of shipping, and th watersde pollutis of a great (and
dirty) city. Fog on the Essx marshes, fog on the Kentih heights.
Fog crepig ito the caboose of cor-brigs; fog lyig out on the
yards, and hoverig i the rigging of great shps; fog droopig on
the gunal of barges and sal boats Fog i the eyes and
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throats of ancient Grenwich pensioners, whzig by th
firedes of their wards; fog in the stem and bo of the afternoon
pipe of th wrathful skipper, dow in his cl cabin; fog cruelly
pinching th to and fingers of his shivering littl ’prentice boy on
deck. Cance people on th bridges peeping over th parapets ito
a nether sky of fog, with fog al round them, as if they were up i a
balloo, and hangig in th misty clouds.
Gas loog through th fog in divers places in th strets,
muc as the sun may, from the spongy fieds, be s to loom by
husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours
before their tim—as the gas se to know, for it has a haggard
and unlling look.
The raw afternoon i rawest, and the de fog is det, and
th muddy strets are muddiest, near that leaden-haded od
obstructi, appropriate ornamt for the threshold of a ladenheaded old crporati: Templ Bar. And hard by Templ Bar, in
Linoln’s In Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High
Chanr in his High Court of Chanry.
Never can there co fog too thick, nver can there c mud
and mire too dep, to asrt with the gropig and flounderig
condition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of
hoary sirs, holds, this day, in the sight of heaven and earth.
On suc an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chanor ought
to be sitting here—as here he is—wth a foggy glory round hi
ad, softly fenced in with crimson cth and curtains, addressed
by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voic, and an
intermable brief, and outwardly directing his conteplation to
the lantern i the roof, where he can see nthg but fog. On suc
an afternoon, s score of mebers of the High Court of
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Canry Bar ought to be—as here they are—mtiy engaged in
one of the ten thousand stages of an endl cause, trippig one
another up on sppery precedets, gropig knee-deep in
tecaltie, runnig their goat-hair and horse-hair warded
hads against walls of wrds, and making a pretece of equity
wth serius faces, as players might. On such an aftern, th
various sotors in the cause, so two or three of whom have
iherited it from their fathers who made a fortune by it, ought to
be—as are thy not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted wll (but
you mght look i vai for Truth at the bottom of it), betwee the
registrar’s red tabl and th silk go, with bills, cros-bills,
answers, rejoders, injunctis, affidavits, issue, references to
masters, masters’ reports, mountais of costly non, piled
before them We may the court be di, with wastig candl here
and thre; wll may th fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never
get out; wel may the staid glass windows l their cour, and
admt no lght of day into the place; well may the unitiated from
th strets, wh peep in through th glass panes i th door, be
deterred fro entrance by its olish aspect, and by th drawl
anguidly echoing to the roof from the padded dai were the Lord
High Cancellor looks into th lantern that has no light in it, and
where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This i the
Curt of Chancery; which has its decaying house and its blighted
lands in every shire; which has its worn-out lunatic in every
madhouse, and its dead in every churchyard; which has its ruid
suitor, with his slipshod hes and threadbare dres, borrong
and begging through the round of every man’s acquaitan;
whic gives to mod might, the man abundantly of wearying
out the right; whic s exhausts finan, patie, courage, hope;
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s overthrows the brai and breaks the heart; that there is not an
honourabl man amg its practitioners who would not give—who
do not often give—the warning, “Suffer any wrong that can be
don you, rather than come here!”
Who happen to be in th Lord Cancellor’s court this murky
aftern besides th Lord Chancelr, th counl in th caus,
two or three couns who are never i any cause, and the w of
solicitors before mentioned? Thre is th registrar below th
Judge, in wig and go; and there are two or three mac, or
petty-bags, or privy purs, or whatever thy may be, in legal court
suits The are al yawg; for no crumb of amusemet ever fal
from JARNDYCE AND JARNDYCE (the cause in hand) wh
as squezed dry years upo years ago Th short-hand writers,
the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the nepapers,
ivariably deamp with the rest of the regulars when Jarndyc
and Jarndyce comes on Thr places are a blank. Standing o a
sat at the side of the hall, the better to per into the curtaid
sanctuary, is a littl mad od wan in a squezed bot, w is
always in court, fro its sitting to its rising, and alays expectig
some inprensible judget to be give in hr favour.
Some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit; but no o know
for certain, becaus no on cares. She carri some small litter in
r reticule which she cals her documents pricipally consisting
of paper matcs and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come
up, in custody, for the half-dozeth tim, to make a persoal
application “to purge hmself of his contept;” wh, being a
solitary surviving exeutor wh has fallen ito a state of
conglomerati about accounts of wich it is not preteded that
h had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. In th
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meantime his prospects in life are ended. Anothr ruined suitor,
who periodialy appears from Shropsre, and breaks out into
efforts to addres the Chanr at the close of the day’s bus,
and who can by n mean be made to understand that the
Cancellor i legaly ignorant of his exitence after making it
delate for a quarter of a cetury, plants himf in a good place
and keeps an eye on the Judge, ready to cal out “My Lord!” in a
voice of sonorous complait, on th instant of his ring. A fe
awyers’ clerks and others who know this suitor by sght, lger, on
th chance of his furnng some fun, and envening th dismal
athr a littl
Jarndyce and Jarndyce dro on. Th scarero of a suit has,
in course of time, beme so coplicated, that no man alive kn
at it means. Th parties to it understand it least; but it has be
obsrved that no two Chanry lawyers can talk about it for five
utes, without cg to a total diagreet as to al the
preises. Innumerabl childre have be born into th caus;
innumerable young people have marrid into it; innumerabl old
peopl have died out of it. Scores of perso have deliriously found
thlve made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, wthut
knowing how or why; whole fam have inherited legendary
hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant, who was
proised a ne rocking-hrse w Jarndyce and Jarndyce
should be sttled, has grown up, pod himelf of a real horse,
and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have
faded into mothrs and grandmothrs; a long prosion of
Cancellors has come in and go out; th legi of bis in th suit
have been tranformd into mere bi of mrtalty; there are not
three Jarndyc left upo the earth perhaps, sie od To
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Jarndyce in despair bl his brains out at a coffe-huse i
ancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its wary
length before th Court, perennially hopes.
Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is th only
god that has ever come of it. It has be death to many, but it is a
joke in the profess Every master in Chanry has had a
referee out of it. Every master in Chanry has had a refere
out of it. Every Chanr was “i it,” for sobody or other,
w he was coun at th bar. Good thgs have be said about
it by blue-nd, bulbous-shod old benchers, in slect port-w
ttee after dier in hal Artied clerks have be in th
abit of flng thr legal wit upo it. Th last Lord Chancellor
handld it neatly when, corretig Mr Blowers the emient sk
gown who said that suc a thing mght happe when the sky
raid potatoes, he obsrved “or when we get through Jarndyc
and Jarndyce, Mr Blrs;”—a pleasantry that particularly tickled
th maces, bags, and purs
Ho many people out of th suit, Jarndyce and Jarndyce has
tretched forth its unwholese hand to spoil and crrupt, would
be a very wde questi. From the master, upon whose impalg
files reams of dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have
grimly writhd into many shapes; dow to th copyig clrk in th
Six Clerks’ Offic, who has copied his tens of thousands of
Chanry-foli-pages under that eternal headig; no man’s nature
as be made better by it. In trickery, evasion, prorastiation,
spoliation, bothration, under false preteces of all sorts, thre are
influences that can never come to god. Th very solicitors’ boys
who have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting tim out
of mind that Mr Cizzle, Mizzle, or othrwise, was particularly
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egaged and had appotmets until dir, may have got an
xtra moral twist and shuffle ito themve out of Jarndyc and
Jarndyce. Th receiver in th caus has acquired a godly sum of
money by it, but has acquired to a distrust of his own mothr,
and a contept for his own kid. Chizzle, Mizzle, and othrwise,
have lapsd ito a habit of vaguely promg themve that they
wil look into that outstandig lttle matter, and se what can be
done for Drizzle—w was not wll usd—w Jarndyce and
Jarndyce shall be got out of th office. Shirking and sharking, i
all thr many varities, have be sow broadcast by th ill-fated
cause; and even those who have coteplated its history from the
outermt circle of such evil, have be insibly tepted ito a
loose way of ltting bad things al to take their own bad course,
and a loo belief that if th world go wrog, it was, in some
offhand manr, nver meant to go right.
Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sts
th Lord High Chancelr in his High Court of Chancery.
“Mr Tangl,” says the Lord High Cancr, latterly sthing
restless under th elque of that learned gentleman.
“Mlud,” says Mr Tangle. Mr Tangle knows more of Jarndyce
and Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it—supposed never
to have read anything els sie he lft school.
“Have you nearly concluded your argument?”
“Mlud, n—varity of pots—fe it my duty tsubmt—
ludsp,” is the reply that slde out of Mr Tangl
“Several mbers of the bar are sti to be heard, I beeve?”
says th Chancelr, with a slight smile.
Eighte of Mr Tangle’s learned friends, each armed wth a
lttle sumary of eighteen hundred seets, bob up lke eighteen
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hamrs in a pianoforte, make eightee bows, and drop ito their
eighteen plac of obsurity.
“We will proced with the hearig on Wednday fortnight,”
says the Chanor. For, the question at isue is ony a question of
costs, a mere bud o th forest tre of th parent suit, and really
wil c to a sttlet one of thes days.
Th Chancellor rises; th bar rises; th prir is brought
forward in a hurry; th man fro Shropshire cries, “My lord!”
Maces, bags, and purs, indignantly prolaim silence, and fro
at th man fro Shropshire
“In reference,” prods th Chancellor, sti on Jarndyce and
Jarndyc, “to the young girl—”
“Begludship’s pardo—boy,” says Mr Tangl, prematurely.
“In refere,” proceeds the Chanr, with extra
dititn, “to the young girl and boy, the two young peopl”
(Mr Tangl crushed.) “Whom I directed to be in attendan
today, and who are no in my private room, I w see them and
satisfy myself as to th expediency of making th order for thr
resdig with their unc”
Mr Tangle on his legs again.
“Begludship’s pardo—dead.”
“With their,” Chanor lookig through his double eyeglas at
th papers on his desk, “grandfathr.”
“Begludship’s pardo—victim of rash acti—brai”
Suddenly a very littl counl, with a terrific bas voice, arises,
fully iflated, i the back settlets of the fog, and says, “Wi
your lordship allow me? I appear for hm. He is a cousin, several
times removed. I am not at th moment prepared to inform th
urt in what exact remove he is a cousin; but he is a cous.”
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Leaving this addres (deivered like a sepulchral message)
ringig in the rafters of the roof, the very lttle cunsl drops, and
the fog knows hi n more. Everybody looks for him Nobody can
ee him
“I wil speak with both the young peopl,” says the Cancr
anew, “and satisfy myself on th subjet of thr residing wth
their cousi I will meti the matter tomorrow mrnig when I
take my seat.”
The Canr i about to bow to the bar when the prir is
preted. Nothing can possibly come of th prisor’s
conglomerati, but his beg sent back to pri; wh is soo
done. Th man fro Shropshire venture anothr remontrative
“My lrd!” but the Chanor, beg aware of him, has dextrously
vanished. Everybody el quickly vanishe to A battery of blue
bags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carrid off by
clerks; th littl mad old woman marcs off with her documents;
th epty court is locked up. If all th injustice it has coitted,
and all th misery it has causd, could only be locked up with it,
and th wh burnt away in a great funeral pyre,—wy so much
the better for other partie than the partie in Jarndyc and
Jarndyc!
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Chapter 2
In Fas
I
t i but a glips of the world of fas that we want on this
am mry afternoon. It is nt so unke the Court of
Canry, but that we may pas from the on sc to the
othr, as th cro flies. Both th wrld of fashion and th Curt of
Chanry are thgs of precedent and usage; overseepig Rip Van
Winkl, who have played at strange gam through a deal of
thundery weather; slpig beautie, whom the Knght wil wake
one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen shal begin to
turn prodigiously!
It is not a large world. Reatively eve to this world of ours,
wich has its limits to (as your High shal fid wh you have
ade the tour of it, and are co to the brik of the void beyond),
it is a very littl speck. Thre is much god in it; thre are many
god and true people in it; it has its appoited plac But th evil
of it is, that it is a world wrapped up in to much jer’s cotto
and fin wool, and cant hear the rushg of the larger worlds,
and canot see them as they circ round the sun It i a deadened
wrld, and its groth is sometimes unalthy for want of air.
My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few
days previus to her departure for Pari, where her ladysp
inteds to stay some weks; after which her movements are
uncertain. Th fashionabl inteigece says so, for th comfort of
th Parisians, and it knows all fashionabl things. To kn things
thrwise, wre to be unfashionabl My Lady Dedlock has be
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dow at what she cals, in famar conversati, her “place” in
Linolnsre. The waters are out in Linolnsre. A arc of the
bridge in th park has be sapped and sopped away. Th
adjacent low-lying ground, for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant
river, with melancy tre for islands in it, and a surfac
punctured all over, all day long, with falg rai My Lady
Dedlock’s “plac” has been extremely dreary. The weather, for
many a day and nght, has be so wet that the tree s wet
through, and th soft loppings and prunings of th wdman’s axe
an make n crash or crackle as they fal. The deer, lookig
saked, lave quagmre, where they pas. The shot of a rifle lo
its sharpn in th moist air, and its ske moves i a tardy littl
cloud toards th gre ri, coppice-topped, that makes a
background for the fallg rai The vie from my Lady Dedlock’s
own windows i alternately a lad-coloured view, and a view in
Indian ink. The vas on the sto terrac i the foreground catch
th rain al day; and th heavy drops fal, drip, drip, drip, upo th
broad flagged pavement, cald, fro old time, th Ghot’s Walk,
al night. On Sundays, the lttle church in the park i muldy; the
oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and thre is a geral
ell and taste as of the ant Dedlocks in their graves. My Lady
Dedlock (w is chidlss), lookig out in th early twilight fro
her boudoir at a keeper’s lodge, and seeing the light of a fire upon
th latticed panes, and ske rising fro th chiy, and a
cd, cased by a woman, rung out into the rai to met the
sg figure of a wrapped-up man cg through the gate, has
been put quite out of teper. My Lady Dedlock says she has been
“bored to death”
Therefore my Lady Dedlock has co away from the place in
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Linolnsre, and has left it to the rai, and the crows, and the
rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants Th
picture of th Dedlocks past and go have seed to vanish into
th damp wals in mere lows of spirits, as th husekeeper has
pasd along the old rooms, sutting up the shutters. And when
thy will next come forth again, th fashionable itelligence—
wich, like th fid, is omniscient of th past and pret, but not
the future—cant yet undertake to say.
Sir Leiter Dedlock i oy a baronet, but there i n mightier
barot than he Hi famy is as old as the h, and infinitely
more respectable. He has a geral opiion that th world might
get on without hil, but would be do up without Dedlocks He
would on the whole admt Nature to be a good idea (a little lw,
perhaps, wen not encosed with a park fene), but an idea
dependet for its exeution on your great county families He is a
gentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littls and
meanness, and ready, on th shortest notice, to di any death you
may plas to meti rather than give occason for the least
impeachmt of his integrity. He is an honourable, obstinate,
truthful,
hgh-spirited,
intey
prejudiced,
perfetly
unreasonable man.
Sir Leicester is twty years, full measure, oder than my Lady.
He will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet
sixty-sve. He has a twist of th gout now and th, and walks a
littl stiffly. He is of a wrthy prece, with his light grey hair and
wiskers, hi fi shirt- frill, his pure white waitcat, and his blue
at with bright buttons alays buttod. He is ceremonious,
statey, most polite on every occasion to my Lady, and hods her
personal attractio i the highest estimatio His gallantry to my
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Lady, wich has never changed si he courted her, is th on
ttle touch of romanti fany in him Inded, he married her for
lve. A whper sti go about, that she had nt even famy;
hbeit, Sir Leicester had so much family that perhaps he had
eugh, and could dispense with any more. But she had beauty,
pride, ambiti, insolent resolve, and sense enugh to portion out
a legio of fine ladi Wealth and stati, added to thes, soon
flated her upward; and for years, now, my Lady Dedlock has
be at the cetre of the fasabl intelgen, and at the top of
the fasable tree.
Ho Alexander wept wh he had no more worlds to conquer,
everybody knows—or has s reason to know by this tim, the
matter having bee rathr frequently mentioned. My Lady
Dedlock, having coquered her world, fell, nt into the metig,
but rather into the freezig mod. An exhausted coposure, a
worn-out placdity, an equanimty of fatigue not to be ruffled by
interest or satisfacti, are th troph of her victory. She is
perfectly wel-bred. If s culd be transated to heave tomorrow,
she might be expected to ascend withut any rapture
She has beauty still, and, if it be not in its hyday, it is not yet in
its autum. She has a fi face-origialy of a character that would
be rathr called very pretty than handsome, but improved into
classicality by th acquired expre of hr fashionabl state
Her figure is elgant, and has the effect of beg tall Not that sh
is so, but that “th most is made,” as th Honourable Bob Stables
as frequently asserted upo oath, “of al hr points” Th same
authrity observe, that she is perfetly got up; and remarks, in
mmendation of her hair especally, that she i th best-grod
wan i the whole stud.
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With al her perfectio on her head, my Lady Dedlock has
up from her place in Lincolnsre (hotly pursued by the
fashionabl inteigece), to pass a fe days at hr huse in to
previous to her departure for Paris, whre her ladyship inteds to
stay some weks, after which her movements are uncertain. And
at her house in to, upo this muddy, murky aftern, prets
mself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attorny-at-law, and eke
tor of the High Court of Chanry, who has the honour of
acting as legal adviser of th Dedlocks, and has as many cast-iro
boxes in hi office with that name outsde, as if th pret
barot were th coin of th conjuror’s trick, and were cotantly
beg juggled through the whole set. Across the hall, and up the
stairs, and alg th passage, and through th ros, which are
very briant i the season and very dial out of it—Fairyland to
visit, but a desert to live in—th old gentleman is conducted, by a
Mercury in powder, to my Lady’s prece.
The old gentlan is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have
made good thrift out of aritocratic marriage sttlets and
aristoratic ws, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a
mysterious halo of family confidences; of wh he is know to be
the sent depotory. There are noble Mausoleums rooted for
cturie i retired glade of parks, amg the growing timber
and th fern, which perhaps hod fer nobl secrets than walk
abroad amg men, shut up in th breast of Mr Tulkinghrn. He is
of what is cald the old school—a phras generally meang any
shool that seems nver to have been young—and wears knee
bres tid with ribbons, and gaiters or stokings. One
peculiarity of his black cloths, and of his black stokings, be thy
silk or worsted, is, that thy never shi Mute, c, irresponve
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to any glancing lght, his dres is like himself. He never converses,
w not professionally consulted. He is found sometimes,
speess but quite at ho, at cornrs of dir-tables i great
country houses, and near doors of drawing-ros, concerning
wich th fashionabl inteigece is equent; wre everybody
knows hi, and where half the Peerage stops to say “How do you
do, Mr Tulkighorn?” he recve thes salutatio with gravity,
and burie them along with the rest of his knowledge
Sir Leicester Dedlk is wth my Lady, and is happy to see Mr
Tulkinghrn. Thre is an air of prescripti about h wich is
alays agreeable to Sir Leter; he reves it as a kid of
tribute He likes Mr Tulkinghrn’s dres; thre is a kind of tribute
that too. It i etly respetabl, and likewis, i a genral
way, retaier-lke. It expres, as it were, the steward of the lgal
ysteri, the butler of the legal cear, of the Deadlks
Has Mr Tulkinghrn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it
may nt; but there i this remarkabl circumtance to be noted i
everything asated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a cas—as
one of the leaders and representative of her lttle wrld. Sh
suppose hrsf to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of th reach
and ke of ordiary mortal—sg hersef i her glas, where
indeed she looks so. Yet, every dim littl star revolving about hr,
from her maid to the manager of the Italan Opera, knows her
waknesses, prejudi, foies, haughtines, and capri; and
lives upo as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of hr
mral nature, as her dresaker take of her physial proportions
Is a ne dres, a ne custo, a ne singer, a ne danr, a ne
form of jellery, a ne dwarf or giant, a new chape, a new
anything, to be set up? There are deferential peopl, in a doze
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callgs, wh my Lady Dedlk suspects of nothing but
prostrati before her, who can tell you how to manage her as if
s were a baby; who do nothing but nurse her al their lives; who,
humbly affectig to follow with profound subservience, lead her
and her whole troop after them; who, in hookig one, hook al and
bear th off, as Lemue Gulliver bore away th statey flt of th
majesti Liiput. “If you want to addres our people, sr,” say
Blaze and Sparkle the jeweers—mang by our peopl Lady
Dedlock and th rest—“you must remember that you are not
dealg with the genral publ; you must hit our peopl in their
wakest plac, and thr weaket plac is such a place.” “To make
this article go dow, gentleman,” say She and Glss th
mercrs, to thr friends th manufacturers, “you must come to us,
beause w know where to have the fasable peopl, and we
can make it fashionabl” “If you want to get this prit upo th
tabl of my high connetio, sir,” says Mr Sladdery the lbrarian,
“or if you want to get this dwarf or giant ito the house of my
connection, sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainmt, th
patroage of my high connection, sir, you must leave it, if you
please, to me; for I have be accustod to study th leaders of
my high cti, sr; and I may tel you, without vanty, that I
can turn them round my finger,”—i which Mr Sladdery, who is
an honet man, do nt exaggerate at all.
Threfore, while Mr Tulkinghrn may not kn what is passing
in th Dedlk mind at pret, it is very possibl that he may.
“My Lady’s caus has be again before th Chancelr, has it,
Mr Tulkighorn?” says Sir Leicter, giving him his hand.
“Yes. It has be on agai today,” Mr Tulkighrn replies;
making o of his quiet bo to my Lady wh is on a sofa near th
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fire, shading her face with a handscre
“It would be us to ask,” says my Lady, with the drearin
of the place i Linnshire sti upo her, “whether anything has
been do”
“Nothing that you would call anything has be do today,”
replies Mr Tulkighrn.
“Nor ever wi be,” says my Lady.
Sir Leicester has no objection to an intermable Cancery suit.
It is a slow, expensive, British, constitutial kind of thing. To be
sure, he has not a vital interest in th suit in queti, her part in
whic was the only property my Lady brought him; and he has a
shadowy impression that for his name—th name of Dedlk—to
be i a caus, and not in th titl of that caus, is a most ridiculous
accident. But h regards th Court of Chancery, eve if it should
involve an ocasional delay of justi and a trifling amunt of
confusion, as a somethg, devised in conjunction wth a varity of
other sothings, by the perfection of human wisdom, for the
eternal sttlemet (humany speakig) of every thg. And he is
upon the whole of a fixed opi, that to give the sanction of his
untenance to any complaits respecting it, wuld be to
urage som pers in th lowr classes to rise up
sere—like Wat Tylr.
“As a few fresh affidavits have be put upon the fil,” says Mr
Tulkighorn, “and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the
trouble priple of beggig leave to po my clts with
any ne prodigs i a caus;” cautious man Mr Tulkinghrn,
taking no more repobility than necessary; “and furthr, as I
s you are going to Paris; I have brought them in my poket.”
(Sir Leiter was going to Paris too, by-the-bye, but the deght
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of th fashionabl inteigece was in his Lady.) Mr Tulkinghrn
takes out his papers, asks permssion to place th on a golden
talisman of a tabl at my Lady’s ebo, puts o hs spectacles, and
begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.
“‘In Chancery. Between Jo Jarndyce—’” My Lady iterrupts,
requesting him to mi as many of the formal horrors as he can
Mr Tulkinghrn glances over his spectacles, and begins again
lowr dow My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her
attention. Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at th fire, and
appears to have a statey likig for the lgal repetitions and
proixities, as rangig amg th natial bulwarks. It happens
that th fire is ht, whre my Lady sits; and that th hand-scre
is more beautiful than usful, beg priceless but small. My Lady,
changing her position, see th papers on th tabl—looks at th
arer—looks at th nearer still—asks impulsivey:
“Who copied that?”
Mr Tulkinghrn stops short, surprid by my Lady’s animation
and her unusual tone
“Is it what you people call law-hand?” she asks, lkig ful at
hm in her careless way again, and toying with her scre
“Not quite. Probably”—Mr Tulkighorn exam it as he
speaks—“th legal character it has, was acquired after th original
hand was formd. Why do you ask?”
“Aything to vary this detestable motony. O, go on, do!”
Mr Tulkighorn reads agai The heat is greater, my Lady
scre her face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries
“Eh? what do you say?”
“I say I am afraid,” says Mr Tulkighorn, who has ris hastiy,
“that Lady Dedlock is ill.”
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“Fait,” my Lady murmurs, with white lips, “ony that; but it is
like th faintn of death Don’t speak to me. Ring, and take me to
y room!”
Mr Tulkighorn retires into another chamber; be ring; feet
shuffl and patter, silen ensue. Mercury at last begs Mr
Tulkighorn to return.
“Better nw,” quoth Sir Leiter, motionig the lawyer to sit
dow and read to him al “I have bee quite alarmed. I never
knew my Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely
trying—and she really has bee bored to death dow at our place
in Lincolnshire”
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Chapter 3
A Progress
I
have a great deal of difficulty i beginnig to write my
porti of the page, for I know I am nt cever. I alays
knew that. I can reber, when I was a very little girl
ded, I usd to say to my do, when we were al together,
“No Dolly, I am not clver, you know very well, and you must be
patit with me, like a dear!” And so she usd to sit propped up in
a great armair, with her beautiful coplxion and rosy lips,
staring at me—or not so much at me, I thk, as at nothing—w
I busily stitched away, and told her every on of my secrets.
My dear old dol! I was such a shy littl thg that I seldom
dared to ope my lips, and never dared to ope my heart, to
anybody el It almost makes me cry to think wat a relief it usd
to be to me, when I cam home from school of a day, to run upstairs
to my room, and say, “O you dear faithful Doly, I knew you would
be expetig me!” and then to sit down on the floor, lang on the
ebow of her great chair, and tell her al I had noticd s we
parted. I had always rather a noticg way—nt a quick way, O
no!—a silent way of noting what passed before me, and thinking
I should lke to understand it better. I have nt by any mean a
quick understandig. Wh I lve a perso very tenderly ided,
it seems to brighten. But even that may be my vanty.
I was brought up, fro my earliest remembrance—lke some of
th princes i th fairy stories, only I was not charmng—by my
godmther. At last I only knew her as suc She was a good, good
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wman! She wnt to church thre times every Sunday, and to
morng prayers on Wedndays and Fridays, and to lecture
enever there wre letures; and nver mied. She was
hands; and if se had ever smed, would have been (I used to
think) like an angel—but she never siled. She was always grave
and strict. Sh was so very good hersef, I thought, that the
badn of other peopl made her frown al her life. I felt s
differet from her, even makig every alane for th
differences betw a child and a woman; I felt so poor, so trifling,
and s far off; that I nver could be unrestraid with her—n,
culd nver eve love her as I wisd. It made me very srry to
cder how good se was, and how unworthy of her I was; and I
used ardetly to hope that I might have a better heart; and I talked
it over very often with th dear old doll; but I never loved my
godmther as I ought to have loved her, and as I felt I must have
lved her if I had be a better girl.
This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I
naturaly was, and cast me upo Dolly as th only friend wth
I felt at ease. But somethg happed wh I was sti
quite a little thing, that helped it very muc
I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never hard of my
papa either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had
never worn a black frok, that I could rellect. I had never bee
my mama’s grave I had nver be tod whre it was Yet I
had nver been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother.
I had mre than once approacd this subjet of my thoughts with
Mrs Racae, our only servant, who took my light away when I was
in bed (anothr very god woman, but austere to me), and she had
oy said, “Esthr, god night!” and go away and left me.
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Athough there were seven girls at the neghbouring school
were I was a day boarder, and although they caled me lttl
Esther Sumrs, I knew n of them at home. Al of them
were older than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good
deal), but there sed to be s other sparation betwee us
besides that, and besides thr being far more clever than I was,
and knowing muc more than I did. On of them, in the first week
of my going to the school (I remeber it very well), ivited me
home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmther wrote a
stiff ltter, deg for m, and I never went. I never went out at
all.
It was my birthday. There were holidays at school o other
birthdays—none on mi Thre were rejoicings at ho on othr
birthdays, as I kn fro what I heard th girls relate to on
another—there were no on m My birthday was the mt
mlanholy day at home, in the whole year.
I have mentioned, that, unless my vanty should deceive me (as
I know it may, for I may be very vain, withut suspectig it—
thugh indeed I don’t), my compresion is quickened wh my
affection is. My disposti is very affectionate; and perhaps I
might still fe such a wound, if such a wound could be received
mre than once, with the quickn of that birthday.
Dir was over, and my godmothr and I were sitting at th
tabl before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire cked; nt another
sund had been heard in the room, or i the house, for I do’t
know ho long. I happened to look timidly up fro my stitching,
across the tabl, at my godmther, and I saw i her fac, lookig
gloomiy at me, “It would have be far better, lttle Esther, that
you had had n birthday; that you had never been born!”
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I broke out crying and sbbig, and I said, “O, dear godmther,
tell me, pray do tell me, did mama die on my birthday?”
“No,” she returned. “Ask me n more, chid!”
“O, do pray te me something of her. Do now, at last, dear
godmothr, if you please! What did I do to her? Ho did I lose
r? Why am I so different fro othr childre, and why is it my
fault, dear godmother? No, no, n, don’t go away. O, speak to me!”
I was in a kid of fright beyond my grief; and I caught hold of
her dres, and was kneelg to her. She had been sayig al th
ile, “Let me go!” But now she stod still.
Her darked face had such powr over me, that it stopped me
i the midst of my vehem I put up my tremblg little hand to
casp hers, or to beg her pardon with what earntne I mght,
but wthdre it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering
hart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before hr,
said, slly, in a cold, low voice—I se her knitted bro, and
pointed finger:
“Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. Th
time wi come—and soo enugh—wn you wll understand th
better, and wi fe it to, as n on save a woan can I have
forgive her” but her fac did nt relt “the wrong sh did to me,
and I say n mre of it, though it was greater than you will ever
know—than any one will ever know, but I, the sufferer. For
yoursef, unfortunate girl, orphand and degraded from the first of
th evil anversaries, pray daiy that th sins of othrs be not
visited upo your head, accordig to what is written. Forget your
mther, and lave al other peopl to forget her who wil do her
unappy child that greatest kindness. Now, go!”
She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her—
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so froze as I was!—and added this:
“Submission, self-deal, diligent work, are th preparations for
a lfe begun with suc a sadow on it. You are different from other
cdre, Esther, beause you were not born, lke them, i
mmon sinful and wrath You are set apart.”
I went up to my ro, and crept to bed, and laid my dol’s
ck against mi wet with tears; and holdig that solitary fried
upo my bosom, cried myself to slp. Imperfet as my
understandig of my sorrow was, I kn that I had brought n joy,
at any time, to anybody’s hart, and that I was to no on upo
arth what Doy was to me
Dear, dear, to think how muc tim we pasd alone together
afterwards, and how often I repeated to the do the story of my
birthday, and confided to her that I would try, as hard as ever I
culd, to repair the fault I had be born with (of whic I
confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent), and would strive as I
gre up to be industrius, conteted and kind-harted, and to do
some god to some on, and wn some love to myself if I could. I
hpe it is not self-indulgent to shed th tears as I thk of it. I am
very thankful, I am chrful, but I cant quite help their cg
to my eyes
Thre! I have wiped th away now, and can go on again
properly.
I felt th distance betw my godmothr and myself so much
more after th birthday, and felt so sensible of fig a place in her
house whic ought to have been empty, that I found her more
difficult of approach, thugh I was fervetly grateful to her in my
heart, than ever. I felt in the sam way towards my school
companions; I felt in th same way toards Mrs Rachael, w was
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a widow; and O, towards her daughter, of whom se was proud,
who cam to se her once a fortnight! I was very retired and quiet,
and tried to be very digent.
On sunny afternoon, when I had co home from school with
my books and portfolio, watcng my long shadow at my side, and
as I was glidig upstairs to my room as usual, my godmther
looked out of the parlour door, and called m back. Sitting with
her, I found—whic was very unusual indeed—a stranger. A
portly important-looking gentleman, dred all in black, with a
wite cravat, large gold watc seals, a pair of god eyeglasses, and
a large seal-ring upo his littl finger.
“This,” said my godmothr in an under to, “is th child.”
Th she said, in her naturally stern way of speakig, “This is
Esther, sir.”
Th gentleman put up his eyeglasses to look at me, and said,
“Ce here, my dear!” He shook hands with me, and asked me to
take off my boet—lookig at m al the whil Wh I had
complied, h said, “A!” and afterwards “Ye!” And then, takig
off his eyeglass, and folding th in a red case, and leang back
i his armhair, turnig the cas about in his two hands he gave
my godmther a nod. Upo that, my godmother said, “You may go
upstairs, Esthr!” and I made him my curtsey and left him.
It must have bee tw years afterwards, and I was almost
fourtee, when one dreadful nght my godmther and I sat at the
fireside. I was reading alud, and she was listeg. I had come
do at n o’ck, as I alays did, to read th Bibl to her; and
was readig, from St. John, how our Saviour stooped down,
writig with his finger in the dust, when they brought the sful
woman to him
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“‘So, when they cotiued askig hi, he lifted up hf and
said unto them, He that is without si amg you, let him first cast
a sto at her!’”
I was stopped by my godmothr’s rising, putting her hand to
her head, and crying out, in an awful voice, from quite another
part of the book:
“‘Watch ye threfore! lest coming suddenly he fid you
spig. Ad what I say unto you, I say unto al, Watch!’” In an
instant, wile she stod before me repeating th words, she fe
down on the floor. I had n ned to cry out; her voic had sounded
through the house, and been heard in the street.
She was laid upo her bed. For mre than a week she lay there,
lttle altered outwardly; with her old hands resute frown that
I so well kn, carved upo her face. Many and many a time, i
the day and in the night, with my head upon the piw by her that
my whispers might be plair to her, I kissed hr, thanked hr,
prayed for her, asked her for her blg and forgive,
etreated her to give me the least sign that sh kn or heard me
No, no, n. Her face was immoveabl. To the very last, and even
afterwards, her frown remaid unsoftend.
On the day after my poor good godmther was buried, the
gentleman in black with th white neckcloth reappeared. I was
nt for by Mrs Rachael, and found hm in th same place, as if h
ad never go away.
“My name is Kenge,” he said; “you may remember it, my chid;
Kenge and Carboy, Lin’s Inn.”
I replied that I remembered to have see him once before
“Pray be seated—here near me. Don’t distress yourself; it’s of
no us Mrs Rachael, I needn’t inform you w wre acquainted
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wth th late Miss Barbary’s affairs, that her means die with her;
and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead—”
“My aunt, sir!”
“It really is of no us carrying on a deception, wh no object is
to be gaied by it,” said Mr Kenge, sthy. “Aunt in fact, thugh
not in law. Don’t distress yourself! Don’t wep! Don’t trebl! Mrs
Racae, our young friend has no doubt heard of—the—a—
Jarndyc and Jarndyc”
“Never,” said Mrs Rachae
“Is it posble,” pursued Mr Kenge, putting up his eyeglasses,
“that our young fried—I beg you won’t distress yourself!—nver
hard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!”
I shook my head, wondering even what it was
“Not of Jarndyc and Jarndyc!” said Mr Kenge, lookig over
hi glass, at me, and sftly turnig the cas about and about, as
f he were petting sothing. “Not of one of the greatest Cancry
suits knn? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce—th—a—in itself a
monument of Cancery practice? In which (I would say) every
difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of
procedure known in that court, is represted over and over
agai? It i a cause that could not exit, out of this free and great
cuntry. I should say that the aggregate of cots in Jarndyc and
Jarndyce, Mrs Rachael;” I was afraid he addred himself to her,
beaus I appeared iattentive; “amunts at the pret hour to
from SIX-TY TO SEVEN-TY THOUSAND POUNDS!” said Mr
Kenge, leaning back in his chair.
I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so etirely
unacquainted with the subjet, that I understood nthing about it
even then.
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“And she realy never heard of the cause!” said Mr Kenge.
“Surprising!”
“Miss Barbary, sir,” returnd Mrs Rachael, “wh is now among
th seraphim—“
(“I hope so, I am sure,” said Mr Kenge poltely.)
“—Wished Esthr only to know what wuld be serviceable to
her. Ad se knows, from any teacg she has had here, nthing
more.”
“Well!” said Mr Kenge. “Upo the whole very proper. No to
th point,” addresing me. “Mis Barbary, your sole relati (i
fact, that is; for I am bound to observe that in law you had none),
beg deasd, and it naturaly nt beg to be expeted that Mrs
Rachael—”
“Oh dear no!” said Mrs Rachae, quickly.
“Quite so,” assented Mr Kenge;—“that Mrs Rachael should
carge hersef with your maitenan and support (I beg you
wn’t distress yourself), you are in a posti to receive th
real of an offer wich I was instructed to make to Mi
Barbary some tw years ago, and which, thugh rejected th, was
understood to be renwabl under the lamtabl circumtance
that have since occurred. Now, if I avo, that I repret, i
Jarndyc and Jarndyc, and otherwis, a highly human, but at
th same time singular man, shall I comproise myself by any
stretc of my professional caution?” said Mr Kenge, leaning back
in hi chair again, and looking calmly at us both
He appeared to enjoy beyod everythig the sound of his own
voice. I couldn’t woder at that, for it was mel and full, and
gave great iportan to every word he uttered. He lited to
hif with obvious satisfaction, and sotim gently beat tim
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to his own mus with his head, or rounded a ste with hi
and. I was very much impressed by hi—eve th, before I
knew that he formed himf on the mde of a great lrd who was
is client, and that he was gerally cald Conversati Kenge
“Mr Jarndyc,” he pursued, “beg aware of the—I would say,
desolate—position of our young friend, offers to plac her at a
first-rate establishment; whre her education shal be completed,
were her cofort shal be seured, where her reasonabl wants
shall be anticipated, whre she shall be emtly qualified to
discharge hr duty in that station of life unto which it has
pleased—shall I say Providence?—to call her.”
My heart was filled so full, both by what h said, and by h
affectig manr of saying it, that I was nt abl to speak, though I
tried.
“Mr Jarndyce,” h went on, “make no condition, beyond
expressing his expectation, that our young friend wll not at any
tim remve hersef from the establihmet in question without
his knledge and conurrence. That she wi faithfully apply
hrsf to th acquisition of th accomplishments, upo th
xercise of which she will be ultiately dependent. That she wi
tread in the paths of virtue and honour, and—the—a—s forth.”
I was still les able to speak, than before
“Now, what do our young frid say?” proceeded Mr Kenge.
“Take time, take time! I paus for her reply. But take time.”
What th destitute subjet of such an offer tried to say, I ned
not repeat. What she did say, I could more easily te, if it were
rth the telling. What she felt, and wll fe to her dying hour, I
culd never relate.
This interview tok place at Windsor, whre I had pasd (as
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far as I knew), my whole life. On that day week, amply provided
wth all necessari, I left it, inside th stage-coach, for Reading.
Mrs Racae was too good to feel any emotio at parting, but I
was nt s good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have
known her better after so many years, and ought to have made
ysf eough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then.
Whe she gave me on cold parting kiss upo my foread, like a
thaw-drop fro th sto porc—it was a very froty day—I felt so
mrable and sf-reproachful, that I cung to her and told her it
was my fault, I kn, that she could say god-bye so easily!
“No Esther!” she returned. “It is your mifortun!”
The coach was at the little lawn gate—w had not c out
until we heard the whee—and thus I left her, with a sorrowful
heart. She went in before my boxes were lifted to the cach-roof,
and shut the door. As log as I could see the house, I looked back
at it from the window, through my tears My godmther had left
Mrs Racae al the lttle property she poed; and there was to
be a sale; and an old hearthrug with ros on it, which alays
eemed to m the first thg in the world I had ever se, was
hangig outside in the frost and snow. A day or two before, I had
wrapped th dear old dol in her own shawl, and quietly laid hr—
I am half ashamed to tell it—i the garde-earth, under the tree
that saded my old window. I had no copann left but my bird,
and him I carrid with me in his cage
Wh the house was out of sight, I sat with my bird-cage i the
straw at my feet, forward on the low seat, to look out of the high
window; watchig the frosty tree, that were like beautiful pi
f spar; and th fids al smooth and white with last night’s snow;
and the sun, s red but yiedig so lttle heat; and the ic, dark like
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mtal, where the skaters and slders had brushed the sow away.
There was a gentlan i the coach who sat on the oppote seat,
and looked very large in a quantity of wrappigs; but he sat gazig
out of the other window, and took no ntic of me
I thought of my dead godmther; of the night when I read to
her; of her frownig so fixedly and sternly in her bed; of the
strange plac I was going to; of the peopl I should find there, and
what they would be like, and what they would say to m; when a
voice in th coach gave me a terribl start.
It said, “What th devil are you crying for?”
I was so frighted that I lost my voice, and could oly answer
in a whisper. “Me, sir?” For of course I kn it must have be
the gentlan i the quantity of wrappigs, though he was sti
ookig out of his window.
“Yes you,” he said, turng round.
“I didn’t kn I was cryig, sir,” I faltered.
“But you are!” said th gentleman. “Lok here!” He came quite
oppote to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed oe of
hi large furry cuffs across my eye (but without hurting me), and
shoed me that it was wet.
“Thre!” No you kn you are,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“And what are you cryig for?” said the getlman “Don’t you
want to go there?”
“Where, sir?”
“Where? Why, wherever you are gog,” said the getlan
“I am very glad to go there, sir,” I answered.
“We, then! Look glad!” said the gentlan
I thought he was very strange; or at least that what I culd s
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of hm was very strange, for he was wrapped up to th chin, and
his face was almost hdde in a fur cap, with broad fur straps at
th side of his head, fasted under his chin; but I was composd
agai, and nt afraid of hi So I told him that I thought I must
have been crying, beause of my godmother’s death, and beause
of Mrs Racae’s not beg srry to part with me
“Confound Mrs Rachae!” said the getlan “Let hr fly away
i a high wind on a broomstik!”
I began to be realy afraid of him nw, and looked at hi with
the greatest astonit. But I thought that he had plasant
eye, although he kept on muttering to himf in an angry
manner, and calg Mrs Rachael names.
After a littl while, he oped his outer wrapper, which
appeared to me large enugh to wrap up th wh coach, and put
his arm dow into a deep pocket in th side.
“Now look here!” he said. “In this paper,” wh was nicely
folded, “is a piece of the bet plum cake that can be got for
my—sugar o the outside an in thick, lke fat on mutton
chops. Here’s a littl pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality),
made in France. And what do you suppose it’s made of? Livers of
fat geese. There’s a pi! No lt’s see you eat ’em.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, “thank you very much indeed, but I
hope you won’t be offended; they are too ric for me”
“Floored again!” said th gentleman, which I didn’t at al
understand; and threw them both out of the window.
He did nt speak to m any more, until he got out of the cach a
lttle way short of Readig, when he advisd me to be a good girl,
and to be studius; and shook hands with m I must say I was
reeved by his departure. We lft him at a mtone. I ofte
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walked past it afterwards, and never, for a long time, wthut
thinking of him, and half expecting to meet him. But I never did;
and so, as ti wet on, he passed out of my mind.
Whe th coac stopped, a very neat lady looked up at th
ndow, and said:
“Miss Donny.”
“No, ma’am, Esther Summers.”
“That is quite right,” said the lady, “Miss Dony.”
I nw understood that se itroduced herself by that nam, and
begged Mi Doy’s pardo for my mistake, and poited out my
boxes at her request. Under the directi of a very neat maid, they
wre put outsde a very smal green carriage; and then Mi
Donny, th maid, and I, got inside, and were drive away.
“Everything i ready for you, Esther,” said Mis Donny; “and
the sceme of your pursuits has be arranged in exact
accordance with th wishe of your guardian, Mr Jarndyce.”
“Of —— did you say, ma’am?”
“Of your guardian, Mr Jarndyce,” said Miss Dony.
I was so bewildered that Mis Donny thought the cod had be
to severe for me, and lent me her smling-bottl
“Do you know my—guardian, Mr Jarndyce, ma’am?” I asked
after a good deal of hesitation.
“Not persally, Esthr,” said Miss Donny; “mrey through h
solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superir
gentleman, Mr Kenge Truly elquent indeed. Some of his perids
quite majestic!”
I felt this to be very true, but was too cofused to attend to it.
Our spedy arrival at our detiatin, before I had tim to recver
myself, increased my confusion; and I never shall forget th
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uncrtai and unreal air of every thing at Greaf (Mis Donny’s
house), that afternoon!
But I soo became usd to it. I was so adapted to th routine of
Greenlaf before lg, that I seemed to have be there a great
wile; and almost to have dreamed, rathr than to have really
lived, my old life at my godmothr’s. Nothing could be more
precise, exact, and orderly, than Greleaf. Thre was a time for
everythig al round the dial of the clock, and everythig was do
at its appoited moment.
We were twve boarders, and thre were tw Miss Doys,
twin It was understood that I would have to depend, by-and-by,
o my qualification as a govern; and I was not only istructed
i everythig that was taught at Greenlaf, but was very soon
egaged in helpig to intruct others. Although I was treated i
every other respet like the rest of the school, this sigl difference
was made in my cas from the first. As I began to know more, I
taught more, and so in course of time I had plty to do, wich I
was very fond of doig, becaus it made th dear girl fond of me.
At last, whver a ne pupil came w was a littl dowcast and
unappy, she was so sure—indeed I don’t kn why—to make a
friend of me, that all ners were confided to my care Thy
said I was so getl; but I am sure they were! I often thought of the
resoluti I had made o my birthday, to try to be industrius,
conteted and true-harted, and to do some god to some o, and
wn some love if I could; and ideed, ided, I fet almost ashamed
to have done so littl and have won so much.
I passd at Greleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in any
face thre, thank Heave, on my birthday, that it wuld have bee
better if I had nver be born. Wh the day cam round, it
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brought me so many tokens of affectiate rembrance that my
room was beautiful with them from New Year’s Day to Christmas
In th six years I had never be away, except on vits at
holiday tim in the neghbourhood. After the first six moths or s,
I had taken Miss Donny’s advice in reference to th proprity of
writig to Mr Kege, to say that I was happy and grateful; and
wth her approval I had written such a ltter. I had received a
formal answer acknledging its receipt, and saying, “We note th
ntets thref, which shall be duly counicated to our client.”
After that, I sometis heard Miss Doy and her sister mention
regularly my accounts were paid; and about twice a year I
ventured to write a similar letter. I alays received by return of
pot exactly the sam anr, in the sam round hand; with the
signature of Kenge and Carboy in anthr writing, which I
supposed to be Mr Kenge’s.
It ses so curius to me to be obliged to write all this about
mysf! As if this narrative were the narrative of my lfe! But my
lttle body will soon fall into the background n
Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for th sed time) I had
passed at Greleaf, seng in th around me, as it might be in a
lookig-glas, every stage of my own growth and change there,
when, one November morng, I recved this letter. I omit the
date
Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn.
Madam,
Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
Our clt Mr Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an
Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in thi cause, for wh he
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w to sure an elgble copn, directs us to inform you that he
be glad of your serces in the afsd capacty.
We have arrngd for your beg forded, carriage free, pr eight
o’cock coac from Reading, on Monday morning next, to Whte
Horse Cllar, Piadilly, London, were one of our clks will be in
aitig to convey you to our offe as above.
We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,
Kenge and Carboy.
Mi Esther Summerson.
O, never, never, never shall I forget th emtion this letter
causd i th house! It was so teder in th to care so much for
m; it was s gracus in that Father who had not forgotten me, to
have made my orphan way so smooth and easy, and to have
incld so many youthful natures toards me; that I could hardly
bear it. Not that I would have had th less sorry—I am afraid
nt; but the plasure of it and the pai of it, and the pride and joy
of it, and th humble regret of it, were so blended that my heart
sed almost breaking while it was full of rapture
Th letter gave me only five days’ notice of my removal. Whe
very minute added to th profs of love and kindness that wre
given me in those five days; and when at last the mrnig cam,
and when they took me through al the rooms that I mght se
th for th last time; and w some cried, “Esthr, dear, say
goodbye to me here, at my bedsde, where you first spoke s
kindly to me!” and wh othrs asked me only to write thr
names, “With Esthr’s love;” and wh thy all surrounded me
with their parting prets, and cung to me weepig, and crid,
“What shal we do wh dear, dear Esthr’s go!” and wh I
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tried to tel them how forbearing, and how good they had al be
to me, and how I bld, and thanked them every one; what a
heart I had!
Ad when the two Mis Donnys grieved as muc to part with
m, as the least among them; and when the maids said, “Bl you,
m, wherever you go!” and when the ugly lam old gardeer,
who I thought had hardly nticd m in al those years, cam
pantig after the coach to give me a lttle ngay of geraniums,
and tod m I had been the lght of his eyes—indeed the old man
said so!—wat a heart I had th!
Ad could I help it, if with al this, and the cong to the little
hool, and the unexpeted sight of the poor chdren outside
waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired
gentlan and lady, whose daughter I had helped to teach, and at
whose house I had visted (who were said to be the proudet
people in all that country), caring for nothing, but calling out,
“Good-bye, Esther. May you be very happy!” could I hep it if I was
quite bod dow in th coach by myself, and said, “O, I am so
thankful, I am so thankful!” many times over!
But of course I soo considered that I must not take tears
ere I was gog, after al that had been do for m. Therefore,
of course, I made myself sob less, and persuaded myself to be
quiet, by saying very often, “Esthr, now you really must! This will
not do!” I chered myself up pretty wll at last, thugh I am afraid
I was loger about it than I ought to have be; and when I had
cooled my eye with lavender water, it was tim to watch for
London.
I was quite persuaded that we were there, when we were ten
off; and when we realy were there, that we should nver get
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there. However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavet,
and partiularly when every other coveyan seed to be
runng into us and we sed to be runnig ito every other
conveyance, I began to beve that we really wre approaching
the end of our journey. Very soon afterwards we stopped.
A young gentleman wh had inked himself by accident,
addred me fro th pavement, and said, “I am fro Kenge and
Carboy’s, miss, of Li’s In”
“If you please, sir,” said I.
He was very oblgig; and as he handed m into a fly, after
superinteding th removal of my boxes, I asked hm wthr
there was a great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of
dense bron smke that scarcy anythng was to be see
“O dear no, miss,” he said. “Th is a Lodo particular.”
I had nver heard of suc a thing.
“A fog, mi,” said the young gentlan
“O indeed!” said I.
We drove sowly through the dirtit and darkest streets that
ever wre se in th world (I thught), and in such a distractig
state of confusion that I wodered ho th people kept thr
senses, until we passed into sudde quietude under an old
gateway, and drove on through a sit square unti we cam to an
odd nk i the crner, were there was an entran up a steep,
broad flight of stairs, lke an entran to a church. And there realy
was a churchyard, outside under some clisters, for I saw th
gravetone from the staircas window.
This was Kege and Carboy’s The young gentlan showed
m through an outer offic into Mr Kenge’s room—there was no
in it—and politely put an armair for me by th fire. He th
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calld my attenti to a little lokig-glas, hangig from a nai on
o side of th chimney-piece.
“In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after th
journey, as you’re going before the Chancor. Not that it’s
requisite, I am sure,” said th young gentleman civilly.
“Goig before the Chancelr?” I said, startled for a moment.
“Only a matter of form, mi,” returned the young gentlan.
“Mr Kenge is in court now He left his compliments, and would
you partake of so refreshment;” there were biuits and a
decanter of wi on a small table; “and look over th paper;”
whic the young gentlan gave me as he spoke He then stirred
the fire and lft me
Everythng was so strange—th stranger for its beg night in
the daytie, and the candl burng with a whte flame, and
lookig raw and cd—that I read the words in the newspaper
without knowing what they meant, and found mysf readig the
same words repeatedly. As it was of no us gog on in that way, I
put the paper down, took a pep at my bot in the glass to se if
it was neat, and looked at the room, whic was not half lighted,
and at th shabby dusty tabl, and at th piles of writigs, and at
a bookcas full of the mt iexpresve-lookig books that ever
had anything to say for themve Then I went on, thinkig,
thinkig, thinkig; and the fire went on burning, burnig,
burnig; and the candl went on flikering and guttering, and
there were no snuffers—unti the young gentlan by-and-by
brought a very dirty pair; for two hours.
At last Mr Kenge came. He was nt altered; but he was
surprised to see ho altered I was, and appeared quite pleased.
“A you are going to be the copani of the young lady who i
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now in th Chancellor’s private ro, Mi Summers,” he said,
“w thought it wel that you should be in attendanc al You will
not be discomposd by th Lord Chancelr, I dare say?”
“No, sir,” I said, “I don’t thk I shal.” Realy not seeing, o
nsideration, why I should be
So Mr Kenge gave me his arm, and we went round th cornr,
under a colonnade, and i at a side door. And so we came, alg a
passage, into a comfortabl sort of ro, whre a young lady and a
young gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire A
reen was interposed between them and it, and they wre lang
on the scre, talkig.
They both looked up when I cam in, and I saw in the young
lady, with the fire shg upon her, suc a beautiful girl! With
such rich golden hair, such soft blue eye, and such a bright,
innocent, trusting face!
“Miss Ada,” said Mr Kenge, “th is Miss Sumrson.”
She came to meet me with a smile of wlcom, and hr hand
extended, but sed to change her mind i a mt, and
kissed me. In short, she had such a natural, captivating, wnning
manr, that i a few miutes we were sitting in the window-seat,
with the lght of the fire upon us, talkig together, as free and
happy as could be
What a load off my mind! It was so delghtful to know that she
uld confide i me, and like me! It was so god of her, and so
euragig to me!
The young gentlan was her ditant cusi, sh told me, and
his name Richard Carsto. He was a handsome youth, with an
ingenuous face, and a most engaging laugh; and after she had
calld h up to where we sat, he stood by us, i the lght of the
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fire too, talkig gaiy, like a light-hearted boy. He was very young,
nt more than ntee then, if quite s muc, but nearly two
years oder than she was. Thy were both orphans, and (wat was
very unexpeted and curious to me) had nver mt before that
day. Our al three cog together for the first tim, i suc an
unusual plac, was a thing to talk about; and we talked about it;
and the fire, w had lft off roarig, wiked its red eyes at us—
as Richard said—lke a drosy old Chancery li
We conversed in a low to, becaus a full-dred gentleman
in a bag wig, frequently came in and out, and w h did so, w
uld hear a drawling sound in th distance, wich h said was
of th counl in our case addresing th Lord Chancellor. He
told Mr Kege that the Chanor would be up in five mutes;
and pretly we heard a bustle and a tread of fet, and Mr Kenge
said that th court had risen, and his lordship was in th next
room.
The gentlan in the bag wig oped the door almt directly,
and requested Mr Kege to co i Upo that, we all went into
the nxt room; Mr Kege first, with my darlig—it is so natural to
m nw, that I can’t help writig it; and there, plainly dred in
black, and sitting in an armchair at a tabl near th fire, was h
lordship, wh robe, trimmed with beautiful god lace, was
thrown upon another chair. He gave us a searcg look as we
etered, but his manner was both courtly and kind.
The gentlan i the bag wig laid bundl of papers on his
lordship’s tabl, and hs lordship silently selected on, and turnd
over the leaves
“Miss Clare,” said th Lord Chancelr. “Miss Ada Care?”
Mr Kenge preted her, and his lordship begged hr to sit
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dow near him. That he admired her, and was interested by hr,
even I could see i a mot. It touched me, that the home of
suc a beautiful young creature should be repreted by that dry
official place. Th Lord High Chancelr, at hs best, appeared so
poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents
“Th Jarndyce in queti,” said th Lord Chancellor, sti
turng over leaves, “is Jarndyc of Bleak House.”
“Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,” said Mr Kenge.
“A dreary name,” said the Lord Chancellr.
“But not a dreary place, at preent, my lord,” said Mr Kenge.
“And Blak House,” said his lrdship, “is in—”
“Hertfordshire, my lord.”
“Mr Jarndyc of Bleak House is nt married?” said hi
lordship.
“He is nt, my lord,” said Mr Kenge.
A paus
“Young Mr Richard Carsto is pret?” said th Lord
Cancellor, glancing toards him.
Richard bowd and stepped forward.
“Hum!” said the Lord Chanr, turnig over more leave
“Mr Jarndyc of Bleak House, my lrd,” Mr Kenge obsrved i
a low voice, “if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a
suitable companion for—”
“For Mr Riard Carston?” I thought (but I am nt quite sure)
I heard his lordship say, in an equally low voice, and with a smil
“For Miss Ada Care This is th young lady. Mi Summers.”
His lordship gave me an idulget look, and acknowdged my
curtsey very graciously.
“Miss Summers is not reated to any party in th caus, I
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think?”
“No, my lrd.”
Mr Kenge leant over before it was quite said, and whspered.
His lordship, wth hi eye upo his papers, listed, nodded twice
or thric, turned over more leave, and did nt look towards m
again, until we were going away.
Mr Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to whre I was,
nar the door, leavig my pet (it is s natural to me that agai I
can’t help it!) sitting near th Lord Chancellor; wth w h
lordship spoke a littl apart; asking her, as she tod me afterwards,
wether she had we refleted on the propoed arrangemet, and
if she thught she would be happy under th rof of Mr Jarndyce
of Bleak House, and why she thought so? Presently he ro
urteously, and released her, and then he spoke for a mute or
two with Riard Carstone; not seated, but standig, and
altogethr wth more ease and less ceremony—as if he still knew,
though he was Lord Chanor, how to go straight to the candour
of a boy.
“Very well!” said his lordship aloud. “I shall make th order. Mr
Jarndyc of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge,” and
this was w h looked at me, “a very god companion for th
young lady, and the arranget altogether se the bet of
wich th circumstances admit.”
He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much
obliged to him for being so affabl and polite; by wich h had
certainly lost no dignity, but seed to us to have gained some.
When we got under the coade, Mr Kenge rebered that
he must go back for a mot to ask a questio; and left us i the
fog, with the Lord Chanr’s carriage and srvants waitig for
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hm to come out.
“Well!” said Richard Carsto, “that’s over! And where do we
go next, Miss Sumrson?”
“Don’t you kn?” I said.
“Not in th least,” said he
“And don’t you kn, my love?” I asked Ada.
“No!” said she. “Don’t you?”
“Not at al!” said I.
We looked at one another, half laughing at our beg like the
childre in th wod, wh a curius littl old woman in a
squezed bot, and carrying a reticule, came curtseying and
sg up to us, with an air of great ceremy.
“O!” said she “Th wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure,
to have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and
beauty, when they find themsves in th place, and do’t know
wat’s to come of it.”
“Mad!” whispered Richard, not thking she could hear him.
“Right! Mad, young gentlan,” sh returned so quickly that
h was quite abashed. “I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that
ti,” curtsyig l, and sg between every lttle stenc
“I had youth, and hope I beve, beauty. It matters very lttle
Nether of the three served, or saved me I have the honour
to attend court regularly. With my doumts I expet a
judgement. Shortly. On the Day of Judgemet. I have diovered
that the sixth seal mtid i the Revelatio is the Great Seal
It has be ope a log time! Pray accept my blessig.”
As Ada was a lttl frighted, I said, to humour th poor old
lady, that we were much oblged to her.
“Ye-e!” she said mincingly. “I imagine so. Ad hre is
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Conversation Kenge. With his documents! Ho doe your
honourabl worship do?”
“Quite well, quite wel! Now don’t be troubl, that’s a good
soul!” said Mr Kenge, leading th way back.
“By no means,” said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and
m “Aything but troubl I shal cofer etates on both,—
whic i nt beg troubl, I trust? I expet a judgmt.
Shortly. On the Day of Judgmt. This is a good omen for you.
Accept my blng!”
She stopped at th bottom of th step, broad flight of stairs;
but we looked back as we went up, and sh was sti there, saying,
still with a curtsey and a smile betw every littl sentece,
“Youth. And hope. And beauty. Ad Chancery. Ad Conversati
Kenge! Ha! Pray acpt my blg!”
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Chapter 4
Telopi Phanthropy
W
e were to pas the night, Mr Kege told us when we
arrived i h room, at Mrs Jelyby’s; and then he
turned to m, and said he took it for granted I kn
who Mrs Jelyby was?
“I realy do’t, sr,” I returned. “Perhaps Mr Carston—or Mis
Clare—”
But no, they knew nothg whatever about Mrs Jeyby.
“In-deed! Mrs Jellyby,” said Mr Kenge, standing with his back
to th fire, and castig his eye over th dusty harth-rug, as if it
were Mrs Jelyby’s biography, “i a lady of very remarkabl
trength of caracter, who devotes hersef entirely to the publ
She has devoted herself to an exteve variety of publ subjects,
at varius times, and is at pret (until something e attracts
her) devoted to the subjet of Africa; with a vie to the genral
cultivation of th coffe berry—and th natives—and th happy
sttlet, o the banks of the African rivers, of our
superabundant h populati Mr Jarndyce, wh is desrous to
aid in any work that is considered likely to be a god wrk, and
w is much sought after by phianthropists, has, I beve, a very
hgh opinion of Mrs Jellyby.”
Mr Kenge, adjustig hi cravat, th looked at us
“And Mr Jellyby, sir?” suggested Richard.
“A! Mr Jellyby,” said Mr Kenge, “is—a—I don’t know that I
can deribe h to you better than by saying that he is the
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husband of Mrs Jellyby.”
“A nonentity, sir?” said Richard, with a droll look.
“I do’t say that,” returned Mr Kege, gravey. “I can’t say,
that, inded, for I know nothing whatever of Mr Jellyby. I never, to
y knowldge, had the plasure of seeing Mr Jeyby. He may be a
very superir man; but he is, so to speak merged—Merged—in th
more shining qualities of hs wife.” Mr Kenge proded to te us
that as th road to Blak Hous would have bee very long, dark,
and tedious, on suc an evenig, and as w had been travellg
already. Mr Jarndyc had himf proposed this arranget. A
arriage would be at Mrs Jelyby’s to covey us out of town, early
i the forenoon of tomorrow.
He then rang a little be, and the young gentlan cam i
Addressing hm by th name of Guppy, Mr Kenge inquired
wthr Miss Summers’s boxes and th rest of th baggage had
be “sent round.” Mr Guppy said yes, thy had be sent round,
and a coach was waitig to take us round to, as soo as w
pleased.
“Thn it only remains,” said Mr Kenge, shakig hands wth us,
“for me to express my lively satisfacti in (god day, Mi Care!)
the arranget this day couded, and my (
good bye to you,
Miss Summers!) lively hope that it wi conduc to th
happi, the (glad to have had the honour of makig your
acquaintance, Mr Carsto!) welfare, th advantage in all points of
vi, of all corned! Guppy, see th party safely thre”
“Where is ‘thre,’ Mr Guppy?” said Richard, as we went
dowstairs
“No distance,” said Mr Guppy; “round in Thavies Inn, you
know”
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“I can’t say I kn wre it is, for I come fro Winchester, and
am strange in London”
“Only round th cornr,” said Mr Guppy. “We just twist up
Chanry Lan, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in four
mutes’ tim, as nar as a toucher. This is about a Londo
particular now, ain’t it, miss?” He seed quite deghted wth it
o my account.
“Th fog is very dense, indeed!” said I.
“Not that it affects you, thugh, I am sure,” said Mr Guppy,
putting up th steps. “On th contrary, it sees to do you god,
miss, judgig fro your appearance.”
I knew h meant we in paying me this compliment, so I
laughed at mysf for blushg at it, when he had shut the door
and got upon the box; and we all three laughed, and chatted about
our inexperice, and th strangess of Lodo, until we turnd
up under an archway, to our destination: a narro stret of hgh
uses, like an oblong cistern to hod th fog. Thre was a
confusd littl crod of peopl, pricipally chidre, gathred
about th house at which we stopped, which had a tarnd brass
plate on the door, with the inription, JELLYBY.
“Do’t be frighted!” said Mr Guppy, lookig in at th coachwndow “One of th young Jellybys bee and got his had
through the area raigs!”
“O poor chid,” said I, “let me out, if you please!”
“Pray be careful of yourself, miss Th young Jellybys are
always up to something,” said Mr Guppy.
I made my way to th poor child, w was o of th dirtiest
lttle unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and
frightened, and cryig loudly, fixed by the nk between two iron
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raigs, whil a mkman and a beadl, with the kindet itentins
possibl, were endeavouring to drag hi back by th legs, under a
geral impression that his skull was compressibl by th
means. As I found (after pacifying him), that he was a littl boy,
with a naturally large head, I thought that, perhaps, where hi
ad could go, his body could fo, and mentioned that th best
mde of extricatio might be to pus him forward. This was s
favourably received by th milkman and beadle, that h wuld
idiatey have be pused into the area, if I had nt held hi
pinafore while Richard and Mr Guppy ran dow through th
kitchen, to catch him when he should be released. At last he was
happiy got down without any acdet, and then he began to beat
Mr Guppy with a hoop-stick i quite a frantic manner.
Nobody had appeared belongig to th house, except a pers
in patterns, wh had be poking at th child fro below wth a
bro; I don’t kn with what object, and I don’t thk she did. I
therefore suppod that Mrs Jeyby was nt at home; and was
quite surprised wh th pers appeared in th passage wthut
the patten, and going up to the back room on the first floor,
before Ada and me, announced us as “Thm tw young ladies,
Missis Jellyby!” We passed several more childre on th way up,
w it was difficult to avod treading on in th dark; and as w
came into Mrs Jeyby’s prece, on of th poor littl things fe
dowstairs—down a w flight (as it sounded to me), with a
great no
Mrs Jeyby, whose fac reflected n of the uneas w
could not help shog in our own faces, as th dear child’s
had rerded its passage with a bump on every stair—Richard
afterwards said he counted seven, besides o for th landing—
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received us with perfet equanimity. She was a pretty, very
diutive, plump woan, of from forty to fifty, wth hands
eyes, though they had a curious habit of seemig to look a log
way off. As if—I am quoting Richard again—thy could se
thing nearer than Africa.
“I am very glad, indeed,” said Mrs Jeyby, i an agreeabl
voice, “to have th pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect
for Mr Jarndyc; and n one i whom he is interested can be an
object of indifference to me.”
We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat dow behd th
door where there was a lam invald of a sfa. Mrs Jeyby had
very god hair, but was to much occupied with her African duti
to brus it. Th shawl in which she had be looy muffld,
dropped on to her chair wh she advanced to us; and as she
turnd to resume her seat, we could not hlp noticing that hr
dres didn’t nearly meet up the back, and that the open spac was
railed acro with a lattice-wrk of stay-lac—lke a summerhouse
Th ro, which was stre with papers and nearly fid by a
great writig-tabl covered with siar ltter, was, I must say, not
only very untidy, but very dirty. We were obliged to take notic of
that with our se of sght, even while, with our see of hearig,
w followd th poor child wh had tumbled dowstairs: I thk
into th back kitc, whre somebody seed to stifle him.
But what principally struck us was a jaded, and unalthylookig, though by no means plai girl, at the writig-tabl, who
sat biting the feather of her pe and starig at us. I suppose
nobody ever was in such a state of ink. And, fro hr tumbled hair
to her pretty feet, wh were difigured wth frayed and broken
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sati slippers trodden dow at he, she really sed to have no
article of dress upo her, fro a pin upwards, that was in its
proper condition or its right place.
“You find me, my dears,” said Mrs Jeyby, snuffing the tw
great office candles in tin candlesticks which made th ro taste
trongly of hot talw (the fire had gone out, and there was nthing
i the grate but ashes, a bundl of wood, and a poker), “you find
me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. Th
African projet at pret emplys my wh time. It involve me
in correspondence with public bodies, and with private individuals
anxious for the wfare of their spe al over the country. I am
happy to say it is advancig. We hope by this tim nxt year to
have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy fam
cultivating coffe and educatig th native of Borriboa-Gha,
on the left bank of the Niger.”
As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very
gratifying.
“It is gratifying,” said Mrs Jellyby. “It involve the devotion of
al my enrgie, suc as they are; but that is nthing, so that it
succeeds; and I am more confidet of suc every day. Do you
know, Mi Summers, I almost wonder that
you never turned
your thoughts to Africa?”
This applation of th subjet was really so unxpected to me,
that I was quite at a loss ho to receive it. I hinted that th
climate—
“Th finest clate in the world!” said Mrs Jeyby.
“Indeed, ma’am?”
“Certainly. With preauti,” said Mrs Jellyby.
“You may go into Holborn, without preautio, and be run
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over. You may go into Holborn, with preautio, and never be run
ver. Just so with Africa.”
I said, “No doubt.”—I meant as to Holborn.
“If you would like,” said Mrs Jellyby, putting a number of
papers towards us, “to look over so remarks on that head, and
o th geral subjet (wich have be extensivey circulated),
wile I finish a letter I am now dictatig—to my eldest daughter,
w is my amanuensis—”
The girl at the tabl left off biting her pe, and made a return to
our regnition, which was half bashful and half sulky.
“—I shal th have fined for the present,” proceeded Mrs
Jeyby, with a swt sm; “thugh my work is never do
Where are you, Caddy?”
“‘Prents hr compliments to Mr Swallow, and begs—’” said
Caddy.
“‘And begs,’” said Mrs Jeyby, dictatig, “‘to inform him in
reference to his letter of inquiry o th African projet.’—No,
Peepy! Not on any acunt!”
Peepy (so sef-namd) was the unfortunate chd who had falen
dowstairs, wh now interrupted th correspondece by
presenting himf, with a strip of plaiter on hi forehead, to
exhbit his wounded kn, in which Ada and I did not know
ich to pity most—th bruises or th dirt. Mrs Jeyby merely
added, wth th sere composure with which she said everythng,
“Go along, you naughty Peepy!” and fixed her fin eyes on Afria
again.
Hover, as she at once proded with her dictation, and as I
interrupted nothing by doig it, I ventured quietly to stop poor
Peepy as he was gog out, and to take him up to nurse. He looked
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very much astonished at it, and at Ada’s kissg hm; but soo fe
fast asleep in my arm, sobbing at longer and longer intervals,
unti he was quit. I was so occupid with Peepy that I lot th
letter in detail, thugh I derived such a geral impre fro it
of th momentous importance of Africa, and th utter
insignifiance of all othr plac and things, that I felt quite
ashamed to have thought so little about it.
“Six o’cock!” said Mrs Jelyby. “Ad our dinner hour is
nominally (for w dine at all hours) five! Caddy, sho Miss Clare
and Miss Sumrson thr ros. You wi lke to make some
change, perhaps? You wi excuse me, I kn, being so much
occupied. O, that very bad child! Pray put him dow, Miss
Summers!”
I begged perm to retai him, truly saying that he was nt
at all troubles; and carrid him upstairs and laid him on my
bed. Ada and I had two upper rooms, with a door of
cunation between. They were excevely bare and
disorderly, and th curtain to my wido was fasted up with a
fork.
“You wuld like some hot water, wouldn’t you?” said Miss
Jelyby, lokig round for a jug with a handl to it, but lookig i
vai
“If it is not beg troubl,” said we
“O, it’s nt the troubl,” returned Mis Jelyby; “the questio i,
if there is any.”
Th eveing was so very cold, and th ros had such a
marsy smell, that I must confes it was a littl mrabl; and Ada
was half crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busy
unpacking, wh Miss Jeyby came back to say, that she was
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srry there was no hot water; but they couldn’t find the kettle, and
the boer was out of order.
We begged her not to mention it, and made all th haste w
uld to get down to the fire again But al the lttle chdre had
c up to the landig outside, to look at the ph of
Peepy lyig on my bed; and our atteti was ditracted by th
nstant appariti of noses and fingers, in situations of danger
between the hinges of the doors It was impobl to sut the door
of either room; for my lok, with no knb to it, looked as if it
wanted to be wound up; and thugh th handle of Ada’s wnt
round and round with the greatest soothne, it was attended
wth no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I proposed to th
childre that thy should come in and be very god at my table,
and I would tel them the story of little Red Ridig Hood whil I
dred; which thy did, and were as quiet as mice, icludig
Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearan of the wof.
Wh we went dotairs we found a mug, with “A Pret
from Tunbridge We,” on it, lighted up i the staircas window
with a floating wick; and a young woman, with a sd face
bound up in a flanne bandage, blowing the fire of the drawgroom (now coted by an open door with Mrs Jellyby’s room),
and chokig dreadfully. It smked to that degree i short, that we
all sat coughng and crying with th windows ope for half an
hur; during which Mrs Jellyby, wth th same swetness of
temper, directed ltters about Africa. Her beg so employed was,
I must say, a great relief to me; for Riard told us that he had
washed his hands in a pi-dish, and that thy had found th kettl
his dressing-table; and h made Ada laugh so, that thy made
me laugh in th most ridiculous manner.
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Soon after seven o’ck we went down to dir: carefully, by
Mrs Jelyby’s advic; for the stair-carpets, bede beg very
deficient i stair-wres, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We
had a fi cod-fish, a pie of roast bef, a dish of cutlts, and a
pudding; an excelt dir, if it had had any cooking to speak of,
but it was alt raw. The young woman with the flan bandage
aited, and dropped everythig on the table wherever it
happed to go, and nver moved it agai until sh put it on the
stairs. The perso I had se in pattens (who I suppose to have
be th cook), frequently came and skirmished wth hr at th
door, and there appeared to be il-w between them.
l through dinner; which was long, i conseque of such
accidents as th dish of potato beg miaid in th coal scuttl,
and th handle of th corkscre coming off, and striking th
young wan i the c; Mrs Jeyby preserved the evenn of
hr disposti. She told us a great deal that was iteresting about
Borriboa-Gha and th native; and received so many letters
that Richard, w sat by her, saw four envelopes in th gravy at
onc. So of the letters were proceedigs of ladi’ cottees,
or resolutis of ladi’ meetings, which she read to us; othrs
re applicatis fro people excited in varius ways about th
cultivation of coffe, and natives; othrs required answers, and
the she set her eldet daughter from the table three or four
times to write She was full of busine, and undoubtedly was, as
s had told us, devoted to the cause
I was a littl curius to kn wh a mild bald gentleman i
spectacles was, w dropped into a vacant chair (thre was no top
or bottom, in particular) after th fish was taken away, and seed
passivey to submit hif to Borriboa-Gha, but not to be
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actively interested in that settlet. As he nver spoke a word,
he might have be a native, but for his cplxion. It was nt
until we lft the tabl, and he remaid al with Riard, that
th possibility of his beg Mr Jellyby ever etered my had. But
he was Mr Jellyby; and a loquacious young man called Mr Qual,
wth large shining knobs for temples, and h hair all brusd to
the back of his head, who cam in the evenig, and told Ada he
was a philanthropist, also informd her that he called th
matrimonial alliance of Mrs Jellyby with Mr Jellyby th union of
mind and matter.
This young man, bede having a great deal to say for himf
about Africa, and a projet of his for teaching th coffe colonists
to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establ an
export trade, delighted in drawg Mrs Jelyby out by saying, “I
believe now, Mrs Jellyby, you have received as many as fro on
undred and fifty to tw hundred letters respecting Africa in a
singl day, have you not?” or, “If my memory doe not deceive me,
Mrs Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five
thusand circulars fro on post-office at on time?”—always
repeatig Mrs Jellyby’s anr to us like an interpreter. During
the whole evenig, Mr Jeyby sat in a corner with hi head agait
th wall, as if he were subjet to low spirits. It seed that he had
several times oped hs mouth w al with Richard, after
dinnr, as if he had something o hs mind; but had always shut it
again, to Richard’s extre confusion, withut saying anythng.
Mrs Jellyby, stting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffe
al the evenig, and ditated at interval to her eldet daughter.
She al held a diusson with Mr Quale; of wh the subject
seemed to be—if I understood it—the Brotherhood of Humanty;
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and gave utteran to so beautiful stits. I was not s
attentive an auditor as I mght have wisd to be, however, for
Peepy and the other chdren cam flockig about Ada and me i a
crner of the drawg-room to ask for another story; so we sat
down among them, and told them in whispers Pus in Boots and I
don’t kn wat el, until Mrs Jellyby, accidentally rememberig
them, set them to bed. A Pepy crid for me to take him to bed, I
carried him upstairs, where the young wan wth the flan
bandage charged into the midst of the little famly like a dragoon,
and overturned them into cribs
fter that, I occupid mysf i makig our room a lttle tidy,
and in coaxig a very cross fire that had be lghted, to burn;
wich at last it did, quite brightly. On my return dowstairs, I felt
that Mrs Jelyby looked down upon me rather, for beg s
frivous; and I was sorry for it; thugh at th same time I knew
that I had n higher pretens
It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going
to bed; and eve then we left Mrs Jelyby amg her papers
drinking coffe, and Miss Jeyby biting th feathr of her pen.
“What a strange huse!” said Ada, w we got upstairs “Ho
curius of my cous Jarndyce to send us here!”
“My love,” said I, “it quite cofuse me I want to understand it,
and I can’t understand it at al”
“What?” asked Ada, with her pretty sm
“Al this, my dear,” said I. “It must be very good of Mrs Jellyby
to take such pais about a sche for th befit of Native—and
yet—Peepy and the housekepig!”
Ada laughed; and put her arm about my neck, as I stood lookig
at the fire; and told m I was a quiet, dear, good creature, and had
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w her heart. “You are so thughtful, Esther,” she said, “and yet
so cherful! and you do so much, so unpretedingly! You wuld
make a home out of even this house”
My simpl darlg! She was quite unnscius that she only
praid herself, and that it was in the goodn of her own heart
that she made so much of me!
“May I ask you a queti?” said I, wh we had sat before th
fire a little whe.
“Five hundred,” said Ada.
“Your cousin, Mr Jarndyce. I ow so much to him. Would you
mind describig him to me?”
Shakig back her golde hair, Ada turned her eyes upon m
th such laughng wonder, that I was ful of wonder to—partly
at her beauty, partly at her surpris
“Esthr!” she cried.
“My dear!”
“You want a descripti of my cous Jarndyce?”
“My dear, I never saw hm.”
“And I nver saw him!” returned Ada.
Well, to be sure!
No, she had never see him. Young as she was w hr mama
died, se rebered how the tears would co ito her eyes
when se spoke of him, and of the noble genrosity of his
character, which she had said was to be trusted above all earthy
things; and Ada trusted it. Her cusi Jarndyc had written to her
a fe month ago,—“a plain, hot letter,” Ada said—proposng
the arranget we were now to eter on, and telg her that, “i
time it might heal some of th wounds made by th miserable
Cancery suit.” She had replied, gratefully acceptig hs propoal
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Richard had received a similar letter, and had made a similar
response. He had se Mr Jarndyce once, but only once, five years
ago, at Wihester school. He had told Ada, when they were
lang on the screen before the fire where I found them, that he
rellected him as “a bluff, rosy fe.” This was th utmost
description Ada could give me.
It set me thking so, that wh Ada was asleep, I still reaid
before the fire, wonderig and wonderig about Bleak House, and
wndering and wnderig that yesterday morning should see so
lg ago. I do’t know where my thoughts had wandered, when
they were recald by a tap at the door.
I opened it softly, and found Mi Jeyby shverig there, wth a
broke candle in a broke candlestick in on hand, and an eggcup
i the other.
“Good night!” she said, very sulkily.
“Good night!” said I.
“May I come in?” she shortly and unxpectedly asked me in th
same sulky way.
“Certainy,” said I. “Don’t wake Miss Clare.”
She wuld not sit dow, but stod by th fire, dippig her inky
middle finger i th eggcup, which contained vigar, and
smearing it over th ink stains on her face; froning, th w
tim, and lookig very gloomy.
“I wish Africa was dead!” she said on a sudde
I was going to remtrate
“I do!” she said. “Don’t talk to me, Miss Sumerson I hate it
and detest it. It’s a beast!”
I told her sh was tired, and I was srry. I put my hand upo
her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now, but
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wuld be co tomorro She still stod, pouting and froning at
m; but pretly put down her eggcup, and turned sftly towards
the bed where Ada lay.
“She is very pretty!” she said, with th same knitted bro, and
in th same uncivi manr.
I assented with a smile.
“An orphan. Ain’t she?”
“Yes.”
But knows a quantity, I suppo? Can dance, and play music,
and sing? She can talk Frech, I suppose, and do gegraphy, and
globes, and needlrk, and every thg?”
“No doubt,” said I.
“I can’t,” she returnd. “I can’t do anythng hardly, except
write I’m always writig for Ma. I wonder you two were not
ashamed of yourselve to come in this afternn, and see me able
to do nothing el It was like your i-nature. Yet you think
yoursve very fi, I dare say!”
I could se that th poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my
cair without speakig, and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I
felt towards her.
“It’s disgraceful,” she said. “You kn it is. Th w huse is
disgraceful. Th chidre are disgraceful.
I’m disgracful Pa’s
miserabl, and no woder! Priscilla driks—she’s alays drinking.
It’s a great shame and great story of you, if you say you didn’t
smell hr today. It was as bad as a publ-huse, waitig at dir;
you know it was!”
“My dear, I don’t kn it,” said I.
“You do,” she said, very shortly. “You shan’t say you don’t. You
do!”
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“O, my dear!” said I, “if you wo’t let me speak—”
“You’re speaking now You kn you are Don’t te stories,
Miss Summers.”
“My dear,” said I, “as lg as you wo’t hear me out—”
“I don’t want to hear you out.”
“O yes, I thk you do,” said I, “beaus that would be so very
unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, becaus th
rvant did not come near me at dir; but I don’t doubt wat
you te me, and I am sorry to hear it.”
“You needn’t make a merit of that,” said she.
“No, my dear,” said I. “That would be very fooish.”
She was sti standing by th bed, and now stoped dow (but
still with th same disctented face) and kissed Ada. That done,
she came softly back, and stod by th side of my chair. Her bosom
as having in a distressful manr that I greatly pitied; but I
thought it better not to speak.
“I wish I was dead!” she broke out. “I wish we were all dead. It
would be a great deal better for us.”
In a moment afterwards, she knt on th ground, at my side,
hd her face in my dre, passionately begged my pardo, and
wpt. I comforted her, and would have raid hr, but she cried,
No, no; se wanted to stay there!
“You used to teac girls,” she said. “If you could ony have
taught m, I could have learnt fro you! I am so very mirabl,
and I like you so much!”
I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do anythng but
mve a ragged stool to where sh was kng, and take that, and
still hd my dress in th same manr. By degre, th poor tired
girl fe asleep; and th I contrived to raise her head, so that it
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should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawl. Th fire
nt out, and all night long she slumbered thus, before th asy
grate At first I was painfuly awake, and vainly tried to lose
ysf, wth my eyes cosed, among the scene of the day. At
length, by s degre, thy became indistict and mingled. I
began to lo the idetity of the slper restig on m Now it was
da: now, one of my old Readig friends from whom I could nt
believe I had so recently parted. Now, it was th littl mad wman
rn out with curtseying and smilg; now, some o in authrity
at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no on
The purbld day was feebly strugglig with the fog, when I
opened my eyes to encunter those of a dirty-faced little spetre
fixed upo me. Pepy had scaled his crib, and crept dow i h
bed-go and cap, and was so cold that his teth wre chattering
as if he had cut th all.
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Chapter 5
A Morning Adventurethough the mornig was raw, and a
eemed heavy—I say seed, for the widows were so
rusted with dirt, that they would have made
Midsummer sun dim—I was sufficiently forearnd of th
discomfort wthin doors at that early hour, and suffitly curius
about Londo, to think it a good idea on the part of Mis Jellyby
when she proposed that we should go out for a walk.
“Ma wo’t be dow for ever so log,” she said, “and then it’s a
chance if breakfast’s ready for an hour afterwards, thy dawdle so.
to Pa, he gets what he can, and goes to the offic He never has
wat you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leave hm out
the loaf and s mik, when there is any, over nght. Soti
thre isn’t any milk, and sometimes th cat drinks it. But I’m
afraid you must be tired, Mis Sumrs; and perhaps you
would rather go to bed.”
“I am not at all tired, my dear,” said I, “and would much prefe
to go out.”
“If you’re sure you would,” returned Miss Jeyby, “I’ll get my
things on.”
Ada said she would go to, and was soo astir. I made a
proposal to Peepy, in default of beg abl to do anythig better
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him, and
down on my bed again To this he submitted with the bet grac
possibl; starig at me during th wh operation, as if he never
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had bee, and never could again be, so astonished in his life—
lookig very miserabl also, certainly, but making no complaint,
and going snugly to sleep as soo as it was over. At first I was in
two mds about takig suc a liberty, but I soon refleted that
nobody in th house was likely to notice it.
What with th bustle of despatching Pepy, and th bustle of
getting mysf ready, and helpig Ada, I was soon quite i a glow.
We found Miss Jellyby trying to warm hersf at th fire in th
riting-ro, wich Priscilla was th lighting with a smutty
parlur candlestik—throng th candle in to make it burn
better. Everythng was just as we had left it last night, and was
evidently inteded to reai so. Bel stairs the dier-cth had
not bee taken away, but had bee left ready for breakfast.
Crumbs, dust, and waste paper were al over the house. So
pewter-pots and a mik-can hung on the area raigs; the door
stood open; and we met the cook round the corner cog out of a
public-huse, wiping her mouth She mentioned, as she passed us,
that she had be to see what o’clock it was.
But before we met th cook we met Richard, w was dancing
up and dow Thavies In to warm his fet. He was agreably
surprised to see us stirring so soo, and said he wuld gladly share
ur walk. So he tok care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I wnt first.
I may mention that Miss Jellyby had reapsed into her sulky
manner, and that I really should not have thught she liked me
much, unles she had told me so.
“Where would you wish to go?” she asked.
“Anywere, my dear,” I replied.
“Anywre’s nowre,” said Mi Jellyby, stopping perversely.
“Let us go somewhere at any rate,” said I.
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She then walked m on very fast.
“I don’t care!” she said. “No, you are my witns, Mi
Summers, I say I don’t care—but if he was to come to our house
with his great shg lumpy forehead, nght after night, til he was
as old as Methuselah, I wouldn’t have anything to say to hi Suc
Asses as he and Ma make of thlve!”
“My dear!” I remtrated, in alus to the epithet, and the
vigorous emphas Mis Jelyby set upon it. “Your duty as a
child—”
“O! don’t talk of duty as a chid, Miss Sumrson; wre’s Ma’s
duty as a parent? All made over to th public and Africa, I
suppose! Th let th public and Africa sho duty as a chid; it’s
much more thr affair than mine. You are shoked, I dare say!
Very well, s am I shocked too; so we are both shocked, and
there’s an end of it!”
She walked m on faster yet.
“But for all that, I say again h may come, and come, and come,
and I won’t have anything to say to him I can’t bear him If there’s
any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it’s the stuff he and
Ma talk. I woder th very paving sto opposte our house can
have the patie to stay there, and be a witne of suc
inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsen,
and Ma’s management!”
I could nt but understand her to refer to Mr Qual, the young
gentleman wh had appeared after dinr yesterday. I was saved
th disagreabl necssity of pursuing th subjet, by Richard and
Ada cong up at a round pace, laughng, and asking us if we
ant to run a rac? Thus interrupted, Mis Jelyby beam
silent, and walked moodiy on at my side; while I admired th long
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succession and varities of strets, th quantity of people already
going to and fro, th number of veicles passing and repassg, th
busy preparations in th setting forth of shop windows and th
pig out of shops, and the extraordiary creatures in rags,
secretly groping amg th swep-out rubbish for pins and othr
refuse
“So, cous,” said th cherful voice of Richard to Ada, bend
m, “w are nver to get out of Chanry! We have co by
another way to our place of meetig yeterday, and—by the Great
Seal, here’s the old lady agai!”
Truly, thre she was, immediatey in frot of us, curtseying, and
siling, and sayig, with her yeterday’s air of patroage:
“Th wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!”
“You are out early, ma’am,” said I, as she curtseyed to me.
“Ye-es! I usualy walk here early. Before the Court sits It’s
retired. I cot my thoughts here for the bus of the day,”
said th od lady, mincingly. “Th busine of th day require a
great deal of thught. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to
follow”
“Who’s this, Miss Sumrson?” whispered Miss Jeyby,
drawg my arm tighter through her ow
The lttle old lady’s hearig was remarkably quick. Sh
anred for hersef directly.
“A suitor, my child. At your service. I have th hour to attend
curt regularly. With my doumts Have I the plasure of
addresing anthr of th youthful parties in Jarndyce?” said th
old lady, recovering hersef, with her head on one side, from a very
low curtsey.
Richard, anxius to ato for his thughtlsness of yesterday,
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god-naturedly explained that Miss Jeyby was not connected
with the suit.
“Ha!” said th old lady. “She doe not expect a judgment? She
ll still gro old. But not so old. O dear, no! This is th garde of
Lincoln’s Inn. I call it my garde. It is quite a bor in th
summer-time. Where th birds sing melodiously. I pass th greater
part of th long vacati here In conteplation. You find th long
vacati exceedingly long, don’t you?”
We said yes, as she seed to expect us to say so.
“When the leaves are falg from the trees, and there are n
more flrs in bl to make up into nosegays for th Lord
Cancellor’s court,” said th old lady, “th vacati is fulfilled; and
th sixth seal, mentioned in th Revelatis, again prevails Pray
come and se my lodgig. It wi be a god om for me. Youth,
and hope, and beauty, are very sedom there. It i a log lg ti
since I had a visit fro eithr.”
She had taken my hand, and, leadig me and Miss Jellyby
away, bekoned Riard and Ada to co too. I did not know how
to excuse myself, and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half
amused and half curious, and all in doubt how to get rid of the old
lady withut offence, she contiued to lead us away, and he and
Ada contiued to fo; our strange conductress iforming us al
th time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived c
by.
It was quite true, as it soo appeared. She lived s c by, that
w had not time to have done humouring hr for a fe moments,
before sh was at home Slppig us out at a lttle side gate, the old
lady stopped most unxpectedly in a narro back stret, part of
some courts and lane immediatey outside th wal of th inn, and
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said, “This is my lodgig. Pray walk up!”
She had stopped at a shop, over whic was written, KROOK,
RAG AND BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Als, i lg thin letters,
KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE STORES. In one part of th
ndow was a picture of a red paper mill, at wich a cart was
unladig a quantity of sacks of old rags. In another, was the
inscription, BONES BOUGHT. In anothr, KITCHEN-STUFF
BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE
PAPER BOUGHT. In anothr, LADIES’ AND GENTLEMEN’S
WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everythng seed to be bought, and
nthing to be sod there In all parts of the window were quantitie
of dirty bottle: blackig bottle, medi bottle, ginger-ber and
sda-water bottle, pikl bottle, wi bottle, ik bottle: I am
remnded by metig the latter, that the shop had, in sveral
lttle particulars, the air of beg in a lgal neghbourhood, and of
beig as it were a dirty hanger-on and disowd relati of th
aw. There were a great many ik bottle There was a little
tottering beh of shabby old volum, outside the door, labed
“Law Boks, al at 9 d.” Some of th inscription I have
enumerated were writte in law-hand, lke the papers I had s
in Kenge and Carboy’s office, and th letters I had so long received
from the firm. Among them was one, in the sam writig, having
nthing to do with the bus of the shop, but announcg that a
respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrosing or copying to
execute with neatn and depatc: Addres to Ne, care of Mr
Krok within. Thre were several send-hand bags, blue and red,
hangig up. A little way within the shop door, lay heaps of old
crackld parct scros, and discoloured and dog’s eared lawpapers I could have fancied that all th rusty keys, of which thre
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must have bee hundreds huddled togethr as old iro, had once
belonged to doors of ros or strong chets in lawyers’ offices.
The litter of rags tumbld partly into and partly out of a olgged wooden sal, hangig without any counterpois from a
beam, mght have be cunsors’ bands and gowns torn up.
One had only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada and me while
w all stod looking in, that yoder bos in a cornr, piled
togethr and picked very clean, were th bo of clients, to make
th picture complete
As it was still foggy and dark, and as th shop was blded
besides by th wall of Lincoln’s Inn, intercpting th light within a
couple of yards, we should not have see so much but for a lighted
lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying
about in the shop. Turnig towards the door, he nw caught sght
of us. He was short, cadaverous, and withred; with his head sunk
sideways betw his shoulders, and th breath issuig in visibl
smoke fro his mouth, as if he were on fire within. His throat,
chin, and eyebro were so froted wth wite hairs, and so
gnarled wth veins and puckered skin, that he looked fro hi
breast upward, like some old rot in a fall of snow
“Hi hi!” said the old man cog to the door. “Have you
anythng to sell?”
We naturaly dre back and glanced at our conductress, w
had been trying to open the house door with a key se had take
fro her pocket, and to wh Richard now said, that, as w had
had the plasure of seg where she lived, we would lave her,
beg pressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She
beam so fantastialy and pregly earnt in her entreati
that we would walk up and se hr apartmt for an instant; and
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was so bent, in her harmles way, on leadig me in, as part of th
good omen se dered; that I (whatever the others might do) saw
nothing for it but to comply. I suppose we were all more or les
curius;—at any rate, wh th old man added hs persuasions to
rs, and said, “Ay, ay! Plase her! It won’t take a mnute! Cme
i, co in! Come i through the shop, if t’other door’s out of
order!” We all went in, stimulated by Richard’s laughng
euraget, and relying on his proteti
“My landlord, Krok,” said th littl od lady, codescending to
m fro her lofty station, as she preted him to us. “He is
calld among th neighbours th Lord Chancellor. His shop is
calld th Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentri pers. He is
very odd. Oh, I assure you he is very odd!”
She shook her head a great many tim, and tapped her
forehead with her finger, to expre to us that we must have the
goodn to excus him “For he is a lttle—you know!—M—!” said
the old lady, with great stateli The old man overheard, and
laughd.
“It’s true eough,” he said, going before us with the lantern,
“that thy call me th Lord Chancelr, and call my shop
Cancery. And wy do you think thy call me th Lord
Cancellor, and my shop Chancery?”
“I don’t know, I am sure!” said Richard, rathr carelessly.
“You see,” said th old man, stopping and turning round,
“they—Hi! Here’s lvely hair! I have got three sacks of ladi’ hair
below, but none so beautiful and fi as this. What colour, and
what texture!”
“That’ll do, my god friend!” said Richard, strongly
diapproving of his having draw one of Ada’s tress through hi
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yellw hand. “You can admre as the rest of us do, without takig
that liberty.”
Th old man darted at him a sudden look, wich eve cald my
attention fro Ada, wh startld and blusng, was so rearkably
beautiful that s sd to fix the wanderig attentin of the
littl od lady hersf. But as Ada interpod, and laughngly said
she could only fe proud of such genui admrati, Mr Krok
shrunk into his formr self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.
“You see I have so many things here,” he resumd, holdig up
th lantern, “of so many kinds, and all as th neighbours think
(but they know nothing), wastig away and going to rack and ruin,
that that’s why they have given me and my plac a christeg.
And I have so many od parcts and papers in my stok.
And I have a liking for rust and must and cobwebs And all’s fish
that c to my nt. And I can’t bear to part with anything I onc
ay hold of (or so my neghbours think, but what do they know?) or
to alter anything, or to have any swpig, nr scouring, nr
cang, nor repairig going on about me That’s the way I’ve got
th ill name of Chancery. I don’t mid. I go to se my nobl and
larnd brother pretty we every day, when he sits in the Inn He
do’t ntic m, but I ntic him There’s no great odds betwixt
us. We both grub on in a muddl Hi, Lady Jan!”
A large grey cat leaped fro some neighbouring shef o h
houlder, and startled us al
“Hi! sho ’em ho you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!” said her
master.
Th cat leaped dow, and ripped at a bundle of rags wth hr
tigeris claw, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.
“She’d do as much for any on I was to set hr o,” said th od
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man “I deal in cat-ski amg other genral matters, and hers
was offered to me. It’s a very fi skin, as you may se, but I didn’t
have it stripped off! That warn’t like Chancery practice thugh,
says you!”
He had by this time led us across th shop, and now oped a
door in the back part of it, ladig to the house-entry. A he stood
with his hand upon the lk, the little old lady gracusly obsrved
to him before pasg out:
“That wi do, Krok. You mean we, but are tiresome. My
young friends are pred for time. I have none to spare myself,
having to attend curt very soon. My young frieds are the wards
in Jarndyce.”
“Jarndyce!” said the old man with a start.
“Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krok,” returnd hi
lodger.
“Hi!” excaid the old man, in a tone of thoughtful
amazet, and with a wider stare than before, “Thk of it!”
He sed so rapt all in a moment, and looked so curiusly at
us, that Richard said:
“Why you appear to trouble yoursef a good deal about the
causes before your noble and larnd brother, the other
Cancellor!”
“Yes,” said the old man, abstractedly, “Sure! Your name now
ll be—”
“Richard Carsto.”
“Carsto,” h repeated, slowly cheking off that name upo
forefinger; and eac of the others he went on to mti, upon
a separate finger. “Yes. There was the nam of Barbary, and th
am of Clare, and the nam of Dedlock, too, I think.”
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“He knows as muc of the cause as the real salarid
Cancellor!” said Richard, quite astoshed, to Ada and me.
“Ay!” said th old man, comng slly out of his abstraction.
“Ye! Tom Jarndyce—you’ll excuse me, being related; but h was
ver known about court by any other nam, and was as wel
known thre, as—she is now” noddig slightly at his lodger; “To
Jarndyc was often in here. He got into a restl habit of strollg
about when the caus was on, or expeted, talkig to the lttle
hop-keepers, and teg ’em to kep out of Chanry, watever
they did. ‘For,’ says he, ‘it’s beg ground to bits i a sow m; it’s
beg roasted at a slow fire; it’s beg stung to death by sgl
be; it’s being drod by drops; it’s going mad by grains.’ He
as as near making away with hif, just whre th young lady
stands, as near could be.”
We lited with horror.
“He come in at th door,” said th od man, slowly pointing an
agiary track along the shop, “o the day he did it—the whole
ghbourhood had said for moths before, that he would do it, of
a crtaity sooner or later—he co in at the door that day, and
walked along there, and sat hif o a beh that stood there,
and asked me (you’l judge I was a mortal sight younger th) to
fetch him a pit of win ‘For,’ says he, ‘Krook, I am muc
depressed; my caus is on again, and I thk I’m nearer judgment
than I ever was.’ I hadn’t a mid to lave hi alone; and I
persuaded him to go to the tavern over th way there, t’other sde
my lane (I mean Chancery Lane); and I fod and looked i at
the window, and saw him, cofortabl as I thought, in the
armchair by th fire, and company with hi I hadn’t hardly got
back here, when I heard a shot go echoing and rattlig right away
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ito the in I ran out—nghbours ran out—twenty of us crid at
oce, Tom Jarndyce!’” Th od man stopped, looked hard at us,
looked down into the lantern, bl the light out, and shut the
lantern up.
“We were right, I ndn’t tell the pret hearers Hi! To be
ure, how the nghbourhood poured into court that afternoon
we the cause was on! How my noble and learnd brother, and
all th rest of ’em, grubbed and muddled away as usual, and tried
to look as if they hadn’t heard a word of the last fact in the cas; or
as if they had—O dear me! nothing at al to do with it, if they had
hard of it by any chance!”
Ada’s colour had entirely left hr, and Richard was sarcely les
pal Nor could I woder, judgig even from my emoti, and I
was no party in th suit, that to hearts so untried and fre, it was
a shok to come into th inheritance of a protracted misery,
attended in th minds of many people with such dreadful
rellections. I had anthr unasine, in th applicati of th
paiful story to the poor half-witted creature who had brought us
thre; but, to my surprise, she sed perfetly unscious of
that, and only led th way upstairs again; informg us, with th
tolerati of a superir creature for th infirmities of a com
rtal, that her landlrd was “a little—M—, you know!”
She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from
whic se had a glipse of the roof of Linoln’s Inn Hal This
d to have be her principal inducement, originally, for
taking up her residence thre She could look at it, she said, i th
night; especally in th mooshine Her ro was clean, but very,
very bare. I noticed th scantit necessaries in th way of
furniture; a fe old prints fro boks, of Chancellors and
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barristers, wafered agait th wall; and some half-doze reticules
and wrk-bags, “containing documents,” as she informd us
Thre were neithr coals nor ashe in th grate, and I saw no
artic of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a self in
an ope cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth;
but all dry and empty. Thre was a more affecting meang in her
pinched appearance, I thught, as I looked round, than I had
understood before.
“Extremey honoured, I am sure,” said our poor hostess, with
th greatest suavity, “by this visit fro th wards in Jarndyce. Ad
very muc indebted for the ome It is a retired situati
nsidering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of th
ty of attendig on the Chanor. I have lived here many
years. I pass my days in court; my evegs and my nights here. I
find the nghts log, for I slp but little, and think muc That i,
of course, unavodabl; beg in Chancery. I am sorry I cant
offer chocolate. I expet a judgmt shortly, and sal then plac
y establihmet on a superior footing. At pret, I do’t md
confeng to th wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidece), that I
sometimes fid it difficult to keep up a gente appearance. I have
felt the cod here. I have felt sothing sharper than cd. It
matters very little Pray excus the introduction of suc man
topics.”
She partly drew asde the curtai of the lg lo garretwndow, and called our attention to a number of bird-cage
angig thre: some containing several birds. Thre were larks,
lnnets, and goldfinches—I should think at least twenty.
“I began to kep the little creatures,” sh said, “wth an object
that the wards wil readiy coprehend. With the intenti of
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restoring them to liberty. Wh my judgmt should be given Yee! Thy die in prison, thugh. Thr lives, poor silly thgs, are so
short in comparison with Chancery prodigs, that, o by o,
the whole coti has did over and over again. I doubt, do you
know, whether one of the, though they are al young, w live to
be fre! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?”
Althugh she sometimes asked a queti, she never seed to
xpect a reply; but rambled on as if she were in th habit of doig
s, when no one but hersf was present.
“Indeed,” she pursued, “I postively doubt sometimes, I do
assure you, whthr while matters are sti unttld, and th sixth
r Great Seal prevails, I may not on day be found lying stark and
sensels here, as I have found so many birds!”
Richard, answerig what he saw in Ada’s compassionate eye,
tok th opportunity of laying some money, softly and unbserved,
o th chimney-piece. We al dre nearer to th cages, feignng to
exame the birds
“I can’t allw them to sig muc,” said the little old lady, “for
(you’ll think th curius) I find my mid confusd by th idea that
thy are singing, while I am followng th arguments in court. And
my mid require to be so very clar, you kn! Anthr ti, I’l
tel you their nam Not at pret. On a day of suc good ome,
thy shall sing as much as thy like. In honour of youth,” a smil
and curtsey; “hope,” a smile and curtsey; and “beauty,” a smil
and curtsey. “There! We’l let i the full light.”
Th birds began to stir and chirp.
“I cant admt the air freey,” said the little old lady; the room
was ce, and would have been the better for it; “becaus the cat
you saw downstairs—cald Lady Jan—i greedy for their lives
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She crouch on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have
discovered,” whspering mysteriously, “that her natural cruelty is
sarped by a jealous fear of their regaig their liberty. In
equence of the judgemet I expet beg shortly give She is
sly, and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she i no cat,
but th wf of th old sayig. It is so very diffiult to kep her
from the door.”
So nghbouring be, remidig the poor soul that it was
alf-past nine, did more for us in th way of bringing our visit to
an ed, than we could easily have done for oursves. She
hurriedly took up her little bag of doumts, whic she had laid
upon the table on cg in, and asked if we were al going into
court? On our answering no, and that we would on no account
detai her, sh oped the door to attend us downstairs.
“With such an o, it is eve more necesary than usual that I
should be thre before th Chancelr comes in,” said she, “for h
ght meti my cas the first thing. I have a pretimt that
he will meti it the first thing this morng.”
She stopped to te us, in a whisper, as we were going dow,
that the whole house was filed with strange lumber wh her
landlord had bought piecemeal, and had no wish to se, i
quence of beg a little—M—. This was on the first floor. But
she had made a previous stoppage on th second flr, and had
stly poted at a dark door there
“Th only othr lodger—” she now wispered, in explanation—
“a law-writer. Th childre in th lans here, say he has sold
hif to the devil I do’t know what he can have do with the
money. Hush!”
She appeared to mtrust that the lodger might hear her, even
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there; and repeatig “Hush!” went before us on tiptoe, as though
even the sound of her footsteps mght reveal to him what she had
said.
Pasg through the shop on our way out, as we had pased
through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity
of packets of waste paper, in a kid of well in th flr. He sed
to be wrking hard, with th perspiration standing on hi
foread, and had a piece of chalk by hm; wth wich, as h put
eac separate package or bundl down, he made a crooked mark
on the pang of the wal
Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and th littl old lady, had
gone by hi, and I was going, when he touched me on the arm to
stay me, and chalked th letter J upo th wal—in a very curius
anr, beginnig with the end of the letter and shapig it
backward. It was a capital letter, not a prited o, but just such a
letter as any clerk in Messrs Kenge and Carboy’s office wuld
have made
“Can you read it?” he asked me with a kee glance.
“Surely,” said I. “It’s very plai”
“What is it?”
“J.”
With anothr glance at me, and a glance at th door, he rubbed
it out, and turnd an a i its place (nt a capital letter this ti),
and said, “What’s that?”
I told hi He then rubbed that out, and turned the letter r, and
asked me the sam question. He went on quickly, until he had
formed, in the sam curious and bottoms of the ltters, the word
Jarndyc, without onc lavig two letters on the wall together.
“What does that spel?” he asked me.
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Wh I told hi, he laughed. In the sam odd way, yet with the
same rapidity, he th producd singly, and rubbed out singly, th
tters formig the words Bleak House Thes, in so
astont, I als read; and he laughd again
“Hi!” said the od man, layig asde the chalk, “I have a turn for
copying fro memory, you see, miss, thugh I can neithr read
nor write”
He looked s diagreeabl, and his cat looked so wickedly at
me, as if I were a bld-reation of th birds upstairs, that I was
quite relieved by Richard’s appearing at th door and saying:
“Miss Summers, I hope you are not bargaining for th sale of
your hair. Do’t be tempted. Three sacks bew are quite enough
for Mr Krook!”
I lost no time in wishig Mr Krok god morning, and joing
my frids outsde, where we parted with the little old lady, wh
gave us her blg with great ceremy, and renwed her
assurance of yesterday in refere to her intention of settling
etates on Ada and me Before we finaly turned out of those lan,
we looked back, and saw Mr Krook standig at his shop door, in
is spectacles, lookig after us, wth his cat upo his shoulder, and
hr tail sticking up on on side of his hairy cap, like a tal feathr.
“Quite an adventure for a morning in Lodo!” said Richard,
wth a sigh “Ah, cous, cousin, it’s a weary word this Chancery!”
“It is to me, and has be ever se I can reber,” returned
Ada. “I am grieved that I should be the eny—as I suppose I
am—of a great number of relations and others; and that they
should be my enies—as I suppose thy are; and that w should
al be ruing one another, without knowing how or why, and be in
nstant doubt and discord all our live It sees very strange, as
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there must be right soere, that an hont judge in real
earnt has not been abl to find out through al the years were
it is.”
“Ah, cousin!” said Richard. “Strange indeed! all this wasteful
anto chess-playing
is very strange. To see that coposed curt
yesterday jogging on so serely, and to think of th wretchedness
of the pi on the board, gave m the headache and the
heartac both together. My head ached with wonderig how it
happed, if me were nether fools nr rasal; and my heart
ached to thk they could pobly be either. But at al events,
Ada—I may call you Ada?”
“Of course you may, cous Richard.”
“At all evets, Ada, Chancery wi work none of its bad
influence on us. We have happiy be brought together, thanks to
our god kinsman, and it can’t divide us now!”
“Never, I hope, cousin Richard!” said Ada, gently.
Miss Jeyby gave my arm a squeze, and me a very significant
look. I smild in return, and we made th rest of th way back very
pleasantly.
In half-an-hour after our arrival, Mrs Jellyby appeared; and in
th course of an hour th varius things necesary for breakfast
straggled one by one ito the dig-room. I do not doubt that Mrs
Jelyby had gone to bed, and got up i the usual manr, but s
preted no appearance of having changed her dres. She was
greatly occupid during breakfast; for the mornig’s pot brought
a havy correspondece relative to Borriboa-Gha, which would
occasi hr (s said) to pass a busy day. Th childre tumbled
about, and ntched mranda of their acdets in their legs,
w wre perfect lttle caldars of ditre; and Peepy was lot
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for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market
by a policeman. Th equable manner in w Mrs Jellyby
sustained both his absence, and his restoration to th famly crcle,
surprised us all.
Sh was by that tim perseverigly ditatig to Caddy, and
Caddy was fast relapsg into th inky condition i wich w had
found her. At on o’ck an ope carriage arrived for us, and a
cart for our luggage. Mrs Jelyby carged us with many
rembrance to her good fried, Mr Jarndyc; Caddy lft her
desk to see us depart, kissed me in th passage, and stod, biting
her pe, and sobbig on the steps; Peepy, I am happy to say, was
asleep, and spared th pain of separati (I was nt wthut
mgivigs that he had gone to Newgate market in searc of me);
and all the other chdre got up bend the barouche and fell off,
and we saw them, with great corn, scattered over the surfac of
Thavies Inn, as we rod out of its prects.
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Chapter 6
T
Charles Dicke
Quite At Hom day had brighted very much, and stil b
we went westward. We went our way through
sunshi and th fre air, wodering more and more at
the extet of the streets, the briany of the shops, the great
traffic, and th crods of people wh th pleasanter wathr
seemed to have brought out like many-coloured flowers. Byby we began to leave the wonderful city, and to proced throu
suburbs which, of thlve, would have made a pretty large
town, in my eye; and at last we got into a real country road ag
with windm, rickyards, mito, farmers’ waggons, scts of
old hay, swging sign and horse troughs: trees, fields, an
hedgerows It was deghtful to see the green landsape before u
and the imnse metropoli bend; and when a waggon, with a
trai of beautiful horse, furnid with red trappigs and clarsounding bes, came by us with its music, I beve we could al
three have sung to the be, so cheerful were the ifluen
around.
“The whole road has be remidig m of my namake
Whttington,” said Riard, “and that waggon i the fing
touch. Hala! what’s the matter?”
We had stopped, and th waggon had stopped to Its mus
changed as th hrses came to aElBook
stand,Classic
and subsided to a gen
tinklg, except when a horse tossd his head or shook hif,
and sprikled off a little shower of be-rigig.
Blak House
90
“Our postiion is lookig after th waggor,” said Richard;
“and the waggoner is cg back after us. Good day, friend!” The
waggoner was at our coach-door. “Why, here’s an extraordiary
thing!” added Riard, lokig cosey at the man “He’s got your
nam, Ada, i hi hat!” He had al our nam in his hat. Tucked
within the band, were three smal ntes; one, addred to Ada;
one, to Riard; o, to me Thes the waggoner devered to eac
f us respectivey, readig th name alud first. In answer to
Richard’s inquiry fro wh thy came, he briefly answered,
“Master, sir, if you please;” and, putting on his hat again (wich
was like a soft bo), cracked his whip, reawakend his music, and
wnt melodiusly away.
“Is that Mr Jarndyce’s waggon?” said Richard, calling to our
postboy.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Gog to Lodo.”
We oped the notes Eac was a cunterpart of the other, and
contained th words, in a solid, plain hand.
I look forward, my dear, to our meetig easily, and wthut
ctrait on either side. I therefore have to propose that w meet
as old friends, and take the past for granted. It wil be a relf to
you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you.
John Jarndyc
I had perhaps les reason to be surprised than eithr of my
cpani, having nver yet ejoyed an opportunty of thanking
one who had been my befactor and so earthly depede
through so many years. I had not considered ho I could thank
hi, my gratitude lyig too dep in my heart for that; but I no
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began to coder how I could meet him without thankig hi,
and felt it would be very difficult inded.
Th notes revived, in Richard and Ada, a geral impresion
that they both had, without quite knowing how they cam by it,
that thr cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknoledgments for
any kidness he performed, and that, soor than receive any, h
uld resort to th most singular expedits and evasion, or
wuld eve run away. Ada dimly remembered to have heard hr
mther tel, when sh was a very little chd, that he had once do
her an act of uncn genrosity, and that on her going to his
house to thank him, he happened to see her through a window
coming to th door, and immediatey escaped by th back gate,
and was not heard of for thre month. This discourse led to a
great deal mre on the sam theme, and ideed it lasted us al day,
and we talked of scarcy anythg el If w did, by any can,
diverge ito another subjet, we soon returned to this; and
wondered what the house would be like, and when we should get
there, and whether we should se Mr Jarndyc as soon as we
arrived, or after a delay, and what he would say to us, and wat w
hould say to him, A of whic we wondered about, over and over
again.
The roads were very heavy for th horse, but the pathway was
geraly god; so we alighted and walked up all th hlls, and
liked it so well that we proged our walk on th level ground
when we got to the top. At Barnet there were other horse waitig
for us; but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them
too, and got a lg fresh walk over a con and old battle fied,
before the carriage cam up. The deays so protracted th
journey, that the short day was spet, and the log night had
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cd i, before we cam to St. Aban; near to wh to Blak
House was, we kne
By that tim we were s anxious and nervous, that eve
Riard cofed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street,
to feeg an irratioal dere to drive back again. As to Ada and
m, whom he had wrapped up with great care, the nght beg
sarp and frosty, we trembled from head to foot. Wh we turned
out of the town, round a crner, and Riard told us that the potboy, who had for a log tim sympathid with our heightened
expectation, was lookig back and nodding, we both stod up i
th carriage (Richard hoding Ada, lest she should be jolted dow),
and gazed round upon the ope country and the starlght night,
for our detiati There was a light sparklg on the top of a hil
before us, and th driver, pointing to it with his whip and crying
“That’s Blak Hous!” put his hrses into a canter, and tok us
forward at such a rate, uphll thugh it was, that th whs sent
the road-drift flying about our heads lke spray from a water-mi
Presently we lot the light, presently saw it, presently lot it,
presently saw it, and turned into an aveue of trees, and cantered
up toards whre it was beaming brightly. It was in a wdo of
wat sed to be an old-fashioned house, with thre peaks in th
rof in frot, and a circular swep leading to th porc A bell was
rung as we dre up, and amidst th sound of its deep voice in th
til air, and the ditant barkig of so dogs, and a gush of light
from the open door, and the smokig and steamg of the heated
horse, and the quickeg beatig of our own hearts, we alghted
in no incosiderable confusion
“Ada, my lve, Esther, my dear, you are we I rejoice to
you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at pret, I would give it
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you!”
The getlan who said the words i a clear, bright,
hspitable voice, had on of his arms round Ada’s waist, and th
thr round mine, and kissd us both in a fathrly way, and bore
us across the hall into a ruddy lttle room, al in a glow with a
blazing fire. Here he kissed us again, and opeing hs arms, made
us sit dow side by side, on a sofa ready drawn out near th
arth I felt that if we had bee at all demonstrative, he wuld
have run away in a moment.
“No, Rick!” said he, “I have a hand at liberty. A wrd i
arnet is as good as a speh. I am heartily glad to s you. You
are at ho Warm yourself!”
Riard shook hi by both hands with an intuitive mixture of
respect and frankns, and only saying (thugh with an
earnetnes that rather alarmd m, I was so afraid of Mr
Jarndyc’s suddey diappearing), “You are very kind, sir! We
are very much obliged to you!” laid aside his hat and coat, and
cam up to the fire.
“And ho did you like th ride?” Ad h did you lke Mrs
Jellyby, my dear?” said Mr Jarndyce to Ada.
While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced (I ned not
say with ho much interest) at hi face. It was a handsome, lively,
quick face, ful of change and moti; and his hair was a silvered
iron-grey. I took hi to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was
upright, hearty, and robust. From the mot of his first speakig
to us, his voice had connected itself with an association in my
mind that I could not defi; but now, all at oce, a something
sudde i hi maner, and a pleasant expreson in his eyes,
recalld th gentlman in th stage-coac, six years ago, o th
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memorable day of my journey to Readig. I was certain it was h. I
nver was so frightened in my life as when I made the diovery,
for he caught my glan, and appearig to read my thoughts, gave
suc a look at the door that I thought we had lot him
However, I am happy to say he remaid where he was, and
asked me what I thught of Mrs Jellyby?
“She exerts herself very much for Afria, sir,” I said.
“Nobly!” returned Mr Jarndyc “But you anr like Ada.”
Whom I had not heard. “You al think sthing els, I see.”
“We rathr thught,” said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, wh
treated me with their eye to speak, “that perhaps s was a
lttle unmidful of her home.”
“Floored!” cried Mr Jarndyce.
I was rathr alarmed again.
“We! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have
st you there on purpose.”
“We thought that, perhaps,” said I, hestatig, “it is right to
begin with the obligatio of home, sr; and that, perhaps, whil
those are overlooked and ngleted, n other duties can pobly
be substituted for them”
“Th little Jeybys,” said Richard, comg to my reef, “are
really—I can’t help expreng myself strongly, sir—i a devil of a
state”
“She means w,” said Mr Jarndyce, hastiy. “Th wid’s in th
east.”
“It was in the north, sir, as we came dow,” observed Richard.
“My dear Rick,” said Mr Jarndyce, pokig the fire; “I’ll take an
oath it’s either in the east, or going to be I am always cous of
an unfortable sati no and then when the wid is
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blowing in the east.”
“Rheumatim, sir?” said Richard.
“I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so th lttl Jell—I had
my doubts about ’e—are i a—o, Lord, yes, it’s easterly!” said
Mr Jarndyc
He had taken tw or thre undecded turns up and dow wile
uttering th broke senteces, retaining th poker in o hand
and rubbig his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation,
at oce so whimsical and so loveabl, that I am sure we were more
delighted with him than we could possibly have expred in any
words He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to m, and biddig
Riard brig a candl, was ladig the way out, when he
suddenly turnd us al back again.
“The little Jeybys. Couldn’t you—didn’t you—n, if it had
raid sugar-plum, or three-crnered raspberry tarts, or anything
of that sort!” said Mr Jarndyce.
“O cousin —!” Ada hastily began.
“Good, my pretty pet. I lke cous. Cus Jo, perhaps, is
better.”
“Thn, cous Jo!—” Ada laughngly began again.
“Ha, ha! Very good inded!” said Mr Jarndyc, with great
ejoymt. “Sounds unmmonly natural. Yes, my dear?”
“It did better than that. It raid Esther.”
“Ay?” said Mr Jarndyce. “What did Esthr do?”
“Why, cousi John,” said Ada, claspig her hands upon his
arm, and shakig her head at me across him—for I wanted her to
be quiet: “Esthr was thr friend directly. Esthr nursd th,
caxed them to sleep, wased and dred th, tod them stori,
kept them quiet, bought them kepsake”—My dear girl! I had
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only go out with Peepy, after he was found, and give hi a
littl, tiny horse!—“and, cousin Jo, she softed poor Caroline,
th edest o, so much, and was so thughtful for me and so
amable!—No, no, I wo’t be cotradited, Esther dear! You know,
you kn, it’s true!”
The warm-hearted darling land across her cous John, and
kissed m; and th looking up in his face, boldly said, “At all
events, cousi John, I will thank you for th companion you have
given me.” I felt as if she challenged him to run away. But he
didn’t.
“Where did you say th wind was, Rick?” asked Mr Jarndyce.
“In the north, as we came dow, sir.”
“You are right. There’s n east in it. A mtake of mi Come,
girls, come and se your ho!”
It was one of those deghtfully irregular house where you go
up and do steps out of one room into another, and where you
come upo more ros wh you thk you have see all thre
are, and whre thre is a bountiful provision of littl hals and
passage, and whre you find still oder, cottage-ros in
unxpected places, with lattice widos and gre groth
preg through them Min, whic we entered first, was of this
kind, with an up-and-down roof, that had more corners in it than I
ever counted afterwards, and a chimney (thre was a wod-fire on
th hearth) paved all around with pure white tiles, in every o of
wich a bright miniature of th fire was blazig. Out of this ro,
you went down two steps ito a carmg little stting-room,
lookig down upo a flower-garde, whic room was henceforth
to beg to Ada and m Out of this you went up three steps, ito
Ada’s bedro, wich had a fi broad window, commanding a
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beautiful view (we saw a great expane of darkn lyig
undernath th stars), to which thre was a holow wido-sat, in
whic, with a sprig-lok, three dear Adas mght have be lot at
onc Out of this room, you pasd ito a lttle gallery, with whic
th othr best ros (only tw) communicated, and so, by a lttl
staircas of shallow steps, with a number of cornr stairs in it,
considering its length, dow into th hal. But if, instead of going
out at Ada’s door, you cam back into my room, and went out at
the door by whic you had entered it, and turned up a few crooked
steps that branched off in an unxpected manner fro th stairs,
you lost yourself in pasage, with mangles in th, and threcornred tabl, and a Native-Hido chair, which was also a sofa,
a box, and a bedstead, and looked in every form, something
between a bamboo skeeton and a great bird-cage, and had been
brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From these,
you came o Richard’s ro, wich was part library, part sittingro, part bedro, and sed indeed a comfortabl compound
of many rooms Out of that, you went straight, with a little iterval
of pasage, to the plai room where Mr Jarndyc slept, al the year
round, with his window open, his bedstead without any furniture
standing in th middle of th flr for more air, and hs cod-bath
gapig for him in a smalr room adjoing. Out of that, you cam
to another pasage, where there wre backstairs, and were you
could hear th horses beg rubbed dow, outside th stable, and
beg told to Hold up, and Get over, as thy slipped about very
much o th unve sto. Or you might, if you came out at
another door (every room had at least two doors), go straight down
to th hall again by half-a-doze steps and a low archway,
wonderig how you got back there, or had ever got out of it.
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The furniture, old-fasd rather than old, lke the house,
was as pleasantly irregular. Ada’s slpig-ro was all flrs—
in chitz and paper, in vevet, in nedlrk, in the broade of tw
stiff courtly chairs, wich stod, each attended by a littl page of a
stool for greater state, on either side of the fireplace. Our sittigroom was green; and had, framd and glazed, upo the wal,
numbers of surpring and surprid birds, staring out of picture
at a real trout in a case, as bron and shining as if it had be
rved with gravy; at th death of Captain Ck; and at th w
pross of preparing tea in Cha, as depicted by C artists.
In my room there were oval engravigs of the moths—ladi haymaking, in short waists, and large hats tid under th chi, for
June—sooth-legged nobl, poting, with coked hats, to
village-steples, for October. Half-lgth portraits, in crayos,
abounded all through th huse; but were so dispersd that I
found the brother of a youthful officr of mi in the ca-coset,
and the grey old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her
bodi, i the breakfast room. As substitutes, I had four angel, of
Que Anne’s reign, taking a complacent gentleman to have, i
festos, with some difficulty; and a coposition i nedlewrk,
repreting fruit, a kettl, and an alphabet. All th moveables,
from the wardrobe to the chairs and tabl, hangigs, glass,
even to the pius and scent-bottl on the dresg-tabl,
diplayed the sam quait variety. They agreed in nthing but
their perfect natn, their diplay of the whitet lin, and their
storig-up, weresoever the existenc of a drawer, smal or large,
rendered it possibl, of quantiti of ro-lave and swet
laveder. Such, with its illumated windows, softed here and
there by sadows of curtai, sg out upon the starlght night;
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with its light, and warmth, and cofort; with its hospitable jingl,
at a distance, of preparations for dir; with th face of its
gerous master brightenig everythig we saw; and just wd
eough without to sound a low accpanit to everything we
hard; were our first impresion of Blak Hous
“I am glad you like it,” said Mr Jarndyce, when he had brought
us round again to Ada’s sitting-ro “It makes no pretes;
but it is a comfortabl littl place, I hope, and wi be more so with
uc bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before
dier. There’s n oe here but the fint creature upo earth—a
child.”
“More childre, Esthr!” said Ada.
“I do’t man literally a chd,” pursued Mr Jarndyc; “not a
child in years. He is gron up—h is at least as od as I am—but i
simplcity, and fress, and ethusiasm, and a fi guilel
inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfet chid.”
We felt that he must be very interesting.
“He knows Mrs Jellyby,” said Mr Jarndyce. “He is a musal
man; an Amateur, but might have be a Professional. He is an
rtit, too; an Aateur, but might have been a Professonal. He i
a man of attainments and of captivatig manrs. He has be
unfortunate in his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and
unfortunate in his family; but he don’t care—he’s a chid!”
“Did you imply that he has childre of his own, sir?” inquired
Richard.
“Ye Rick! Half-a-doze More! Near a dozen, I should thk.
But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted
somebody to look after him. He is a chid, you know!” said Mr
Jarndyc
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“And have the chdren looked after themsves at al, sir?”
inquired Richard.
“Why, just as you may suppose,” said Mr Jarndyce: h
untenan suddey fallg. “It is said that the chdre of the
very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skipo’s
dre have tumbld up sohow or other.—The wind’s getting
round agai, I am afraid. I fee it rather!”
Richard observed that th situati was exposed o a sharp
nght.
“It is exposed,” said Mr Jarndyce. “No doubt that’s th caus
Bleak House has an expod sound. But you are cog my way.
Come along!”
Our luggage having arrived, and being all at hand, I was
dred in a fe minutes, and egaged in putting my wrldly
goods away, when a maid (not the one in attendan upon Ada,
but another whom I had nt se) brought a basket into my room,
with two bunhes of keys i it, al labeed.
“For you, miss, if you please,” said she.
“For me?” said I.
“Th housekeeping keys, miss.”
I shod my surprise; for she added, with some lttl surpri
on her own part: “I was told to brig them as soon as you was
alon, miss. Miss Sumrson, if I don’t deceive myself?”
“Yes,” said I. “That is my name.”
“The large bunh is the housekeepig, and the lttle bunh i
th cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint tomorro
rnig, I was to show you the pre and things they beg to.”
I said I would be ready at half-past six: and, after she was go,
stood lookig at the basket, quite lot in the magntude of my
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trust. Ada found me thus; and had such a delghtful confidece in
when I showed her the keys and told her about them, that it
wuld have be innsibiity and ingratitude not to fe
encouraged. I knew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl’s kidnss;
but I liked to be so pleasantly cheated.
Wh we went dotairs, we were preted to Mr Skipo,
w was standing before th fire, teing Richard ho fond h
used to be, i hi school-time, of footbal He was a little bright
creature, with a rather large head; but a deate fac, and a swt
voice, and thre was a perfet charm in hi All he said was so
fre fro effort and spotaneus, and was said with such a
captivatig gaiety, that it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of
a more slder figure than Mr Jarndyc, and having a ricr
cplexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. Inded, he had
more th appearance, in all respects, of a damaged young man,
than a we-preserved elderly one. There was an easy neglgenc
in hi manr, and eve in his dress (h hair carelessly dispod,
and his nek-kerchief loo and fling, as I have see artists
paint thr own portraits), which I could not separate fro th
dea of a romanti youth who had undergone so unique proces
f depreati It struck me as beig not at all like th manner or
appearance of a man wh had advanced i life, by th usual road
of years, cares, and experices.
I gathered from the coversatio, that Mr Skipo had be
ducated for th medical profession, and had oce lived in h
professional capacity, in th housed of a German price. He
told us, however, that as he had always been a mere chd in pot
of weights and masures, and had nver known anything about
them (except that they digusted him), he had nver be abl to
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prescribe with th requisite accuracy of detai. In fact, h said, h
had no head for detai And he told us, with great humour, that
w h was wanted to bld th price, or physic any of hi
people, he was geraly found lying on his back in bed, reading
th newspapers, or making fancy-sketcs in pen, and couldn’t
come. Th price, at last, objecting to this, “in which,” said Mr
Skipol, in the frankest maner, “he was perfectly right,” th
gagemt termiated, and Mr Skipo having (as he added
with deghtful gaity) “nothing to live upon but love, fell in lve,
and married, and surrounded himf with rosy chks” His good
fried Jarndyc and so other of his good frieds then helped
hm, in quicker or slowr succession, to several opeings in life;
but to no purpose, for he must cofe to two of the oldet
infirmities i th wrld: on was, that he had no idea of time; th
other, that he had no idea of moy. In consequence of whic, he
never kept an appoitmt, never could transact any busine,
and nver knew the value of anything! We! So he had got on in
fe, and here he was! He was very fond of readig the papers, very
fond of making fancy-sketcs with a pencil, very fond of nature,
very fond of art. All he asked of society was, to let him live That
wasn’t much. Hi wants were fe Give him th papers,
conversati, music, mutton, coffe, landscape, fruit in th season,
a fe shets of Bristo-board, and a littl claret, and he asked no
more. He was a mere child in th world, but he didn’t cry for th
oon. He said to the world, “Go your several ways in peace! Wear
red coats, blue coats, lawn-sleeve, put pen bed your ears,
war aprons; go after glry, hos, commerc, trade, any object
you prefer; only—lt Harod Skimpole live!”
A this, and a great deal more, he told us, not only with the
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utmost brilliancy and enjoymt, but with a certain vivacious
andour—speakig of himelf as if he were not at al hi own
affair, as if Skimpole were a third pers, as if he kn that
Skimpole had his singularities, but still had hs caims to, wich
wre th geral busss of th comunity, and must not be
slighted. He was quite enchanting. If I felt at all confusd at that
early tim, i edeavouring to rec anything he said with
anything I had thought about the dutie and acuntabitie of life
(wich I am far fro sure of), I was confusd by not exactly
understandig why he was free of them That he was free of them,
I scarcy doubted; he was so very clear about it himself.
“I cvet nothing,” said Mr Skipo, in the sam lght way.
“Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce’s
xcellent huse. I fe obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch
it, and alter it. I can set it to music. Whe I am here, I have
sufficient possession of it, and have neithr troubl, cost, nor
responsibiity. My steard’s name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he
can’t cheat me. We have be mentioning Mrs Jeyby. Thre is a
bright-eyed woman, of a strong wi and immense powr of
business-detail, wh thro hersf into objects with surprising
ardour! I do’t regret that I have not a strog wi and an im
powr of business-detail, to thro myself into objects wth
urprisg ardour. I can admre her without envy. I can
sympath with th objects. I can dream of th. I can l dow
on the gras—i fin weather—and float along an African river,
embracg al the native I meet, as sebl of the deep sie,
and sketcg the de overhangig tropial growth as
accurately, as if I were thre I don’t know that it’s of any direct
use my dog so, but it’s all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then,
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for Heave’s sake, having Harold Skimpole, a confiding chid,
petitionig you, the world, an agglomrati of practical peopl of
business habits, to let him live and admire th human family, do it
show or other, lke good souls, and suffer him to ride his
rocking-hrse!”
It was plai enough that Mr Jarndyc had nt be ngletful
of th adjurati. Mr Skipole’s geral position thre would
have redered it so, without the additi of what he presently
said.
“It’s only you, the genrous creatures, whom I envy,” said Mr
Skimpole, addreng us, his ne friends, in an impersal
manr. “I evy you your power of dog what you do It is what I
should revel in, myself. I don’t fe any vulgar gratitude to you. I
almost fe as if you ought to be grateful to me, for giving you the
opportunity of enjoying th luxury of gerosity. I kn you like it.
For anything I can tell, I may have co into the world exprey
for the purpose of inreasg your stock of happi I may have
bee born to be a benefactor to you, by sometimes giving you an
opportunity of assisting me in my littl perplexiti. Why should I
regret my incapacity for detais and worldly affairs, wh it leads
to such pleasant consequences? I don’t regret it threfore”
Of all hi playful spehes (playful, yet alays fully meanig
wat they expresd) no seemed to be mre to the taste of Mr
Jarndyc than this I had often nw temptations, afterwards, to
wnder whthr it was really singular, or oly singular to me, that
he, who was probably the mot grateful of mankid upon the last
occasi, should so desre to escape th gratitude of othrs
We were al eanted. I felt it a mrited tribute to the
egaging qualities of Ada and Richard, that Mr Skimpole, seng
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them for the first tim, should be so unresrved, and should lay
hmself out to be exquisitey agreabl Thy (and especially
Riard) were naturally plasd for siar reasons, and
considered it no co privilege to be so frey confided in by
suc an attractive man. The more we lited, the mre gaiy Mr
Skipo talked. Ad what with his fin hilarious manner, and hi
gaging candour, and his genial way of lightly tossing hs o
aknesses about, as if h had said, “I am a child, you kn! You
are designing people compared with me;” (h really made me
consider myself in that light); “but I’m gay and innocent; forget
your worldly arts and play with me!”—th effect was absolutely
dazzling.
He was so ful of feing to, and had such a delicate sentit
for wat was beautiful or tender, that he could have won a heart
by that ale. In the evenig, when I was preparig to make tea,
and Ada was touchig the piano in the adjoing room, and softly
humming a tune to her cousin Richard, which thy had happened
to mention, h came and sat dow on th sofa near me, and so
spoke of Ada that I almost loved hi
“She is lke the morng,” h said. “With that gode hair, th
blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheeks she i lke th
umr mrnig. The birds here will mitake her for it. We wil
not call such a lovely young creature as that, wh is a joy to al
mankind, an orphan. She is th chid of th universe.”
Mr Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us, wth hs hands
bed hi, and an attentive smile upo his face.
“Th universe,” he observed, “makes rather an idifferet
parent, I am afraid.”
“O! I don’t kn!” cried Mr Skimpole, buoyantly.
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“I think I do know!” said Mr Jarndyce.
“Well!” cried Mr Skimpole, “you kn th wrld (wich in your
sense is th universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shal have
your way. But if I had mine,” glancing at th couss, “thre
should be no brambl of sordid realities in such a path as that. It
should be stre with ros; it should lie through bors, whre
there was no sprig, autum, nr witer, but perpetual sumer.
Age or change should never withr it. Th base word money
should never be breathd near it!”
Mr Jarndyc patted him on the head with a sme, as if he had
be really a child; and passg a step or tw on, and stopping a
mt, glancd at the young cousi Hi look was thoughtful,
but had a begnant expreson in it whic I often (how often!) saw
agai: whic has be lg engraven on my heart. The room i
ich thy were, communicating with that in which he stod, was
only lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Riard stood bede
her, bedig down. Upon the wall their shadows blded together,
surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught
from the unsteady fire, though reflected from motionl objects
Ada toucd th notes so softly, and sang so low, that th wid,
sighng away to th distant hs, was as audibl as th music. Th
ystery of the future, and the lttle clue afforded to it by the voic
of the present, seemed expresd i the whole piture.
But it is not to recall this fany, we as I remember it, that I
recall th scen First, I was not quite unnscious of th contrast,
in respect of meaning and intention, betw th silent look
direted that way, and the flow of words that had preeded it.
Secodly, thugh Mr Jarndyce’s glance, as he withdre it, rested
for but a moment o me, I felt as if, in that moment, he confided to
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me—and knew that he confided to me, and that I received th
nfidence—his hpe that Ada and Richard might on day enter
o a dearer reatiship.
Mr Skimpole could play on th piano, and th vicel; and
he was a cposer—had cposed half an opera onc, but got
tired of it—and played what he coposed, with taste After tea we
had quite a littl concert, in which Richard—wh was enthralled
by Ada’s singing, and told me that she seed to know all th
gs that ever were written—and Mr Jarndyc, and I, were the
audience. After a littl while I missed, first Mr Skimpole, and
afterwards Richard; and while I was thking ho could Richard
stay away so long, and lose so much, th maid wh had given me
the keys looked i at the door, sayig, “If you pleas, mi, could
you spare a mute?”
Whe I was shut out with her in th hal, she said, hoding up
her hands, “Oh if you plas, m, Mr Carstone says would you
come upstairs to Mr Skimpole’s ro He has be tok, miss!”
“Tok?” said I.
“Tok, miss. Sudden,” said the maid.
I was appresive that his ils might be of a dangerous
kind; but of course, I begged her to be quiet and nt diturb any
o; and coted myself, as I followd her quickly upstairs,
sufficiently to consider wat were th best remedi to be applied
if it should prove to be a fit. She threw open a door, and I went
into a chamber; whre, to my unspeakabl surpri, instead of
finding Mr Skimpole stretcd upo th bed, or protrate on th
flr, I found him standing before th fire, smiling at Richard,
wile Richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a
person on a sfa, in a white great coat, with smooth hair upo his
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had, and not much of it, which he was wiping smoothr, and
making less of, with a pocket-handkerchief.
“Miss Summers,” said Richard, hurridly, “I am glad you are
me. You wi be able to advise us. Our friend, Mr Skimpole—
don’t be alarmed!—is arrested for debt.”
“And, really, my dear Miss Sumrson,” said Mr Skipole,
wth his agreabl candour, “I never was in a situation, in wich
that exct s, and quiet habit of method and usefulne,
whic anybody must observe in you who has the happi of
beg a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed.”
The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cld in his
ad, gave such a very loud snrt, that he startled me.
“Are you arrested for much, sir?” I inquired of Mr Skimpole.
“My dear Miss Sumrson,” said he, shakig his had
pleasantly, “I don’t know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, I thk, were mentioned.”
“It’s twty-four pound, sixte, and seven-pence ha’peny,”
observed th stranger. “That’s wot it is.”
“And it sounds—som it sounds,” said Mr Skimpole, “like a
small sum.”
The strange man said nthing, but made another snort. It was
such a powrful on, that it seed quite to lift him out of his seat.
“Mr Skimpole,” said Richard to me, “has a delicacy in applying
to my cousin Jarndyce, beaus he has lately—I thk, sir, I
understood you that you had lately—”
“Oh, yes!” returnd Mr Skipole, smiling. “Thugh I forgot
h much it was, and wh it was. Jarndyce wuld readiy do it
again; but I have th epicure-lke feing that I wuld prefer a
novelty in hep; that I would rathr,” and he looked at Richard and
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me, “devep geroty in a new soil, and in a new form of
flower.”
“What do you thk wi be best, Miss Sumrson!” said
Richard, aside.
I ventured to inquire genrally, before replying, what would
happen if th money were not producd.
“Jail,” said th strange man, cooly putting his handkercf
into his hat, wh was on th flr at his fet. “Or Coavi”
“May I ask, sir, what is—”
“Coavi?” said the strange man “A ’ouse.”
Richard and I looked at on anthr again. It was a most
sgular thing that the arrest was our embarrast, and not Mr
Skipo’s He obsrved us with a genal interest; but there
d, if I may venture on such a contradiction, nothg selfish
in it. He had entirely washed his hands of th difficulty, and it had
becme ours
“I thought,” he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out,
“that beg parties in a chancery suit conrning (as people say) a
large amount of property, Mr Riard, or his beautiful cousi, or
both, could sign somethg, or make over something, or give some
srt of undertakig, or pldge, or bod? I do’t know what the
business name of it may be, but I suppose thre is some
instrument within thr powr that would settl this?”
“Not a bit on it,” said th strange man.
“Realy?” returned Mr Skipo “That s odd, nw, to one
ho is no judge of the thgs!”
“Odd or even,” said the stranger, gruffly, “I te you, nt a bit o
it!”
“Keep your teper, my good fellow, keep your teper!” Mr
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Skipo gently reasd with him, as he made a little drawg of
hi head on the flyleaf of a book. “Don’t be ruffled by your
occupati. We can separate you fro your office; w can separate
th individual fro th pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to
suppose that in private life you are othrwise than a very
etimabl man, with a great deal of potry in your nature, of whic
you may not be conscious.”
The stranger only anered wth another violent sort;
wthr in acceptance of th poetry-tribute, or in disdainful
rejection of it, he did not expres to me.
“Now, my dear Miss Sumrson, and my dear Mr Richard,”
said Mr Skimpole, gaily, innocently, and confidingly, as h looked
at his drawing wth his had on on side; “here you see me utterly
incapabl of hlping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask
to be free. The butterfl are free. Mankid w surey nt dey to
Harold Skipo what it concede to the butterfli!”
“My dear Miss Sumrson,” said Richard, in a whisper, “I have
te pounds that I have reved fro Mr Kege I must try what
that will do.”
I possesd fifte pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved
fro my quarterly allowance during several years. I had alays
thought that so acdet might happe which would throw m,
suddey, without any relation or any property, on the world; and
had always tried to kep so little moy by me, that I mght nt
be quite pens. I tod Richard of my having this littl store, and
having no pret ned of it; and I asked him delately to inform
Mr Skipo, whil I should be gone to fetch it, that we would
have the pleasure of paying his debt.
When I cam back, Mr Skipo kied my hand, and seemed
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quite toucd. Not o his own account (I was again aware of that
perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but o ours; as if
persal consideration were impossible with him, and th
nteplation of our happiness alon affected hm. Richard,
begging m, for the greater grac of the tranacti, as he said, to
settl with Coavinses (as Mr Skimpole now jocularly cald him), I
counted out th money and received th necessary
acknledgment. This, to, delghted Mr Skimpole.
His complments were so delicately admnistered, that I
blushed le than I mght have do; and sttled with the stranger
in th white coat, withut making any mistake. He put th money
in h pocket, and shortly said, “Wel, then, I’l wish you a god
evenig, mi.”
“My friend,” said Mr Skimpole, standing with his back to th
fire, after givig up the sketc when it was half fined, “I should
lke to ask you sothing, without offen”
I think th reply was, “Cut away, th!”
“Did you kn this morning, now, that you were coming out o
this errand?” said Mr Skimpole.
“Know’d it yes’day aft’noo at tea time.” said Cavins.
“It didn’t affect your appetite? Didn’t make you at al unasy?”
“Not a bit,” said Coavises. “I kn’d if you ws missed today,
you wouldn’t be missd tomorro A day makes no such odds.”
“But w you came dow here,” proded Mr Skipole, “it
was a fi day. Th sun was shining, th wind was bling, th
ghts and shadows were pasg across the fieds, the birds were
singing.”
“Nobody said they warn’t, in my hearig,” returnd Coavins.
“No,” observed Mr Skimpol. “But what did you thk upo th
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road?”
“Wot do you mean?” groled Coavis, with an appearance of
strong restmt. “Think! I’ve got enough to do, and little
ough to get for it, without thinkig. Thinkig!” (with profound
contept).
“Then you didn’t thk, at al events,” proceeded Mr Skipo,
“to this effect. ‘Harod Skimpole loves to see th sun shine; loves to
hear the wind blow; loves to watch the canging lghts and
shadows; loves to har th birds, th choristers in Nature’s great
cathedral. And do it se to m that I am about to deprive
Harold Skimpole of his share i such possessions, wich are h
only birthright!’ You thought nothing to that effect?”
“I—certainly—did—NOT,” said Coavinses, wh doggedn
utterly renuncg the idea was of that iten kid, that he
culd ony give adequate expreon to it by putting a log iterval
betwee eac word, and acpanying the last with a jerk that
mght have diocated his nk.
“Very odd and very curius, th mental pro is, in you men
f business!” said Mr Skipole, thughtfully. “Thank you, my
fried, Good night.”
As our absence had bee long eugh already to se strange
dowstairs, I returnd at once, and found Ada sitting at wrk by
th fireside talking to her cousin Jo. Mr Skimpole pretly
appeared, and Richard shortly after him. I was sufficiently
egaged, during the remaider of the eveg, in takig my first
l in backgamon from Mr Jarndyc, who was very fond of
th game, and fro wh I wished of course to learn it as quickly
as I culd, i order that I might be of the very small use of beg
abl to play when he had n better adversary. But I thought,
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occasially wh Mr Skimpole played some fragments of his ow
mpositions; or wh, both at th piano and vicel, and at
our table, he preserved, with an abse of al effort, hi deghtful
spirits and his easy fl of conversati; that Richard and I
seemed to retai the tranferred impres of havig be
arrested since dinner, and that it was very curius altogethr.
It was late before we separated: for when Ada was going at
eleven o’clock, Mr Skipo wet to the piano, and rattled,
hiariously, that the bet of all ways, to lgthen our days, was to
steal a few hours from Night, my dear! It was past twelve before he
took his candl and his radiant fac out of the room; and I think he
mght have kept us there, if he had se fit, until daybreak. Ada
and Richard were lingerig for a fe moments by th fire,
wndering wthr Mrs Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for
the day, when Mr Jarndyc, who had been out of the room,
returned.
“Oh, dear me, what’s this, what’s th!” he said, rubbing h
head and walkig about with his good-humoured vexation.
“What’s this they tell me? Rik, my boy, Esther, my dear, what
have you be dog? Why did you do it? How culd you do it?
Ho much apiece was it?—Th wind’s round again. I fe it all
over me!”
We neithr of us quite knew what to answer.
“Co, Rick, come! I must settl this before I sleep. Ho much
are you out of poket? You two made the moy up, you know!
Why did you? How could you?—O Lord, yes, it’s due east—must
be!”
“Really, sr,” said Richard, “I don’t think it would be
urabl in me to te you. Mr Skipol reed upo us—”
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“Lord bl you, my dear boy! He rel upo everybody!” said
Mr Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub, and stopping short.
“Indeed, sir?”
“Everybody! And he’l be in th same scrape again, next wek!”
said Mr Jarndyce, walkig again at a great pace, with a candle in
hand that had gone out. “He’s always in the sam scrape He
as born in th same scrape. I verily believe that th
announcement in th nespapers wh his mothr was confid,
was ‘On Tueday last, at her residence in Bothration Buildings,
Mrs Skimpole of a son in difficulties.’”
Riard laughed heartily, but added, “Stil, sir, I do’t want to
shake his confidence, or to break his confidence; and if I submit to
your better knowledge again, that I ought to kep hi sret, I
hpe you will consider before you pres me any more. Of course, if
you do press me, sir, I shall know I am wrog, and wi te you.”
“Well!” cried Mr Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several
absent endeavours to put his candlestick i hs pocket. “I—here!
Take it away, my dear. I don’t kn what I am about with it; it’s al
th wind—invariably has that effect—I won’t pres you, Rick; you
may be right. But, realy—to get hold of you and Esther—and to
squeze you like a couple of teder young Saint Michael’s
oranges!—It’ll blow a gal i the course of the night!”
He was now alternatey putting hi hands into his pockets, as if
he were going to kep them there a log tim; and takig them out
agai, and vehemetly rubbig them all over his head.
I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr Skimpole,
beg in all such matters, quite a chid—
“Eh, my dear?” said Mr Jarndyce, catcg at the word.
“—Being quite a child, sr,” said I, “and so different fro othr
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people—“
“You are right!” said Mr Jarndyce, brightenig.
“Your woman’s wit hits th mark. He is a child—an absolute
child. I told you he was a child, you know, wh I first mentioned
hi”
Crtainly! certaiy! we said.
“And he is a chid. Now, isn’t he?” asked Mr Jarndyce,
brighteing more and more
He was inded, we said.
“When you come to think of it, it’s th hight of childishness in
you—I mean me—” said Mr Jarndyc, “to regard hi for a
moment as a man. You can’t make him responsibl. Th idea of
Harold Skipo with degn or plan, or knowledge of
cequenc! Ha, ha, ha!”
It was so delicius to se th cuds about h bright face
clearing, and to see hi so heartily pleased, and to kn, as it was
imposble not to know, that th source of his pleasure was th
godness wich was tortured by condening, or mistrusting, or
secretly accusing any on, that I saw th tears in Ada’s eye, w
e echoed hi laugh, and felt them in my own.
“Why, what a cod’s head and shoulders I am,” said Mr
Jarndyc, “to require remidig of it! The whole bus shows
th child fro beginning to end. Nobody but a chid would have
thought of siglig
you tw out for parties in th affair! Nobody
but a chd would have thought of your having th money! If it had
be a thusand pounds, it would have be just th same!” said
Mr Jarndyce, with his wh face in a gl
We all confirmd it fro our night’s experice.
“To be sure, to be sure!” said Mr Jarndyce. “Hover, Rick,
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Esther, and you too, Ada, for I do’t know that eve your lttle
purs is safe fro his inxperice—I must have a pro al
round, that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No
advan! Not even sixpe.”
We all proised faithfully; Richard, with a merry glance at me,
toucg his pocket, as if to remind me that there was n danger of
our transgressing.
“As to Skipole,” said Mr Jarndyce, “a habitabl dol’s house,
with good board, and a few tin peopl to get into debt with and
borro money of, would set th boy up in life. He is in a chid’s
sleep by this time, I suppose; it’s time I should take my craftir
had to my more worldly pillow Good night, my dears. God bles
you!”
He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted
our candles, and said, “O! I have be lookig at th wathr-cock.
I find it was a false alarm about th wid. It’s in th south!” Ad
wnt away singing to himself.
da and I agreed, as we talked together for a little whil
upstairs, that this caprice about th wind was a fiction; and that h
usd th pretece to account for any disappoitmt h could not
cal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it, or
disparage or depreciate any on We thught this very
characteristi of his eccentric gentlene; and of th difference
between hi and those petulant peopl who make the weather
and th wnds (particularly that unlucky wid which he had
chosen for suc a different purpose) the stalkig-horse of their
splentic and gly humours.
Indeed, so much affection for him had be added in this o
veg to my gratitude, that I hoped I already began to
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understand him through that mingled feing. Any sg
inconsistencies i Mr Skimpole, or in Mrs Jeyby, I could not
expet to be abl to ree; havig s little experienc or
practical knowledge Nether did I try; for my thoughts were busy
w I was alon, with Ada and Richard, and wth th confidece
I had semed to reve coerng them. My fany, made a littl
ld by th wind perhaps, would not consent to be all unlfish,
ethr, thugh I would have persuaded it to be so if I could. It
wandered back to my godmther’s house, and cam along the
interveing track, raising up shadowy speculatis w had
sti trembled there in the dark, as to what knowldge Mr
Jarndyce had of my earliest history—eve as to th possibiity of
hi beg my father—though that idl dream was quite gone n
It was all go now, I remembered, getting up fro th fire It
was not for me to mus over bygone, but to act with a crful
spirit and a grateful heart. So I said to myself, “Esthr, Esthr,
Esther! Duty, my dear!” and gave my lttle basket of housekeepig
keys such a shake, that thy sounded lke littl bes, and rang me
hopefully to bed.
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Chapter 7
The Ghost’s Walk
W
hi Esther seeps, and wh Esther wake, it is sti wet
wathr dow at th place in Lincolnshire Th rain is
ever falling, drip, drip, drip, by day and night, upo th
broad flagged terrac-pavet, The Ghost’s Walk. The weather
is so very bad, dow in Lire, that th livet iagiation
can scarcely appred its ever being fi again. Not that thre is
any superabundant life of imagiation on th spot, for Sir
Leicester is not hre (and, truly, eve if he were, would not do
much for it in that particular), but is in Paris, with my Lady; and
solitude, with dusky wings, sits brodig upo Chy Wold.
There may be so motio of fancy among the lwer anials
of Chesny Wod. The hors in the stabl—the log stabl in a
barren, red-brik courtyard, where there is a great be i a turret,
and a clock with a large fac, which th pige w live near it,
and who lve to perch upon its shoulders, se to be always
consulting—they may conteplate some mental picture of fi
weather on occasons, and may be better artists at them than the
gros. Th od roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning
hi large eyebal to the grated widow near his rack, may
reber the fresh laves that glte there at other ti, and
the scts that stream in, and may have a fin run with the
hunds, wh th human helper, clearing out th next stall, never
stirs beyod his pitchfork and birc-bro. Th grey, wh place
i oppote the door, and who, with an ipatiet rattle of his
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halter, pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully wh it is
opened, and to whom the opener says, “Woa grey, then, steady!
Noabody wants you today!” may know it quite as wel as the man.
The whole seemigly motous and unpanable halfdoze, stabld together, may pas the log wet hours, when the
door is shut, in livelier communicati than is hed i th servant’s
hal, or at the Dedlock Arm;—or may even beguil the tim by
improving (perhaps corrupting) th pony in th loo-box i th
rnr.
So th mastiff, dozing in his kennel, in th courtyard, with hi
arge head on hi paws, may think of the hot sun, when the
shadows of th stable-buidigs tire his patice out by changing,
and leave him, at one tim of the day, n broader refuge than the
sadow of hi own house, where he sits on end, pantig and
growlig short, and very muc wantig sothing to worry,
besides himself and his chain. So, now, half-wakig and allwinkig, he may recal the house ful of copany, the coachhouse full of vehic, the stabl ful of horse, and the outbuildings ful of attedants upo horses, until he is undecided
about the pret, and co forth to se how it is Then with that
impatit shape of himself, he may grol in th spirit, “Rain, rai,
rai! Nothing but rain—and n famy here!” as he goes in again,
and li down with a gloomy yawn.
So with the dogs in the kenne-buidigs across the park, who
have thr restless fits, and wh doleful voices, w th wd
has be very obstiate, have even made it known i the house
itself: upstairs, dowstairs, and in my lady’s chamber. Thy may
hunt the whole countrysde, whe the raidrops are patterig
round their inactivity. So the rabbits, with their sf-betraying
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tai, friskig in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively
wth ideas of the breezy days wh their ears are blown about, or
of those seasons of interet when there are sweet young plants to
gnaw The turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubld with a
class-grievance (probably Cristmas), may be reniscent of that
sumr-morning wrongfully take from him, when he got ito the
lan among the felled trees, where there was a barn and barley.
Th disconteted go, wh stops to pass under th old
gateway, twenty feet high, may gabbl out, if we only know it, a
waddlg preferenc for weather when the gateay casts its
shadow on th ground. Be this as it may, thre is not much fancy
otherw stirrig at Chesny Wod. If there be a little at any odd
mt, it go, like a little noe in that old echoing place, a lg
way, and usually leads off to ghts and mystery.
It has raid so hard and raid so long, dow in Lincolre,
that Mrs Rounc, the old housekeeper at Chesny Wod, has
veral tim take off her spetac and cand them, to make
rtai that the drops were not upon the glas Mrs Rounwell
ght have be suffictly asured by hearig the rai, but that
she is rathr deaf, which nothing wi induce her to believe She is
a fi old lady, handsome, statey, wonderfuly neat, and has such
a back, and such a stoacr, that if hr stays should turn out
w she dies to have bee a broad old-fashioned family firegrate, nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprisd.
Weathr affects Mrs Rouncewll littl Th house is thre in all
athrs, and th house, as she expres it, “is wat she looks
at.” She sits in her room (in a side-pasage on the ground floor,
wth an arched wido comanding a smooth quadrangle,
adorned at regular iterval with smooth round trees and sooth
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round blocks of stone, as if the tree were going to play at bowls
with the stones), and the whole house repo on her mid. Sh
can ope it on occasi, and be busy and fluttered; but it is shutup now, and l on the breadth of Mrs Rounwell’s iron-bound
bosom, in a majesti sp.
It is th next difficult thg to an impossibility to imagi
Chesny Wold without Mrs Rouncwel, but she has only be
re fifty years. Ask hr h long, this raiy day, and she shal
anr “fifty year three moths and a fortnight, by the blg of
Heave, if I live till Tueday.” Mr Rouncew died some time
before th deceas of th pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly
hid his own (if he took it with him) in a crner of the curchyard i
th park, near th mouldy porc He was born in th marketto, and so was his young widow Her progress in th family
began in the tim of the last Sir Leiter, and origiated i the
still-ro
The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excet
master. He supposes all his dependants to be utterly bereft of
individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and i persuaded
that he was born to supersde th necessity of thr having any. If
he were to make a divery to the cotrary, he would be siply
stunned—would never rever himself, most likely, except to gasp
and die. But he is an excelt master sti, hoding it a part of hi
state to be so. He has a great liking for Mrs Rouncewll; h says
she is a most repetabl, creditable woman. He always shake
hands with her, when he co down to Cy Wold, and when
go away; and if he were very il, or if he were knked do
by accident, or run over, or placd in any situation expresive of a
Dedlock at a disadvantage, h wuld say if he could speak, “Leave
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me and sed Mrs Rouncew here!” feg his dignity, at such a
pas, safer with her than with anybody el
Mrs Rouncwell has known troubl She has had two s, of
whom the younger ran wild, and went for a sldir, and never
came back. Eve to this hour, Mrs Rouncew’s cal hands lose
thr composure wh she speaks of him, and unfolding
themsves from her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated
manner, as she says, what a likely lad, what a fi lad, what a gay,
good-humoured, cever lad he was! Her snd so would have
been provided for at Chesny Wod, and would have be made
teward in due seas; but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to
ctructing steam-egin out of saucepans, and setting birds to
draw their own water, with the least pobl amount of labour; so
assisting th with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure, that a
thirsty canary had only, in a literal se, to put his shoulder to th
and th job was don. This propety gave Mrs Rouncew
great uneas Sh felt it, with a mother’s anguis, to be a mve
in th Wat Tyler direction: we kning that Sir Leicester had
that genral ipren of an aptitude for any art to whic smoke
and a tall chiy might be considered esntial. But th dood
young rebe (otherwis a mild youth, and very perseverig),
showing no sign of grac as he got older; but, on the cotrary,
constructing a model of a powr-loo, she was fain, wth many
tears, to meti his backsdigs to the baront. “Mrs
Rouncew,” said Sir Leicester, “I can never consent to argue, as
you know, with any one on any subjet. You had better get rid of
your boy; you had better get hi ito s Works The iron
country farthr north is, I suppose, th congeial direction for a
boy with thes tende” Farther north he went, and farther
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nrth he grew up; and if Sir Leter Dedlk ever saw him,
wen he cam to Chesny Wod to vit his mother, or ever
thought of him afterwards, it i certai that he only regarded hi
as one of a body of so odd thousand copirators, swarthy and
grim, who were in the habit of turnig out by torchlight, two or
three nights in the week, for unlawful purposes
Neverthless Mrs Rouncew’s son has, in th course of nature
and art, gron up, and etablished hmself, and marrid, and
called unto him Mrs Rouncwel’s grands; who, beg out of hi
appreticeship, and home fro a journey in far countries, withr
he was set to enlarge hi knowledge and cplte hi
preparati for the venture of this life, stands lanig against the
chimney-piece this very day, in Mrs Rouncewll’s ro at
Chesny Wod.
“Ad, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt! And, oce
again, I am glad to see you, Watt!” says Mrs Rouncew “You are
a fi young fellow You are like your poor uncle George Ah!” Mrs
Rouncew’s hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.
“Thy say I am lke my father, grandmthr.”
“Like him, also, my dear,—but most like your poor uncle
George! And your dear fathr.” Mrs Rouncew folds hr hands
again. “He is we?”
“Thrivig, grandmother, in every way.”
“I am thankful!” Mrs Rouncew is fod of her son, but has a
plaintive feing toards him—much as if he were a very
honourabl soldir, who had gone over to the enemy.
“He is quite happy?” says she
“Quite.”
“I am thankful! So, he has brought you up to follw in his ways,
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and has sent you into foreign countries and th like? Well, h
knows bet. There may be a world beyod Chesny Wod that I
do’t understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have s
a quantity of good copany too!”
“Grandmther,” says the young man, changing the subjet,
“what a very pretty girl that was, I found with you just no You
calld her Rosa?”
“Yes, chd. She is daughter of a wido in the viage. Maids are
hard to teach, nw-a-days, that I have put her about m young.
She’s an apt schoar, and wi do well. She shos th huse
already, very pretty. She lives with me, at my table here.”
“I hope I have nt driven her away?”
“She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say.
She is very modest. It is a fi quality in a young wman. And
scarcr,” says Mrs Rouncewll, expanding her stoacher to its
utmost lits, “than it formerly was!”
The young man i hi head, in acknowledgmt of the
prepts of experice. Mrs Rouncew listes.
“Wheels!” says se. They have log been audible to the younger
ears of her companion. “What ws o such a day as this, for
gracious sake?”
After a short iterval a tap at the door. “C in!” A dark-eyed,
dark-haired, sy village beauty co in—so fresh in her rosy and
yet deate bloom, that the drops of rai, which have beaten o
her hair, look lke the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.
“What company is this, Rosa?” says Mrs Rouncew
“It’s two young m in a gig, ma’am, who want to se the
huse—ye, and if you plase, I tod th so!” in quick reply to a
gesture of dissent fro th housekeeper. “I wnt to th hall door,
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and told them it was the wrong day, and the wrong hour; but the
young man who was drivig took off his hat in the wet, and begged
m to brig this card to you.”
“Read it, my dear Watt,” says the housekeeper.
Rosa i so shy as she give it to him, that thy drop it betw
th, and almost knock thr foreads togethr as thy pick it
up. Rosa is shyer than before
“Mr Guppy” is all th information th card yids.
“Guppy!” repeats Mrs Rouncew. “ Mr Guppy! Nonsen, I
nver heard of him!”
“If you please, he told me that!” says Rosa. “But he said that he
and th othr young gentleman came fro Londo only last night
by the mai, on bus at the magistrates’ metig ten miles off,
this morng; and that as thr business was soo over, and thy
had heard a great deal said of Chy Wold, and really didn’t
know what to do with themve, they had c through the wet
to see it. They are lawyers He says he i nt i Mr Tulkighorn’s
ffice, but is sure he may make us of Mr Tulkinghrn’s name if
necesary.” Findig, now she leave off, that she has bee making
quite a long spee, Rosa is shyer than ever.
Now, Mr Tulkighorn i, i a manr, part and parce of the
plac; and, besides, is suppod to have made Mrs Rouncew’s
wll. Th od lady reaxes, conts to th admission of th visitors
as a favour, and dismisses Rosa. Th grandson, hver, beg
smitten by a sudden wish to see th house hmself, propo to
join th party. Th grandmthr, wh is pleased that h should
have that interest, accompanies hm—thugh to do him justice, he
is exceedingly unlling to troubl her.
“Muc obliged to you, ma’am!” says Mr Guppy, divestig
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hielf of hi wet dreadnought in the hal “Us Londo lawyers
do’t often get an out; and when we do, we like to make the mt
of it, you kn.”
Th od husekeeper, wth a gracious severity of deportment,
waves her hand toards th great staircase. Mr Guppy and h
fried follow Roa, Mrs Rounwell and her grandson folw them,
a young garder goes before to ope the shutters.
is usually the cas with peopl who go over house, Mr
Guppy and hs friends are dead beat before thy have well begun.
They struggle about in wrong plac, lk at wrong things, don’t
care for the right things, gape when mre rooms are oped,
exhbit profound depresion of spirits, and are clearly knocked up.
In eac sucve chamber that they enter, Mrs Rounc, w
is as upright as th house itself, rests apart in a wido seat, or
othr such nook, and listes with statey approval to Rosa’s
exposition. Her grands is so attentive to it, that Rosa is shyer
than ever—and prettier. Thus they pas on from room to room,
raising th pictured Dedlocks for a fe brief minutes as th young
garder admts the light, and recgng them to their grave
as he shuts it out again. It appears to th afflicted Mr Guppy and
his incoable friend, that thre is no end to th Dedlocks, wh
family greatn ses to consist in thr never having done
anythng to distingui thlve, for seven hundred years.
Even the log drawg-room of Chesny Wod canot revive Mr
Guppy’s spirits. He is so low that he drops on th threshod, and
has hardly strength of mid to enter. But a portrait over the
chimney-piece, paited by th fashionabl artist of th day, acts
upo h like a charm He revers in a moment. He stare at it
wth unmmon interest; he sees to be fixed and fasated by it.
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“Dear me!” says Mr Guppy. “Who’s that?”
“Th picture over th fireplace,” says Rosa, “is th portrait of
th pret Lady Dedlk. It is cosidered a perfet likeness, and
the bet work of the master.”
“‘Blest!” says Mr Guppy, starig in a kid of dismay at hi
fried, “if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the
picture be engraved, miss?”
“Th picture has never be engraved. Sir Leicester has always
refused permssion.”
“Well!” says Mr Guppy i a l voice, “I’ll be shot if it ai’t very
curius h wll I know that picture! So that’s Lady Dedlk, is
it!”
“Th picture on th right is th pret Sir Leicester Dedlock.
Th picture on th left is his fathr, th late Sir Leicester.”
Mr Guppy has n eyes for either of the magnates. “It’s
unaccountabl to me,” h says, sti starig at th portrait, “ho
ll I know that picture! I’m dashed!” adds Mr Guppy looking
round, “If I don’t thk I must have had a dream of that picture,
you know!”
As no on pret takes any especial interest in Mr Guppy’s
dreams, th probabiity is not pursued. But he still remains so
absorbed by th portrait, that he stands immoveable before it unti
the young garder has cosed the shutters; when he co out of
th ro in a dazed state, that is an odd thugh a suffit
substitute for interest, and follws ito the sucdig rooms with
a confusd stare, as if he were looking everywre for Lady
Dedlock again.
He sees n more of her. He sees her rooms, w are the last
shown, as beg very elegant, and he looks out of the windows
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from whic she looked out, not log ago, upo the weather that
bored her to death. All things have an end—eve house that
peopl take infinte pai to se, and are tired of before they begin
to se them He has c to the end of the sight, and the fres
village beauty to th end of her description; which is alays this:
“Th terrace below i much admired. It is called, fro an old
story in the famy, The Ghost’s Walk?”
“No?” says Mr Guppy, grediy curius; “what’s th story,
miss? Is it anythng about a picture?”
“Pray tell us th story,” says Watt, in a half whisper.
“I don’t kn it, sir.” Rosa is shyer than ever.
“It is not reated to visitors; it is almost forgotten,” says th
housekeper, advancig. “It has never be more than a famiy
anecdote”
“You’ll excuse my asking again if it has anythng to do with a
picture, ma’am,” observe Mr Guppy, “beause I do assure you
that the more I think of that piture the better I know it, without
knowing how I know it!”
The story has nothing to do with a piture; the housekeper can
guarantee that. Mr Guppy is obliged to her for the iformati;
and is mreover genrally obliged. He retires with hi fried,
guided down another staircase by the young garder; and
pretly is heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs Rouncew
can trust to th discretion of her tw young hearers, and may te
them how the terrac cam to have that ghostly nam Sh seats
hersef in a large chair by the fast-darkening window, and tel
them:
“In the wked days, my dears, of King Charl the First—I
man, of course, in the wicked days of the rebe who lagued
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themve agait that exct Kig—Sir Morbury Dedlk was
the ownr of Chesny Wod. Whether there was any acunt of a
ghost in the famy before those days, I can’t say. I should think it
very likely indeed.”
Mrs Rouncew hods this opinion, beaus she coniders that
a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ght.
She regards a ght as o of th privilege of th upper classes; a
gente distinction to which th com people have no claim.
“Sir Morbury Dedlok,” says Mrs Rouncewe, “was, I have n
ccasi to say, on th side of th bld martyr. But is supposed
that hi lady, who had n of the famy blood in her vein,
favoured th bad caus It is said that she had reatis amg
King Charles’s enies; that she was in correspondence wth
them; and that sh gave them iformati Wh any of the
country gentlemen w followd His Majesty’s caus met here, it
i said that my Lady was alays nearer to th dor of thr
council-ro than thy supposed. Do you hear a sound lke a
footstep pasg along the terrac, Watt?”
Roa draw narer to the housekeeper.
“I har th rain drip on th sto,” replies th young man,
“and I hear a curious eho—I suppose an echo—whic is very like
a haltig step.”
The housekeeper gravely nods and ctiues:
“Partly on accunt of this divison betwee them, and partly on
other acunts, Sir Morbury and his Lady led a troubled life. Sh
was a lady of a haughty temper. They were not wel suited to eac
thr in age or character, and thy had no chidre to moderate
betwee them After her favourite brother, a young gentlan,
was kid in the civi wars (by Sir Morbury’s nar kinsman), her
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feing was so vit that she hated th race into which she had
married. When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesny
Wold in th King’s caus, she is suppod to have more than oce
stole down into the stabl in the dead of night, and lamd their
hrses; and th story is, that once, at such an hour, her husband
saw her glidig down the stairs, and folwed her into the stal
where hi own favourite horse stood. There he sezed her by the
wrist: and in a struggl or in a fal, or through th horse being
frighted and lashing out, she was lamed in th hip, and fro
that hour began to pi away.”
Th husekeeper has dropped her voice to littl more than a
wisper.
“She had be a lady of a hands figure and a noble
carriage She never coplaid of th change; she never spoke to
any o of beg crippled, or of being in pai; but, day by day, she
tried to walk upon the terrac; and with the help of a stik, and
with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and
dow, up and dow, in sun and shadow, wth greater difficulty
every day. At last, one afternoon, her husband (to whom she had
never, on any persuasion, oped her lips since that night),
standig at the great suth window, saw her drop upon the
pavement. He hasted dow to raise her, but she repulsed hm as
he bet over her, and lokig at hi fixedly and cdly, said ‘I will
die here where I have walked. Ad I wil walk here, though I am i
my grave I wi walk here, until th pride of this house is humbled.
And w calamty, or wh disgrace is coming to it, let th
Dedlocks liste for my step!’” Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa i th
deepening gloom looks down upon the ground, half frightened and
half shy.
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“There and then she died. Ad from those days,” says Mrs
Rouncwell, “the nam has co down—The Ghost’s Walk. If the
tread is an ec, it is an ec that is only hard after dark, and is
often unheard for a log whil together. But it co back from
time to time; and so sure as thre is sickness or death in th
family, it wi be heard then.”
“—And digrac, grandmther—” says Watt.
“Disgrace never comes to Chy Wold,” returns th
housekeeper.
Her grandson apogises, with “True. True.”
“That is th story. Whatever th sound is, it is a worrying
sound,” said Mrs Rouncewll, getting up fro hr chair, “and
wat is to be noticed in it, is, that it must be heard. My lady, who is
afraid of nothing, admits that wh it is thre, it must be hard.
You cannt shut it out. Watt, thre is a tal Frech clk bend
you (placed thre, ’a purpo) that has a loud beat wh it is in
tion, and can play mus You understand how those things are
managed?”
“Pretty wel, grandmother, I think.”
“Set it a gog.”
Watt sets it a-going—mus and all
“No, come hither,” says the husekeper. “Hithr, chid,
toards my lady’s pillow I am not sure that it is dark enugh yet,
but lite! Can you hear the sound upon the terrac through the
music, and th beat, and everythng?”
“I certainly can!”
“So my Lady says.”
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Chapter 8
Covering A Multitude of Sins
I
t was interestig wh I dressed before daylight, to peep out
of the widow, where my candl were reflected i the black
panes like tw beacons, and finding all beyod sti
shrouded in th indistinctne of last night, to watc h it
turned out when the day cam on As the prospet gradually
revealed itsf, and did the scene over wh the wd had
wandered in th dark, like my memory over my life, I had a
pleasure in discovering th unknown objects that had be around
m in my sleep. At first they were faitly diernble i the mit,
and above th th later stars still glimmered. That pale interval
over, th picture began to enlarge and fill up so fast, that, at every
nw peep, I could have found enough to look at for an hour.
Impercptibly, my candles beame th only inngruous part of
the morng, the dark plac i my room al mted away, and th
day sho bright upo a cherful landscape, prot i wich
th old Abbey Church, with its massive tor, thre a softer train
of sadow on the vie than sd copatibl with its rugged
caracter. But so from rough outsides (I hope I have larnt),
sere and gentle influences often prod.
Every part of the house was in suc order and every one was so
attentive to me, that I had no troubl with my two bunhes of keys:
though what with trying to rember the cotets of eac little
storero drawer, and cupboard; and what with making notes on
a slate about jam, and pickles, and prerves, and bottl, and
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glass, and china, and a great many othr things; and what wth
beg generaly a mthodial, old-maidenis sort of fooli lttle
pers; I was so busy that I could not beve it was breakfast-time
wen I heard the be rig. Aay I ran, however, and made tea, as
I had already be installed into th responsibility of th teapot;
and then, as they were all rather late, and nobody was down yet, I
thought I wuld take a pep at the garde and get so
knowledge of that too. I found it quite a delightful plac; i front,
th pretty aveue and drive by which we had approached (and
where, by-the-bye, we had cut up the grave so terribly with our
weels that I asked the gardener to ro it); at the back, the flowergarde, with my darling at her window up there, throwing it ope
to smile out at me, as if she would have kissd me fro that
distance. Beyod th flr-garden was a kitcn-garde, and
th a paddok, and th a sug littl rick-yard, and th a dear
lttle farmyard. A to the House itsf, with its three peaks i the
rof; its varius-shaped windows, some so large, some so small,
and all so pretty; its trellis-wrk against th south-frot for ro
and honey-suckle, and its homey, cfortable, welg look; it
was, as Ada said, when se cam out to meet me with her arm
through that of its master, worthy of her cousi John—a bold
thing to say, thugh he only pinched her dear chek for it.
Mr Skimpole was as agreabl at breakfast, as he had bee
overnght. There was honey on the tabl, and it ld h into a
discourse about Be He had no objection to hoy, he said (and I
should think he had not, for he seed to like it), but he protested
agait the overweenig asumptions of Bees. He didn’t at al s
why the busy Bee should be proposed as a mde to hi; he
supposed th Be liked to make hoy, or he wouldn’t do it—
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nobody asked hi It was not necessary for th Be to make such
a merit of his taste. If every confetir went buzzing about th
world, bangig against everything that cam in his way, and
egotistically calling upo everybody to take notice that he was
going to his work and must nt be iterrupted, the world would be
quite an insupportabl place Th, after all, it was a ridiculous
poti, to be smoked out of your fortune with britone, as soon
as you had made it. You would have a very mean opiion of a
Manhester man, if he spun cotton for n other purpose. He must
say he thought a Drone the embodit of a pleasanter and wir
idea. Th Dro said, unaffectedly, “You will excuse me; I really
cannot attend to the shop! I find mysf in a world in whic there
is so much to se, and so short a time to see it in, that I must take
the liberty of lookig about me, and begging to be provided for by
sbody who do’t want to look about him” This appeared to
Mr Skipo to be the Drone phosophy, and he thought it a very
god philosphy—always supposng th Dro to be wiing to be
on good term with the Bee: wh, so far as he knew, the easy
fellow alays was, if th consequential creature would only let
hi, and nt be s coeited about his honey!
He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of
ground, and made us al merry; though agai he seemed to have as
rius a meang in what he said as h was capabl of having. I
lft them sti listeg to him when I withdre to attend to my
ne duti. Thy had occupid me for some time, and I was
passing through th passage on my return with my basket of keys
my arm, wh Mr Jarndyce cald me into a sall ro next
hi bedchamber, which I found to be in part a little library of
boks and papers, and in part quite a littl museum of his bots
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and shoes, and hat-boxes.
“Sit dow, my dear,” said Mr Jarndyce. “Ths, you must know,
i the Growlery. When I am out of humour, I co and growl
here.”
“You must be here very seldo, sir,” said I.
“O, you do’t know m!” he returned. “When I am deved or
disappoited in—th wid, and it’s Easterly, I take refuge hre
Th Grolery is th best-used ro in th house. You are not
aware of half my humours yet. My dear, how you are tremblg!”
I could nt help it: I tried very hard: but beg alone with that
benevolent prece, and meeting h kind eye, and feg so
happy, and s honoured there, and my heart so full—
I kied hi hand. I do’t know what I said, or even that I spoke
He was disconcerted, and walked to th wido: I almost beved
with an intentin of jumpig out, until he turned, and I was
reasured by seeing i hi eyes what he had go there to hide. He
gently patted m on the head, and I sat down.
“There! There!” he said. “That’s over. Pooh! Don’t be foolh.”
“It shall not happen again, sir,” I returnd, “but at first it is
difficult”—
“Nonse!” he said, “it’s easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a good
lttle orphan girl without a protector, and I take it in my head to be
that protetor. She gros up, and more than justifies my god
opinion, and I reai her guardian and her friend. What is thre
in all this? So, so! Now, we have cleared off old sre, and I have
before me thy plasant, trusting, trusty fac agai”
I said to myself, “Esthr, my dear, you surprise me! This really
is not what I expected of you!” and it had such a god effect, that I
folded my hands upo my basket, and quite revered myself. Mr
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Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me
as confidentially as if I had be in th habit of conversing wth
m every morning, for I don’t know ho long. I almost felt as if I
had.
“Of course, Esther,” he said, “you don’t understand this
Cancery business?”
Ad of course I shook my head.
“I do’t know who do,” he returned. “The Lawyers have
twisted it into such a state of bedevilment that th original merits
f th case have long disappeared fro th face of th earth It’s
about a Wi, and the trusts under a Wi—or it was, on It’s
about nothing but Cots, n We are always appearig, and
diappearig, and swaring, and interrogating, and filg, and
cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing, and motiing, and
referring, and reporting, and revolvig about the Lord Chanr
and all his sateite, and equitably waltzing oursves off to dusty
death, about Cots That’s the great question. Al the rest, by s
xtraordinary means, has melted away.”
“But it was, sir,” said I, to brig him back, for he began to rub
his head, “about a Wi?”
“Why, yes, it was about a Wi when it was about anything,” he
returned. “A crtain Jarndyc, in an evi hour, made a great
fortune, and made a great Wi In the question how the trusts
under that Wi are to be admtered, the fortune lft by the Wi
squandered away; the legatees under the Wi are reducd to
such a miserabl condition that thy would be sufficiently
punished, if thy had coitted an enrmous cri in having
money left th; and th Will itself is made a dead letter. A
through the deplorabl cause, everythig that everybody in it,
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except on man, kns already, is referred to that oly o man
who do’t know it, to find out—all through the deplorabl cause,
everybody must have copi, over and over agai, of everythig
that has accumulated about it in th way of cartloads of papers (or
must pay for th withut having th, wich is th usual course,
for nobody wants th); and must go dow th middle and up
again, through such an infernal country-dance of costs and fe
and nonsen and corruption, as was never dreamed of i th
wildet visons of a Witch’s Sabbath. Equity seds questions to
Law, Law sends quetis back to Equity; Law finds it can’t do
this, Equity finds it can’t do that; neithr can so much as say it
can’t do anythng, withut this solicitor instructing and this
counl appearig for A, and that solicitor instructing and that
counl appearig for B; and so on through th wh alphabet,
lke the hitory of the Apple Pie And thus, through years and
years, and lives and live, everythng go on, contantly
begig over and over agai, and nthg ever ends. Ad we
an’t get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made partie to it,
and must be parties to it, whthr we like it or not. But it wn’t do
to think of it! Wh my great Un, poor Tom Jarndyc, began to
think of it, it was th beginning of th end!”
“The Mr Jarndyc, sir, whose story I have heard?”
He nodded gravey. “I was his heir, and this was his huse,
Esther. When I cam here, it was bleak, inded. He had left th
signs of his misery upo it.”
“How changed it must be no!” I said.
“It had be called, before his time, th Peaks. He gave it its
pret name, and lived here shut up: day and night poring over
th wicked heaps of papers in th suit, and hping against hpe to
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disentangl it fro its mystifiation and bring it to a cl In th
meantime, th plac became diapidated, th wind whtld
through the cracked walls, the rai fel through the broke roof,
the weeds choked the pasage to the rottig door. When I brought
what remaid of him home here, the brains seed to me to have
been blown out of the house too; it was so shattered and ruind.
He walked a little to and fro, after saying this to hif with a
shudder, and th looked at me, and brighted, and came and sat
dow again with his hands in his pockets.
“I tod you this was the Grory, my dear. Where was I?”
I reminded him, at th hopeful change he had made in Blak
House.
“Bleak House: true. There is in that city of Lodo there, s
property of ours, which is much at this day wat Blak Hous was
then,—I say property of ours, meang of the Suit’s, but I ought to
call it th property of Costs; for Costs is th only powr o earth
that wil ever get anything out of it now, or will ever know it for
anythig but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perig
bld house, with their eyes stoned out; without a pan of glas,
without s muc as a window-fram, with the bare blank shutters
tumbling from their hinge and fallg asunder; the iron rai
peeg away i flake of rust; th chimneys sinkig in; th sto
teps to every door (and every door mght be Death’s Door)
turning stagnant gre; th very crutche on which th ruins are
propped, decaying. Althugh Blak Hous was not in Chancery,
its master was, and it was stamped with th same seal. Th are
the Great Seal’s impres, my dear, al over England—th
childre kn th!”
“Ho changed it is!” I said again.
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“Why, so it is,” he answered much more cherfuly; “and it is
wisdom in you to keep me to th bright side of th picture.” (Th
idea of my wisdom!) “Th are things I never talk about, or eve
think about, exceptig in th Grolery, here. If you consider it
right to meti them to Rik and Ada,” lookig seriously at me,
“you can. I leave it to your discretion, Esthr.”
“I hope, sir,”—said I.
“I think you had better cal me Guardian, my dear.”
I felt that I was chokig again—I taxed mysf with it, “Esther,
nw, you know you are!”—when he fegnd to say this slghtly, as
if it were a whim, instead of a thughtful tenderne. But I gave
the housekeepig keys the least shake in the world as a reder
to myself, and folding my hands in a still more determd manner
on the basket, looked at him quietly.
“I hope, Guardian,” said I, “that you may not trust too muc to
my discreti. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it w
be a disappontment to you to know that I am not clver—but it
realy i the truth; and you would soon find it out if I had nt the
hty to confess it.”
He did not see at all disappoited: quite th contrary. He told
me, wth a s al over his face, that he knew me very we
ded, and that I was quite clever enough for him
“I hope I may turn out so,” said I, “but I am much afraid of it,
Guardian.”
“You are clever enough to be the good little woan of our lve
re, my dear,” h returned, playfuly; “th little od wman of th
ild’s (I don’t mean Skimpole’s) Rhym:
‘Little old woman, and whither so high?’—
‘To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.’
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You will swep th so neatly out of our sky, in th course of your
housekeepig, Esther, that one of the days, we shal have to
abandon th Grolery and nail up th door.”
This was the beging of my beg calld Old Woan, and
Littl Old Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs Shipto, and Mothr
Hubbard, and Dame Durde, and so many names of that sort, that
my own name soo became quite lost among th
“Hover,” said Mr Jarndyce, “to return to our gossip. Here’s
Rick, a fi young fellow ful of pro What’s to be done with
?”
O my godness, th idea of asking my advice on such a poit!
“Here h is, Esthr,” said Mr Jarndyce, comfortably putting hi
ands in his pockets and stretcng out his legs. “He must have a
profession; he must make some choice for hif. Thre will be a
wrld more Wiglration about it, I suppo, but it must be
done.”
“More what, Guardian?” said I.
“More Wigleration,” said he. “It’s the ony nam I kn for
the thg. He is a ward in Chanry, my dear. Kenge and Carboy
wil have sthing to say about it; Master Sobody—a sort of
ridiulus Sexton, digging grave for the merits of caus in a back
room at the end of Qualty Court, Chanry Lan—wi have
thing to say about it; Counsel will have sothing to say
about it; the Chancor will have sothing to say about it; the
Satellte wil have sothing to say about it; they wil have to be
andsomely fe’d, all round, about it; th wh thing wi be vastly
ceremonious, wrdy, unatisfactory, and expenive, and I cal it, in
genral, Wigloratin. How mankid ever cam to be afflited
wth Wiglerati, or for whose si the young peopl ever fell
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into a pit of it, I don’t kn; so it is.”
He began to rub his head again, and to hint that he felt th
nd. But it was a delghtful instance of his kindness toards me,
that whether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his
face was sure to rever its begnant expresion as it looked at
mine; and he was sure to turn comfortable again, and put h
ands in his pockets and stretc out his legs
“Perhaps it wuld be best, first of all,” said I, “to ask Mr
Richard what he inclin to himself.”
“Exactly so,” he returned. “That’s what I mean! You kn, just
accusto yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet
way, wth hm and Ada, and se what you all make of it. We are
ure to co at the heart of the matter by your mean, little
woman”
I really was frighted at th thught of th importance I was
attaig, and the number of things that were beg cofided to
me. I had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak
to Richard. But of course I said nothing i reply, except that I
wuld do my bet, thugh I feared (I realy fet it neary to
repeat this) that he thought me muc more sagacous than I was.
t wh my guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever
heard.
“Co,” he said, ring and pushig back his chair. “I thk w
may have done with th Grolery for o day! Only a coluding
wrd. Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anythg?”
He looked s attentivey at me, that I looked attentivey at him,
and felt sure I understood him
“About mysef, sir?” said I.
“Yes.”
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“Guardian,” said I, venturing to put my hand, which was
suddenly colder than I could have wished, in his, “nothng! I am
quite sure that if there were anything I ought to know, or had any
nd to know, I should nt have to ask you to tel it to me If my
w reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have
a hard heart inded. I have nothing to ask you; nothing in the
world.”
He dre my hand through his arm, and w wnt away to look
for Ada. From that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite
unrerved, quite contet to know no more, quite happy.
We lived, at first, rathr a busy life at Blak Hous; for w had
to be acquaited with many resdets in and out of the
nghbourhood who knew Mr Jarndyc It seed to Ada and m
that everybody knew him, who wanted to do anything with
anybody e’s my. It amazed us wh we began to sort hi
tters, and to ansr so of them for him in the Growlery of a
mrnig, to find how the great object of the lives of nearly all hi
rrespodets appeared to be to form themve ito
cttee for getting in and laying out my. The ladi were
as deperate as the getl; indeed, I thk they were even
mre so They threw themve into cottee i the mt
impassioned manr, and coted subscription with a
vehem quite extraordiary. It appeared to us that s of
th must pass thr wh lives i dealing out subscripti cards
to th w Post-office Directory—shilling cards, half-cro
ards, half-sovereign cards, pey cards They wanted everythig.
Thy wanted wearing apparel, thy wanted linen rags, thy
wanted my, they wanted cal, they wanted soup, they wanted
iterest, they wanted autographs, they wanted flan, they
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wanted whatever Mr Jarndyc had—or had not. Their objects
were as various as their deands They were going to rai ne
buildings, thy wre going to pay off debts on old buildings, thy
wre going to establish in a pictureque building (engraving of
proposed Wet Elevati attaced) the Siterhood of Mediaeval
Marys; they were going to give a testionial to Mrs Jelyby; they
wre going to have thr Secretary’s portrait painted, and
presented to his mother-i-law, whose deep devotion to him was
wel known; they were going to get up everything, I realy believe,
from five hundred thousand tracts to an anuity, and from a
marble monument to a silver teapot. Thy tok a multitude of
title They were the Wo of England, the Daughters of Britai,
th Sisters of all th Cardial Virtues separately, th Feales of
Aeria, the Ladi of a hundred deations They appeared
to be alays excited about canvasg and eletig. They sed
to our poor wits, and acrdig to their own acunts, to be
nstantly polg people by tens of thusands, yet never briging
their candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache to think,
o th wh, what feverish lives thy must lead.
Ag the ladi who were mot ditiguisd for this
rapacius bevolence (if I may us th expression), was a Mrs
Pardiggle, who seed, as I judged from the number of her ltters
to Mr Jarndyc, to be alt as powerful a correspodet as Mrs
Jeyby herself. We obsrved that the wid alays canged, wen
Mrs Pardiggle beam the subjet of coversation: and that it
invariably interrupted Mr Jarndyce, and preveted hs going any
farther, when he had remarked that there were two cas of
charitable people; on, th people wh did a littl and made a
great deal of n; the other, the peopl who did a great deal and
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made no n at al We were therefore curious to see Mrs
Pardiggl, suspecting her to be a type of th formr class; and
were glad when s cald one day with her five young sons.
She was a formidable styl of lady, with spectacles, a prot
n, and a lud voic, who had the effect of wantig a great deal
of ro. And she really did, for she knked dow littl chairs
with her skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I
wre at home, w reved her tidly; for she seemed to co in
ke cld weather, and to make the lttle Pardiggle blue as they
followd.
“Thes, young ladi,” said Mrs Pardiggl, with great volubity,
after the first salutatio, “are my five boys. You may have s
thr names i a printed subscription list (perhaps more than on),
i the poon of our esteemed frid Mr Jarndyc. Egbert, my
eldet (twve), is the boy who set out his poket-money, to th
amount of five-and-three-pee, to the Tockahoopo Indian
Oswald my second (te-and-a-half), is th child w contributed
tw-and-nine-pece to th Great National Smithrs Testimonal.
Francis, my third (n), o-and-sixpence halfpey; Felix, my
fourth (seven), eight-pee to the Superanuated Wido; Afred,
my younget (five), has vountariy enroed himf in the Infant
Bonds of Joy, and is pldged never, through life, to use tobac i
any form”
We had never se such dissatisfied childre. It was not merely
that they were wazened and sriveed—though they wre
rtainly that too—but they looked absutely ferocius with
discontet. At th mention of th Tocka
hoopo Indian, I culd
really have supposed Egbert to be on of th most baleful
bers of that tribe, he gave m suc a savage frown. The fac
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of eac cd, as the amount of his cotribution was metid,
darked in a peculiarly vidictive manner, but hs was by far th
worst. I must excpt, however, the little recruit into the Infant
Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and evenly mrable.
“You have be vistig, I understand,” said Mrs Pardiggle, “at
Mrs Jelyby’s?”
We said yes, we had passd on night thre
“Mrs Jellyby,” pursued th lady, always speakig i th same
demontrative, loud, hard to, so that her voice impressed my
fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles o to—and I may take th
pportunity of remarkig that her spectacles were made th les
engagig by her eyes beg what Ada cald “chokig eyes,”
meaning very prot: “Mrs Jellyby is a befactor to society,
and derves a helpig hand. My boys have ctributed to the
Afrian project—Egbert one-and-sx, beg the entire alane of
n weeks; Osald, one-and-a-pey-halfpenny, beg the sam;
the rest, acrdig to their little mean Neverthel, I do not go
with Mrs Jelyby i al things I do not go with Mrs Jelyby in her
treatmet of her young famy. It has be noticd. It has bee
bserved that her young family are excuded fro participation in
th objects to which she is devoted. She may be right, she may be
wrong; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with my young
famy. I take them everywhere.”
I was afterwards conviced (and so was Ada) that fro th illconditioned eldest chid, th words extorted a sharp yell. He
turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell
“They attend Matins with me (very prettily do), at half-past
six o’ck in th morng all th year round, including of course
th depth of winter,” said Mrs Pardiggl rapidly, “and thy are
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with m during the revolvig dutie of the day. I am a School lady,
I am a Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady;
I am o th Local Lin Box Coitte, and many geral
mmitte; and my canvassing al is very extensive—perhaps
n one’s more so. But they are my copan everywhere; and
by the man they acquire that knowldge of the poor, and that
capacity of doig charitable business in geral—in short, that
taste for the sort of thing—whic wil render them in after life a
service to thr neighbours, and a satisfacti to thlve My
young famy are not frivolous; they exped the entire amount of
thr allowance, in subscriptions, under my direction; and thy
have atteded as many publ meetigs, and litened to as many
lecture, oration, and discuss, as gerally fal to th lot of
few grown peopl Alfred (five), who, as I metid, has of hi
own electi joind the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very
fe childre wh manifested conscious on that ocasi, after
a fervid addres of two hours from the chairman of the evenig.”
Afred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the
ijury of that night.
“You may have observed, Miss Sumerson,” said Mrs
Pardiggl, “in some of th lists to which I have referred, in th
possession of our ested friend Mr Jarndyce, that th names of
my young family are concluded with th name of O. A. Pardiggl,
F.R.S., oe pound. That is their father. We usualy obsrve th
same routi I put dow my mite first; th my young family
eroll their cotributio, acrdig to their age and their lttle
an; and then Mr Pardiggle brigs up the rear. Mr Pardiggle i
appy to thro in his limited donati, under my direction; and
thus things are made, not only plasant to ourseves, but, we trust,
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improving to othrs.”
Suppo Mr Pardiggle were to di with Mr Jelyby, and
suppo Mr Jellyby were to relve his mind after dinner to Mr
Pardiggle, would Mr Pardiggle, in return, make any cfidetial
mmunicati to Mr Jellyby? I was quite confusd to find myself
thinking this, but it came into my head.
“You are very plasantly situated here!” said Mrs Pardiggle
We were glad to change the subjet; and, going to the window,
pointed out th beauti of th propect, on which th spectacles
appeared to me to rest with curius indifference.
“You know Mr Gusher?” said our visitor.
We were obliged to say that we had not the plasure of Mr
Gusher’s acquaintance.
“Th loss is yours, I assure you,” said Mrs Pardiggl, with her
commanding deportment. “He is a very fervid impassioned
speaker—ful of fire! Stationd in a waggon on this law, now,
whic, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a publ
meeting, h would improve almost any occasion you could
mention for hours and hours! By this time, young ladi,” said Mrs
Pardiggle, mving back to her cair, and overturnig, as if by
invisibl agecy, a littl round tabl at a considerabl distance
with my work-basket on it, “by this tim you have found m out, I
dare say?”
“This was really such a confusing queti that Ada looked at
m in perfect diay. As to the guilty nature of my own
consciusness, after wat I had be thking, it must have be
xpressed in th colour of my cheks
“Found out, I mean,” said Mrs Pardiggl, “th prot point
in my character. I am aware that it is so prot as to be
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discoverabl immediatey. I lay myself ope to detection, I know
Well! I freely admt, I am a woan of busss. I lve hard work; I
enjoy hard work. The excitemet do me good. I am s
accustod and inured to hard work that I don’t kn wat
fatigue is”
We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying;
or sothing to that effect. I don’t think we kn why it was
thr, but this was what our polte expred.
“I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cant tire m if
you try!” said Mrs Pardiggle “The quantity of exertion (whic i
exertion to me), the amount of bus (w I regard as
thing), that I go through, sotim astoni mysf. I have
s my young famy, and Mr Pardiggle, quite worn out with
witneg it, when I may truly say I have be as freh as a lark!”
If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicius than
he had already looked, this was the tim when he did it. I observed
that he doubled his right fist, and delivered a secret blow into th
cron of his cap, which was under his left arm.
“Thi gives me a great advantage when I am makig my
rounds,” said Mrs Pardiggle “If I find a perso unwilg to hear
wat I have to say, I te that pers directly, ‘I am inapabl of
fatigue, my good friend, I am nver tired, and I mean to go on until
I have done.’ It answers admrably! Miss Sumrson, I hope I
shall have your assistance in my visitig rounds immediatey, and
Miss Clare’s very soo?”
At first I tried to excus mysf, for the pret, on the genral
ground of having occupatis to atted to, which I must not
neglt. But as this was an iffectual protet, I th said, more
particularly, that I was not sure of my qualifiations. That I was
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ixperied i the art of adapting my mind to mids very
differently stuated, and addreng th fro suitable poits of
vie That I had not that deate knowledge of the heart whic
must be essential to such a work. That I had much to learn, myself,
before I could teach othrs, and that I could not confide in my
good intenti alone. For thes reasons, I thought it bet to be as
usful as I could, and to render what kind services I could, to th
diatey about me; and to try to let that circ of duty
gradualy and naturally expand itself. All this I said, wth anythng
but confidece; becaus Mrs Pardiggl was much older than I, and
had great experie, and was so very military in her manrs.
“You are wrog, Miss Sumrson,” said she: “but perhaps you
are nt equal to hard work, or the excitemet of it; and that make
a vast differe If you would like to se ho I go through my
wrk, I am now about—wth my young family—to visit a
brikmaker in the neghbourhood (a very bad character), and shal
be glad to take you with me. Miss Clare also, if she wi do me th
favour.”
Ada and I iterchanged looks, and, as we were going out in any
case, accepted th offer. Whe we hastiy returnd fro putting o
ur bonnets, we found th young family languishig in a cornr,
and Mrs Pardiggle swpig about the room, knockig do
arly all th light objects it contained. Mrs Pardiggl tok
possession of Ada, and I fod with th family.
da told m afterwards that Mrs Pardiggle talked i the sam
ud tone (that inded I overheard), all the way to the
brickmaker’s, about an exciting contet which she had for tw or
three years, waged agait another lady, relative to the briging in
of their rival candidates for a pe soere. There had be
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a quantity of priting, and proising, and proxying, and poling;
and it appeared to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned,
except th pensioners—wh were not elted yet.
I am very fod of beg cofided in by chdre, and am happy
in beg usually favoured in that respect, but on th ocasion it
gave me great uneas As soon as we were out of doors,
Egbert, wth the maner of a lttle footpad, deanded a sg of
m, on the ground that his poket-money was “boed” from hi
On my poting out the great impropriety of the word, epeally
in connection wth his parent (for he added sulkiy “by her!”), he
pinched me and said “O th! Now! Who are you!
You wouldn’t
like it, I thk? What doe she make a sham for, and preted to
give me money, and take it away again? Why do you call it my
allowance, and never let me spend it?” Th exasperating
quetis so inflamed his mind, and th mds of Oswald and
Francis, that thy all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully
expert way: screing up such littl pieces of my arms that I could
hardly forbear crying out. Fex, at the sam tim, stamped upo
y toes. And the Bond of Joy, who, on acunt of alays having
th w of his littl inme anticipated, stod in fact pledged to
abstain fro cakes as well as tobac, so swelled wth grief and
rage when we pased a pastry-cook’s shop, that he terrified me by
beng purple. I never underwt so much, both in body and
mnd, in the course of a walk with young peopl, as from thes
unnaturaly ctraid cdre, when they paid me the
compliment of being natural
I was glad w we came to th brickmaker’s house; thugh it
was on of a cluster of wretched hoves in a brickfid, wth
pigsties clos to th broke windows, and mirabl littl garde
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before the doors, growing nothing but stagnant po Here and
there, an old tub was put to catch the droppigs of raiwater from
a roof, or they were banked up with mud into a little pond like a
large dirt-pie. At th doors and windows, some m and wmen
unged or prowled about, and took lttle notic of us, excpt to
laugh to one another, or to say sothing as we pased, about
gentl folks mindig their own bus, and not troublg their
heads and muddyig their shoes with cog to look after other
people’s
Mrs Pardiggle, ladig the way with a great show of mral
determiati, and talkig with muc volubity about the untidy
habits of the peopl (though I doubted if the bet of us culd have
be tidy in suc a plac), cnducted us ito a cottage at the
farthest crner, the ground-floor room of whic we nearly fild.
Besides oursves, thre were in this damp offesive ro—a
woman with a black eye, nursig a poor little gaspig baby by the
fire; a man, all stained with clay and mud, and lookig very
dipated, lyig at full lgth on the ground, smkig a pipe; a
powrful young man, fasteg a collar o a dog; and a bold girl,
dog so kind of wasg in very dirty water. They al looked up
at us as we cam in, and th woan sed to turn her fac
towards the fire, as if to hide her bruisd eye; nobody gave us any
wlcom, “Wel, my friends,” said Mrs Pardiggl; but her voice
had not a friendly sound, I thught; it was much to busine-lke
and systeatic. “Ho do you do, all of you? I am here again. I tod
you, you couldn’t tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and
am true to my word.”
“There an’t,” growled the man on the floor, whose head rested
on hi hand as he stared at us, “any mre on you to co in, is
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there?”
“No, my friend,” said Mrs Pardiggl, seatig hersf on o
tool, and knockig down another. “We are all here.”
“Beaus I thought there warn’t enough of you, perhaps?” said
the man, with hi pipe between his lps as he looked round upon
us.
The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the
young man whom we had attracted to the doorway, and who stood
there with their hands in their pokets, echoed the laugh noy.
“You can’t tire m, good peopl,” said Mrs Pardiggle to thes
atter. “I enjoy hard work; and the harder you make m, the
better I like it.”
“Then make it easy for her!” growled the man upon the floor. “I
wants it done, and over. I wants a end of th liberties tok wth
my place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Now
you’re a-going to poll-pry and queti according to custo—I
know what you’re a going to be up to. We! You haven’t got no
occason, to be up to it. I’l save you the troubl Is my daughter a
washing? Yes, she is a-wasg. Look at the water. Sm it! That’s
at w drinks Ho do you like it, and what do you think of gin,
instead! An’t my place dirty? Yes, it is dirty—it’s nat’raly dirty
and it’s nat’raly unwholese; and we’ve had five dirty, and
un childre, as i al dead infants, and so much th
better for them, and for us bede Have I read the little book wot
you left? No, I an’t read the little book wot you lft. There an’t
anybody here as kns ho to read it; and if there wos, it wuldn’t
be suitabl to me. It’s a bok fit for a babby, and I’m nt a babby. If
you was to leave me a doll, I shouldn’t nuss it. Ho have I bee
ducting of mysf? Why, I’ve be drunk for three days; and I’d
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a bee drunk four, if I’d a had th money. Don’t I never mean for
to go to church? No, I do’t never mean for to go to curch I
shouldn’t be expeted there, if I did; the beadl’s too ge-teel for
me. And ho did my wife get that black eye? Why, I giv’ it her; and
if she says I didn’t, she’s a Li!”
He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all th, and he
w turned over on hi other side, and smked agai Mrs
Pardiggle, who had be regardig him through her spetac
th a forcible compoure, calculated, I could not help thking, to
increase hi antagonism, puld out a god bok, as it wre a
constabl’s staff, and tok th wh family into custody. I mean
into religius custody, of course; but she really did it, as if she were
an inexorable moral Policeman carrying th all off to a stationhouse
Ada and I were very unmfortabl We both felt intrusive and
out of plac; and we both thought that Mrs Pardiggle would have
got on infinitely better, if she had not had such a mechanical way
of taking possession of people. Th chidre sulked and stared; th
famy took n nti of us whatever, except when the young man
made th dog bark: which he usualy did wh Mrs Pardiggl was
most ephatic. We both felt painfuly senble that betw us
and the peopl there was an iro barrier, wh could nt be
removed by our new friend. By whom, or how, it could be
reved, w did nt know; but we knew that. Even what she read
and said, sed to us to be ill cho for such auditors, if it had
been iparted ever so modetly and with ever so muc tact. A to
the little book to whic the man on the floor had referred, we
acquired a knledge of it afterwards; and Mr Jarndyce said h
doubted if Robin Crusoe could have read it, though he had had
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n other on his delate isand.
We were muc reeved, under the crcumtan, wen Mrs
Pardiggle lft off. The man on the floor then turnig hi head
round again, said moroly,—
“Well! You’ve don, have you?”
“For today, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shal
to you agai, in your regular order,” returned Mrs Pardiggle
th detrative cheerfuln
“So long as you go now,” said he, folding his arms and
shuttig his eyes with an oath, “you may do wot you like!”
Mrs Pardiggle acrdigly rose, and made a lttle vortex in the
confid ro fro wich th pipe itslf very narroy esaped.
Takig one of her young famy in eac hand, and tellg the
others to follw closely, and expresg her hope that the
brickmaker and all his house would be iproved w she saw
them next, she then proceeded to another cottage. I hope it is nt
unkind in me to say that she certainly did make, in this, as in
verythng el, a sho that was not coiatory, of doig charity
by wholesale, and of dealg in it to a large extet.
Sh suppod that we were fowing her; but as soon as the
space was left clear, we approached th woman sitting by th fire,
to ask if th baby were ill.
She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed
before, that wen she loked at it she covered her diured eye
th hr hand, as thugh she wished to separate any association
with n and vio and i-treatmet, from the poor little
child.
Ada, wh gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent
dow to touc its littl face. As she did so, I saw wat happened
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and dre her back. Th child died.
“O Esthr!” cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. “Lok
here! O Esther, my love, the little thing! The suffering, quiet,
pretty lttle thing! I am s sorry for it. I am so sorry for the mother.
I never saw a sight so pitiful as this before! O baby, baby!”
Such compassion, such gentleness, as that wth wich she bent
down weepig, and put her hand upon the mther’s, might have
sftened any mother’s heart that ever beat. The woan at first
gazed at her in astonit, and then burst into tears
Presently I took the lght burden from her lap; did what I could
to make the baby’s rest the prettier and gentlr; laid it o a shf,
and cvered it with my own handkerchif. We tried to cofort the
mothr, and we whspered to her what our Saviur said of
cdre. She anered nothg, but sat weepig—weepig very
much.
Wh I turned, I found that the young man had take out the
dog, and was standing at th door looking in upo us; with dry
eye, but quiet. The girl was quiet too, and sat i a crner lookig
o th ground. Th man had risen. He still sked his pipe wth
an air of defiance, but he was silent.
An ugly woman, very poorly clothd, hurrid in wile I was
glancing at th, and comng straight up to th mothr, said,
“Jenny! Jey!” Th mothr ro on beig so addred, and fe
upo th woman’s nek.
She al had upon her fac and arm the marks of il-usage. Sh
had n kid of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but
wen se cdoled with the woan, and her own tears fel, sh
anted no beauty. I say condold, but her only words were,
“Jenny! Jey!” All th rest was in th to in wich she said
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them
I thought it very touchig to se thes two wome, cars and
shabby and beate, so united; to see what thy could be to on
another; to see how they felt for one another; how the heart of
each to each was softed by th hard trial of thr lives. I think
th best side of such people is almost hidde fro us. What th
poor are to the poor is little known, excptig to themve and
God.
We felt it better to withdraw and lave them unterrupted. We
tole out quietly, and without notic from any one excpt the man
He was leang agait the wall near the door; and findig that
thre was scarcy ro for us to pass, went out before us He
d to want to hide that he did this o our acunt, but we
percved that he did, and thanked him. He made no answer.
da was s full of grief of al the way home, and Riard, whom
w found at ho, was so distred to see hr in tears (thugh h
said to me wh she was not pret, h beautiful it was to!)
that we arranged to return at night with so little coforts, and
repeat our visit at th brickmaker’s house. We said as littl as we
uld to Mr Jarndyc, but the wind changed directly.
Richard accompanied us at night to th scene of our morning
expediti. On our way thre, we had to pass a noisy drikinghouse, where a number of me were flockig about the door.
Among th, and prot in some dispute, was th fathr of
the little chd. At a short ditanc, we pasd the young man and
th dog, in congeal company. Th sister was standing laughng
and talkig with s other young wome, at the corner of the
row of cottages; but s sd ashamd, and turned away as we
went by.
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We left our escort within sight of th brickmaker’s dwelling,
and proceeded by ourseves. Wh we cam to the door, we found
th wman w had brought such consolation with her, standing
there, lookig anxiously out.
“It’s you, young ladi, is it?” she said in a whisper. “I’m a
watchig for my master. My heart’s in my mouth. If he was to
catch me away from home, he’d pretty near murder me”
“Do you mean your husband?” said I.
“Ye, miss, my master. Jey’s asleep, quite worn out. She’s
arcey had the chd off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and
nghts, except when I’ve be abl to take it for a minute or tw”
As she gave way for us, she went softly in, and put wat w had
brought, near the mirable bed on whic the mother slpt. No
effort had been made to clean the room—it seemed in its nature
almost hopes of being clan: but th small waxen form, fro
ich so much solemity diffused itself, had be composd
afresh, and washed, and neatly dred in some fragments of
wite linen; and on my handkercf, wich still covered th poor
baby, a littl bunch of swt hrbs had bee laid by th same
rough scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly!
“May heaven reward you!” we said to her. “You are a good
woman”
“Me, young ladi?” se returned with surpri. “Hush! Jey,
Jenny!”
Th mothr had moand in her slp, and moved. Th sound of
th familiar voice sed to calm her again. She was quiet once
more
How little I thought, when I raid my handkerchif to look
upon the tiy sleeper undernath, and semed to see a hal sh
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around the chd through Ada’s droopig hair as her pity bet her
head—how little I thought in whose unquiet bo that
handkercf would come to lie, after covering th motinless and
peacful breast! I only thought that perhaps the Ange of the chd
might not be all unnscious of th woman wh replaced it with so
compassionate a hand; not all unscious of her pretly, wh
we had take lave, and left her at the door by turns lookig, and
lteg i terror for hersef, and saying i her old soothing
manner, “Jenny, Jey!”
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Chapter 9
Signs And Tokes.
I
don’t ho it is, I see to be always writig about myself. I
man all the tim to write about other peopl, and I try to
think about myself as littl as possible, and I am sure, wh I
find myself coming ito th story again, I am really vexed and say,
“Dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn’t!” but
it i all of n use. I hope any one who may read what I write, wil
understand that if thes pages cotain a great deal about m, I can
nly suppo it must be beaus I have really somethg to do wth
them, and can’t be kept out.
My darlig and I read together, and worked, and practisd; and
found so much employment for our time, that th winter days fl
by us like bright-winged birds. Generaly in th afternns, and
always in th eveings, Richard gave us his company. Althugh he
as o of th most restless creatures in th world, he certainly
was very fond of our society.
He was very, very, very fod of Ada. I man it, and I had better
say it at once. I had never see any young people falg in love
before, but I found them out quite soon. I culd not say so, of
curse, or show that I knew anything about it. On the ctrary, I
was so demure, and usd to see so unnscious, that sometimes I
cdered within mysf whil I was sitting at work, whether I
was not groing quite deceitful.
But there was no help for it. A I had to do was to be quiet, and
I was as quiet as a muse They were as quiet as mi, too, so far
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as any words were conrned; but th innocent manr i wich
thy relied more and more upo me, as thy tok more and more
to on anothr, was so charming, that I had great difficulty in not
shoing ho it interested me.
“Our dear littl old woan is such a capital old wan,”
Richard would say, comng up to meet me in th garde early,
wth his pleasant laugh and perhaps th least tinge of a blus,
“that I can’t get on without her. Before I begin my harum-sarum
day—grinding away at th books and istruments, and th
galloping up hi and dow dale, al th country round, lke a
hghayman—it doe me so much god to come and have a steady
walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again.”
“You kn, Dame Durde, dear,” Ada wuld say at night, wth
her head upon my shoulder, and the firelight shg in her
thoughtful eye, “I do’t wont to talk when we co upstairs here.
Ony to st a lttle whil, thinkig, with your dear fac for
company; and to hear th wind, and remember th poor sailors at
sea—”
Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sair. We had talked it
over very often, now, and there was so talk of gratifying the
iati of his chdhood for the sea. Mr Jarndyc had written
to a relation of the famy, a great Sir Leiter Dedlock, for his
interest in Richard’s favour, gerally; and Sir Leicester had
replied in a gracious manner, “that he would be happy to advan
th prospects of th young gentleman if it should ever prove to be
thin his powr, which was not at all probable—and that my
Lady sent hr coplments to th young gentleman (to wh she
perfectly rebered that she was aled by rete
nsanguiity), and trusted that he would ever do hs duty in any
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hurabl profession to which he might devote hif.”
“So I appred it’s pretty clear,” said Richard to me, “that I
sal have to work my own way. Never mind! Plety of peopl
have had to do that before nw, and have do it. I only wis I had
th command of a clipping privater, to begin with, and could
carry off the Chanor and keep him on short alwance until he
gave judgmt i our caus He’d find himf growing thin, if he
didn’t look sharp!”
With a buoyancy and hpefulss and a gaiety that hardly ever
flagged, Richard had a carelessness in his character that quite
perplexed me—pricipally beaus he mistok it, in such a very
odd way, for prudece. It entered into all hi calculations about
money, in a singular manner, wh I don’t think I can better
explai than by reverting for a mot to our lan to Mr
Skimpole.
Mr Jarndyc had asrtaid the amount, either from Mr
Skimpole himsef or fro Coavis, and had placd th money i
my hands wth instructions to me to retain my own part of it and
hand the rest to Riard. The number of little acts of thoughtle
xpenditure wich Richard justified by th revery of his te
pounds, and the number of tim he talked to m as if he had
saved or realised that amunt, would form a sum i smple
additi
“My prudet Mother Hubbard, why nt?” he said to me, when
he wanted, without the last cderati, to betow five pounds
th brickmaker. “I made te pounds, clear, out of Coavinses’
business.”
“How was that?” said I.
“Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite ctet to get
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rid of, and never expected to see any more. You don’t deny that?”
“No,” said I.
“Very we, then I came into possession of te pounds—”
“Th same te pounds,” I hited.
“That has nthing to do with it!” returned Riard. “I have got
ten pounds more than I expected to have, and conquently I can
afford to spend it withut beg particular.”
In exactly the sam way, when he was persuaded out of the
sacrifi of th five pounds by being convinced that it wuld do
no god, he carrid that sum to his credit and dre upo it.
“Let me see!” he would say. “I saved five pounds out of th
brickmaker’s affair; so, if I have a god rattl to London and back
in a post-cai, and put that dow at four pounds, I shall have
aved one And it’s a very good thing to save one, let m tell you; a
peny saved, is a penny got!”
I belve Richard’s was as frank and gerous a nature as thre
possibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and, in th midst of all
is wd restlesss, was so gentle, that I knew him like a brothr
in a fe wks. His gentleness was natural to hi, and would have
shon itself abundantly, eve withut Ada’s influence; but, wth it,
he beam one of the mot winnig of copanns, always so
ready to be interested, and always so happy, sanguin, and lighthearted. I am sure that I, sitting with them, and walkig with
them, and talkig with them, and nticg from day to day how
they wet on, falg deeper and deeper in lve, and sayig
nthing about it, and eac shyly thinkig that this love was the
greatest of secrets, perhaps not yet suspected eve by th othr—I
am sure that I was scarcely les echanted than thy wre, and
scarcy les plased with th pretty dream.
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We were going on in this way, when one mornig at breakfast
Mr Jarndyce received a letter, and looking at th superscription
aid, “Fro Boythorn? Aye, aye!” and opeed and read it with
vident plasure, announcing to us, in a parenthsis, w h was
about halfway through, that Boythorn was “cg down” on a
visit. Now, wh was Boythrn? we all thught. And I dare say w
al thought, too—I am sure I did, for one—would Boythorn at al
terfere with what was going forward?
“I went to shool with this fellow, Lawrenc Boythorn,” said Mr
Jarndyc, tappig the ltter as he laid it on the table, “more than
five-and-forty years ago He was th th most impetuous boy in
th world, and he is now th most impetuous man He was th
the loudest boy in the world, and he is no the ludest man He
was then the heartiet and sturdit boy in the world, and he i
w the heartiet and sturdit man He i a tremdous fellow.”
“In stature, sir?” asked Richard.
“Pretty wel, Rik, in that respet,” said Mr Jarndyc; “beg
s ten years older than I, and a coupl of in tallr, with hi
ad thro back like an old soldier, his stalwart chet squared,
his hands like a clean blacksmith’s, and his lungs!—thre’s no
s for his lungs Talkig, laughing, or snoring, they make the
beams of th house shake”
As Mr Jarndyce sat enjoying th image of his friend Boythrn,
we obsrved the favourabl om that there was not the least
indicati of any change in th wind.
“But it’s the inde of the man, the warm heart of the man, the
pas of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rik—and Ada,
and lttle Cbwb too, for you are al iterested i a vistor!—that I
speak of,” he pursued. “Hi language is as sounding as hi voice.
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He is alays in extre; perpetually in th superlative degre In
is condenati he is all ferocity, You might suppose hm to be
an Ogre, from what he says; and I beeve he has the reputatio of
one with so pepl. There! I te you n mre of hi
beforeand. You must not be surprid to see hm take me under
hi protection; for he has never forgotten that I was a lw boy at
shool, and that our friedsp began i his knockig two of my
head tyrant’s teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn
and his man,” to me, “will be here this aftern, my dear.”
I tok care that th necessary preparations were made for Mr
Boythrn’s reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with
curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did nt
appear. Th dinner-hur arrived, and still h did not appear. Th
dinnr was put back an hour, and we were sitting round th fire
with n lght but the blaze, when the hall-door suddey burst
ope, and the hall resunded with thes words, uttered with the
greatest vehem and in a stetorian tone:
“We have be misdireted, Jarndyce, by a most abandoned
ruffian, who told us to take the turnig to the right intead of to
the lft. He i the mt itolerable scoundrel on the fac of the
earth His fathr must have be a most conummate viain, ever
to have had suc a son. I would have that fellw shot without the
last remrse!”
“Did he do it on purpo?” Mr Jarndyce inquired.
“I have not the slghtest doubt that the scundre has pasd hi
hole existenc i midirectig travellrs!” returned the other.
“By my soul, I thought him the worst-lookig dog I had ever
beheld, when he was telg m to take the turnig to the right.
Ad yet I stood before that fellow fac to fac, and didn’t knk hi
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brains out!”
“Teth you mean?” said Mr Jarndyce.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr Lawrenc Boythorn, realy makig
the whole house vibrate. “What, you have nt forgotten it yet! Ha,
ha, ha!—Ad that was another mot coummate vagabod! By
my soul, the countenan of that fellow, when he was a boy, was
th blackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up
as a scarero in a fid of scundrels. If I were to meet that most
unparald despot in th strets tomorro, I would fell hm like a
rotten tree!”
“I have n doubt of it,” said Mr Jarndyce. “No, wi you come
upstairs?”
“By my sul, Jarndyc,” returned his guest, who sed to
refer to his watch, “if you had be married, I would have turned
back at the garde gate, and gone away to the remtest sumts of
th Himalaya Mountains, soor than I wuld have preted
myself at this unasonable hour.”
“Not quite so far, I hope?” said Mr Jarndyce.
“By my life and hour, yes!” cried th visitor. “I wuldn’t be
guilty of th audacious insolence of keepig a lady of th house
aiting al this time, for any earthy consideration. I would
infinitely rathr destroy myself—infinitey rathr!”
Talkig thus, they went upstairs; and pretly we heard him in
bedroom thundering “Ha, ha, ha!” and again, “Ha, ha, ha!”
until the flattest echo in the nghbourhood seemed to catch the
contagion, and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did, or as we did wh
we heard him laugh.
We all conceived a prepossion in hi favour; for thre was a
sterling quality in his laugh, and in his vigorous halthy voice, and
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i the roundn and ful with wh he uttered every wrd he
spoke, and in th very fury of his superlative, which seed to go
off lke blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly
prepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance, w Mr
Jarndyce preted hm. He was not only a very handsome old
gentlan—upright and stalwart as he had be deribed to us—
wth a massive grey head, a fi compoure of face w slent, a
figure that might have be crpulet but for hi beg so
ntinualy in earnt that he gave it no rest, and a chin that might
have subsided into a double chin but for th vement ephasis
in which it was constantly required to assist; but h was such a
true gentleman i his manr, so chivalrously polite, his face was
lighted by a smile of so much swetness and tenderness, and it
seemed s plai that he had nothing to hide, but showed himelf
exactly as h was—incapabl (as Richard said) of anythng on a
lted scale, and firing away with those blank great guns, beause
carrid no small arms whatever—that really I could not hlp
lookig at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dir, whether he
smilgly conversed with Ada and me, or was led by Mr Jarndyce
into some great voy of superlative, or thre up hs had like a
bloodhound, and gave out that tremendous Ha, ha, ha!
“You have brought your bird with you, I suppo?” said Mr
Jarndyc
“By Heave, he is th most astonishig bird i Europe!” replied
the other. “He is the mot wonderful creature! I wouldn’t take ten
thusand guias for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole
support, in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and
attact, a phon. And his father before him was one of
the mot astonig birds that ever lived!”
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Th subjet of this laudation was a very littl canary, w was
tam that he was brought down by Mr Boythorn’s man, on his
forefinger, and, after taking a gentle flight round th ro,
alghted on his master’s head. To hear Mr Boythorn presently
expressing th most implacable and passionate sentimets with
this fragile mite of a creature quietly percd on his foread, was
to have a good ilustration of his character, I thought.
“By my soul, Jarndyce,” he said, very getly hoding up a bit of
bread to the canary to pek at, “if I were in your plac, I would
seize every Master in Chancery by th throat tomorro morning,
and shake h until his money rod out of his pockets, and hi
bo rattled i his ski I would have a sttlet out of
somebody, by fair means or by foul. If you would empowr me to
do it, I would do it for you with the greatest satisfactio!” (All this
tim the very smal canary was eating out of his hand.) “I thank
you, Lawrece, but th suit is hardly at such a poit at pret,”
returned Mr Jarndyc, laughing, “that it would be greatly
advaned, even by the lgal proces of shakig the Benh and th
whole Bar.”
“Thre never was such an infernal cauldro as that Chancery,
on the fac of the earth!” said Mr Boythorn. “Nothing but a mi
below it o a busy day in term time, with al its rerds, rules, and
precedents cected i it, and every functiary begig to it
al, high and low, upward and downward, from its so the
Auntant-Geral to its father the Devil, and the whole blown to
atom with ten thousand hundred-weight of gunpowder, would
reform it in the least!”
It was impossible not to laugh at th enrgetic gravity with
ich h remmended this strong measure of reform. Whe we
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laughed, he threw up his head, and shook his broad cht, and
agai the whole country seemed to echo to his ha, ha, ha! It had
not th least effect i disturbing th bird, wh sense of security
was coplete; and w hpped about th tabl with its quick head
now o this side and now on that, turng its bright sudden eye on
its master, as if he were no more than anthr bird.
“But how do you and your neghbour get on about the diputed
right of way?” said Mr Jarndyc “You are nt free from the toil
f th law yourself?”
“The fellw has brought actions agait
me for trepass, and I
have brought actions agait
him for trespas,” returned Mr
Boythrn. “By Heave, he is th proudest fellow breathing. It is
moraly impossibl that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be
Sir Lucifer.”
“Cpltary to our ditant relatio!” said my Guardian
laughngly, to Ada and Richard.
“I would beg Miss Care’s pardo and Mr Carsto’s pardo,”
resumed our visitor, “if I were not reassured by seeng in th fair
fac of the lady, and the sm of the gentlan, that it is quite
unnecessary, and that thy keep thr distant reati at a
comfortabl distance.”
“Or he keeps us,” suggested Richard.
“By my soul!” excaimed Mr Boythrn, suddeny firing anothr
volley, “that fellow is and his fathr was, and hs grandfathr was,
th most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbele, pig-haded, numbskull,
ever, by some inxplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station
of lfe but a walkig-stik’s! The whole of that famy are the mot
solemnly conceited and consumate blkheads!—But it’s no
matter; he should nt shut up my path if he were fifty baronets
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melted into on, and living in a hundred Cy Wolds, o
thin anthr, like th ivory bals in a Ch carving. Th
fellow, by hs aget, or secretary, or somebody, write to me ‘Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Barot, prets hi compliments to Mr
Lawren Boythorn, and has to call his attentin to the fact that
the green pathay by the old parsonage-house, no the property
of Mr Lawrece Boythrn, is Sir Leicester’s right of way. Being in
fact a portion of th park of Chy Wold; and that Sir Leter
finds it conveient to clos up th same.’ I write to th fellow, ‘Mr
Lawrece Boythrn prets his compliments to Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Barot, and has to call his attenti to the fact that he
totally denies th wh of Sir Leicester Dedlk’s position on
very possible subjet, and has to add, in refere to closing up
the pathway, that he wil be glad to se the man who may
undertake to do it.’ Th fe sends a most abandoned viai
with one eye, to cotruct a gateway. I play upon that exerable
undre with a fire-engi, until the breath is nearly drive out
of his body. The fellow erets a gate in the nght. I chop it down
and burn it i th morng. He sends hi myrmidons to come over
th fence, and pass and repass. I catc th in humane mantraps,
fire splt peas at their lgs, play upon them with the engin—
reve to free mankid from the inupportable burden of th
xistece of th lurkig ruffians. He brings actis for trepass;
I brig actio for trespas He brigs actions for asault and
battery; I defend them, and cotiue to assault and batter. Ha, ha,
ha!”
To hear hi say al this with unimagiabl enrgy, one might
have thought hi the angriet of mankid. To se him, at the very
sam tim, lookig at the bird now perched upon his thumb, and
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sftly smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have
thought hi the gentlt. To hear him laugh, and se the broad
good nature of his fac then, one might have suppod that he had
not a care in th world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his w
xistece was a sumr joke.
“No, no,” he said, “no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock!
Thugh I willingly confes,” here he softed in a moment, “that
Lady Dedlock is th most accomplshed lady in th wrld, to
I would do any hoage that a plain gentleman, and no
barot, with a head seven hundred years thick, may. A man w
joind his regimt at twenty, and within a week, challged the
most imperius and preumptuous coxcb of a coanding
officr that ever dre the breath of life through a tight wait—and
got broke for it—i not the man to be walked over, by al the Sir
Lucifers dead or alive, loked or unked. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Nor th man to allow his junior to be walked over, ethr?”
said my Guardian.
“Most asuredly nt!” said Mr Boythorn, clappig him on the
shoulder with an air of protectio, that had sthing srious i
t, though he laughed. “He will stand by the low boy, always.
Jarndyce, you may rely upo him! But, speaking of this trepass—
wth apolgies to Mi Clare and Miss Sumrson for th length
at wich I have pursued so dry a subjet—is thre nothing for me
from your me, Kege and Carboy?”
“I think not, Esthr?” said Mr Jarndyce.
“Nothing, Guardian”
“Much oblged!” said Mr Boythorn. “Had no need to ask, after
eve my slight experice of Miss Sumrson’s forethught for
every one about her.” (They al enuraged m; they were
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determd to do it.) “I inquired beaus, coming fro
Linolnsre, I of course have not yet be i town, and I thought
s ltters mght have be set down here. I dare say they wil
report progres tomorrow mornig.”
I saw hm so often, in th course of th eveg, which pasd
very pleasantly, conteplate Richard and Ada with an iterest
and a satisfacti that made hi fi face remarkably agreable as
h sat at a littl distance fro th piano listeg to th music—
and h had small oas to te us that he was passionately fond
of music, for his face shod it—that I asked my Guardian, as w
at at the backgamon board, whether Mr Boythorn had ever
been marrid.
“No,” said he. “No”
“But he meant to be!” said I.
“How did you find out that?” he returned with a sm
“Why, Guardian,” I explained, not withut reddening a littl at
hazarding what was in my thughts, “thre is something so tender
i hi manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentl to us,
and—”
Mr Jarndyce directed his eye to whre he was sitting, as I have
just described him.
I said n more
“You are right, little woan,” he anered. “He was al but
married, once. Log ago And once.”
“Did the lady die?”
“No—but s did to hi That tim has had its influen on all
is later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart
full of romance yet?”
“I think, Guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to
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say that, when you have tod me so.”
“He has never since be what he might have be,” said Mr
Jarndyc, “and n you see him in his age with no one near him
but his servant, and hs lttl yellow friend.—It’s your thro, my
dear!”
I felt, fro my Guardian’s manr, that beyond this point I
culd nt pursue the subjet without changing the wind. I
therefore forebore to ask any further questions I was interested
but not curious. I thought a little whil about this old love story i
th night, w I was awakened by Mr Boythrn’s lusty snorig;
and I tried to do that very difficult thing—iagin old people
young again, and ivested with the grac of youth. But I fel
asleep before I had succeeded, and dreamed of th days wh I
lived i my godmothr’s house. I am not sufficiently acquainted
wth such subjets to know whthr it is at al remarkable, that I
almost always dreamed of that perid of my life
With the mornig, there cam a ltter from Mesrs. Kege and
Carboy to Mr Boythorn, informig him that one of their clrks
would wait upon hi at no As it was the day of the week on
wich I paid th bis, and added up my books, and made all th
used affairs as compact as possible, I remaind at h
ile Mr Jarndyce, Ada, and Richard, tok advantage of a very
fin day to make a lttle excursin. Mr Boythorn was to wait for
Kenge and Carboy’s cerk, and then was to go on foot to meet
them on their return.
Wel! I was full of busine, examing tradesmen’s boks,
adding up columns, paying money, fing receipts, and I dareay
making a great bustle about it, wh Mr Guppy was announced
and shon in. I had had some idea that th crk w was to be
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st down, might be the young gentlan who had mt m at the
coach-office; and I was glad to see him, becaus he was associated
wth my present happi
I scarcy kn him again, he was so unly smart. He
had an entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shg hat, llackid gloves, a nkerchf of a variety of cours, a large hot-house
flower i his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his lttle finger.
Besides which, he quite scented th dining-ro with bear’s
greas and other perfumery. He looked at m with an attenti
that quite cofused m, when I begged him to take a sat until the
srvant should return; and as he sat there, crossg and
uncrossing his legs in a cornr, and I asked him if he had had a
plasant ride, and hoped that Mr Kenge was well, I nver looked
at him, but I found him lookig at m, in the sam sruting and
curius way.
Wh the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs
to Mr Boythrn’s ro, I mentioned that he would find lun
prepared for him when he cam down, of whic Mr Jarndyc
ped h wuld partake. He said with some embarrassment,
holdig the handl of the door, “Shall I have the honour of findig
you here, mi?” I repld yes, I should be there; and he went out
with a bow and another look.
I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently
much embarrassed; and I fancied that th best thing I could do,
would be to wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted, and
then to leave him to himf. The lunh was soon brought, but it
remaid for s tim on the table The interview with Mr
Boythorn was a lg one—and a stormy one too, I should think;
for althugh his ro was at some distance, I hard hs loud voice
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rising every now and th like a high wind, and evidetly blg
perfet broadsides of denunciati
At last Mr Guppy came back, lookig something th wors for
th conferece. “My eye, miss,” he said in a low voice, “he’s a
Tartar!”
“Pray take some refreshmt, sir,” said I.
Mr Guppy sat dow at th tabl, and began nervously
sharpenng th carving-knife on th carving-fork; still lookig at
me (as I felt quite sure withut looking at him), in th same
unusual manr. Th sharpening lasted so long, that at last I felt a
kind of obligatio on m to rai my eye, i order that I might
break the spe under whic he sed to labour, of nt beg able
to leave off.
He immediatey looked at th dish, and began to carve
“What w you take yourself, miss? You’l take a mors of
something?”
“No, thank you,” said I.
“Shan’t I give you a piece of anythng at all, miss?” said Mr
Guppy, hurridly driking off a glass of wi
“Nothg, thank you,” said I. “I have ony waited to see that you
have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?”
“No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I’m sure. I’ve every thing I
can require to make me cfortable—at least I—not
cfortabl—I’m never that:” he drank off two mre glas of
win, one after another.
I thought I had better go.
“I beg your pardo, miss!” said Mr Guppy, rising, w h saw
ris “But would you alw me the favour of a mute’s private
nversati?”
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Not knowg what to say, I sat dow again.
“What fos is withut prejudice, miss?” said Mr Guppy,
anxiusy briging a chair toards my tabl
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said I, wodering.
“It’s one of our law terms, m You won’t make any use of it to
my detrit, at Kenge and Carboy’s, or elsere. If our
conversati shouldn’t lead to anythng, I am to be as I was, and
am not to be prejudid in my situati or worldly propects. In
short, it’s in total confidence.”
“I am at a loss, sir,” said I, “to imagine wat you can have to
mmunicate in total confidence to me, wh you have never
s but onc; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury.”
“Thank you, miss. I’m sure of it—that’s quite sufficient.” All th
time Mr Guppy was eithr planing his foread with hi
handkerchif, or tightly rubbig the palm of his left hand with the
palm of his right. “If you wuld excuse my taking anthr glass of
w, miss, I thk it might assist me in getting on, withut a
continual choke that cant fai to be mutually unplasant.”
He did so, and came back again. I tok th opportunity of
moving we behnd my table.
“You wouldn’t alw m to offer you one, would you, m?”
said Mr Guppy, apparently refred.
“Not any,” said I.
“Not half a glass?” said Mr Guppy; “quarter? No! Th to
proced. My pret salary, Mis Sumrso, at Kenge and
Carboy’s, is two pound a-week. Wh I first had the happi of
lookig upon you, it was one-fifteen, and had stood at that figure
for a lengthd perid. A rise of five has since taken place, and a
furthr rise of five is guaranted at th expiration of a term not
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exceedig twelve moths from the prest date. My mother has a
littl property, wich takes th form of a small life annuity; upo
ich she lives in an independent thugh unassuming manr, in
the Old Street Road. She is emitly calulated for a mother-ilaw. She never interfere, is all for peace, and her disposition easy.
She has her faigs—as who has nt?—but I never knew her do it
w company was pret; at which time you may frey trust
hr wth ws, spirits, or malt liquors. My own abode is lodgings
at Pento Place, Pentonvie. It is loy, but airy, ope at the back,
and cosidered o of th ’ealthiest outlts. Miss Sumrson! In
the midet language, I adore you. Would you be s kid as to
allow me (as I may say) to file a declaration—to make an offer!”
Mr Guppy wnt dow o his knees. I was we bed my tabl,
and not much frighted. I said, “Get up fro that ridiculous
position immediatey, sir, or you will oblige me to break my
implied pro and ring th bell!”
“Hear me out, miss!” said Mr Guppy, folding his hands.
“I cant cot to hear another word, sr,” I returned,
“un you get up from the carpet directly, and go and st down at
the tabl, as you ought to do if you have any se at al”
He looked piteusly, but slowly ro and did so.
“Yet what a mockery it is, miss,” he said, with his hand upo hi
heart, and shakig his head at m in a manholy manner over
th tray, “to be stationed bend fod at such a moment. Th soul
reils fro fod at such a moment, miss.”
“I beg you to coude,” said I; “you have asked me to hear you
out, and I beg you to coude”
“I wi, miss,” said Mr Guppy. “As I love and hur, so likew
I obey. Would that I could make Thee the subjet of that vow,
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before the shrin!”
“That is quite impossible,” said I, “and entirely out of th
question.”
“I am aware,” said Mr Guppy, leaning forward over th tray,
and regardig m, as I agai strangey felt, though my eye were
nt directed to him, with his late intent lok, “I am aware that i a
wrldly poit of vi, according to all appearances, my offer is a
poor on But, Miss Sumrson! Ange!—No, don’t ring—I have
been brought up in a sharp school, and am acustoed to a
variety of genral practic Though a young man, I have ferreted
out evide, got up cas, and s lts of life. Blet with your
hand, what means mght I not find of advancg your iterests,
and pusg your fortune! What might I not get to know, narly
concernng you? I kn nothing now, certainly; but wat
might I
not, if I had your confidece, and you set me on?”
I told hi that he addressed my interest, or what h supposed
to be my interest, quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my
inclation; and he would now understand that I requeted him, if
h pleased, to go away immediatey.
“Cruel mi,” said Mr Guppy, “har but another word! I think
you must have see that I was struck with th charms, o th
day when I waited at the Whytorser. I thk you must have
remarked that I could not forbear a tribute to those carm when I
put up th steps of th ’ackny coach. It was a feble tribute to
Thee, but it was we meant. Thy image has ever s been fixed
in my breast. I have walked up and dow, of an eveg, opposte
Jellyby’s house, only to look upo th bricks that on contained
Thee This out of today, quite an unneary out so far as the
attendance, which was its preteded object, went, was planned by
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m alone for Thee alone. If I speak of iteret, it is only to
remmend myself and my respectful wretchedness. Love was
before it, and is before it.”
“I should be paid, Mr Guppy,” said I, rising and putting my
hand upon the bell-rope, “to do you or any one who was sere,
th injustice of slighting any hot feg, hover disagreably
expresd. If you have realy meant to give me a proof of your good
opi, though i-timd and miplacd, I fee that I ought to
thank you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not
proud, I hope,” I think I added, without very well knowing what I
said, “that you wll now go away as if you had never bee so
excdigly fooli, and attend to Mesrs. Kege and Carboy’s
business.”
“Half a mnute, miss!” cried Mr Guppy, cheking me as I was
about to ring. “This has be withut prejudice?”
“I wi never mention it,” said I, “unles you should give me
future occasion to do so.”
“A quarter of a miute, m! In cas you should think better—
at any time, hover distant,
that’s no consequence, for my
feegs can nver alter—of anything I have said, particularly what
mght I not do—Mr Wiam Guppy, eighty-seve, Peton Place,
or, if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that srt),
care of Mrs Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will
be sufficent.”
I rang the be, the servant cam, and Mr Guppy, laying hi
ritte card upo the table, and makig a dejected bo, departed.
Raig my eyes as he went out, I onc more saw hi lookig at
m after he had pasd the door.
I sat there for another hour or mre, fing my books and
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paymets, and getting through plty of bus Then, I
arranged my desk, and put everythng away, and was so composd
and cherful that I thught I had quite dismisd this unxpected
incident. But, wh I went upstairs to my own ro, I surprid
mysf by beging to laugh about it, and then surprisd mysf
stil more by beginnig to cry about it. In short, I was i a flutter
for a littl wh; and felt as if an od chord had be more coarsely
toucd than it ever had bee since th days of th dear old dol,
long burid in th garde
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Chapter 10
The Law-Writer
O
n the eastern borders of Chanry Lan, that i to say
mre particularly i Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, Mr
Snagsby, Law Stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In th
shade of Cok’s Court, at most times a shady place, Mr Snagsby
has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal pross; in skins and
roll of parchmet; in paper—foolsap, brif, draft, brown, white,
witey-bro, and bltting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens, ink,
India-rubber, pounce, pins, pens, saling-wax, and wafers; in
red tape, and gre ferret; in pocket-boks, almanacks, diaries,
and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands—glass and leaden,
penknives, scissors, bodkis, and othr smal office cutlry; in
hort, in artic too numrous to meti; ever se he was out
of his time, and went into partnersip wth Peffer. On that
occason, Cook’s Court was in a maner revoutionied by the n
inscription in fre paint, PEFFER and SNAGSBY, displacing th
ti- honoured and nt easy to be dephered leged, PEFFER
only. For smoke, which is th Lodo ivy, had so wreathd itslf
round Peffer’s name, and clung to his dwelling-place, that th
affectionate parasite quite overpowred th parent tre
Peffer is never see in Cok’s Court now He is nt expected
there, for he has be recumbet this quarter of a ctury i the
churchyard of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, with the wago and
hackny-coac roarig past hi, all the day and half the night,
lke one great dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon i at
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rest, to air himself again in Cok’s Court, until admonished to
return by th croning of th sangui cock in th celar at th
littl dairy in Cursitor Stret, wh ideas of daylight it wuld be
urious to asrtai, se he knows from his persoal observati
xt to nthing about it—if Peffer ever do revist the pal glimps
f Cok’s Court, which no law-stationer in th trade can postively
deny, he comes invisibly, and no on is th wors or wir.
In his lifetime, and likewise in th perid of Snagsby’s “ti” of
sve log years, there dwelt with Peffer, i the sam lawstationering pre, a niec—a short, shred ni, something
too violetly copresd about the wait, and with a sharp no
ke a sharp autumn eveg, ig to be frosty towards the
ed. The Cook’s-Courtiers had a rumour flying amog them, that
the mother of this nece did, in her daughter’s cdhood, moved
by to jealous a solicitude that her figure should approach
perfection, lac her up every mornig with her maternal foot,
against th bed-post for a stronger hod and purcase; and furthr,
that she exhbited internally pints of vigar and lemon-juice:
whic acds, they held, had munted to the no and temper of the
patiet. With whicver of the many tongues of Rumur this
frothy report origiated, it either nver reached, or nver
ifluend, the ears of young Snagsby; who, having wooed and
wn its fair subjet on his arrival at man’s estate, entered into tw
partnrsps at o. So n, in Cook’s Court, Curstor Street, Mr
Snagsby and the nece are one; and the nece sti cheri her
figure—whi, however tastes may differ, is unquestiably s far
preus, that there is mghty little of it.
Mr and Mrs Snagsby are not only one bo and one flesh, but,
to th neighbours’ thinking, on voice to That voice, appearing
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to proceed from Mrs Snagsby alone, i heard in Cook’s Court very
often. Mr Snagsby, othrwise than as he fids expression through
th dulcet tos, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man,
wth a shining head, and a scrubby clump of black hair stiking
out at the back. He tends to mekn and obety. As he stands at
hi door in Cook’s Court, in his grey shop-coat and black cal
eeves, lookig up at the couds; or stands bend a dek i hi
dark shop, with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and sicing at
shepskin, in company wth his tw ’prentices; he is emphatially
a retiring and unassuming man. Fro beneath hs fet, at such
tim, as from a shril ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently
arise complaings and lamentation in th voice already
mentioned; and haply, o some occasion, wh th reac a
sharper pitch than usual, Mr Snagsby mention to th ’prentices,
“I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!”
This proper name, so usd by Mr Snagsby, has before now
arped the wit of the Cook’s-Courtiers to remark that it ought
to be the nam of Mrs Snagsby; seg that sh might with great
force and expreson be termed a Guster, in cplt to her
stormy character. It is, however, the po, and the oy
possession, except fifty shillings per annum and a very smal box
indifferently filled with clothng, of a lean young woman fro a
wrkhuse (by some suppod to have be christed Augusta);
who, although she was farmed or cotracted for, during her
groing time, by an amiabl befactor of his species resident at
Toting, and cant fai to have bee developed under th most
favourable circumtan, “has fits”—which th parish can’t
account for.
Guster, realy aged three or four and twenty, but lookig a
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round ten years oder, go cheap with this unaccountabl
drawback of fits; and is s appreve of beg returned on the
hands of her patro Saint, that except wh she is found wth hr
head in the pai, or the sink, or the copper, or the dir, or
anything el that happens to be nar her at the tim of her
seizure, she is alays at work. She is a satisfacti to th parents
and guardian of the ’preti, who feel that there is lttle danger
of her inspiring teder emtion in th breast of youth; she is a
satisfacti to Mrs Snagsby, wh can always find fault with her;
she is a satisfacti to Mr Snagsby, wh thinks it a charity to keep
hr. Th Law-stationer’s establt is, in Guster’s eye, a
Templ of plty and splndour. Sh believe the lttle drawgro upstairs, always kept, as o may say, with its hair in papers
and its pinafore on, to be the mot elgant apartmet in
Chritendo The view it coands of Cook’s Court at one ed
(nt to mention a squint into Cursitor-stret) and of Cavins’s th
sheriff’s officer’s back-yard at th othr, she regards as a propect
of unquald beauty. Th portraits it displays in ol—and plty
of it too—of Mr Snagsby lookig at Mrs Snagsby, are i her eyes as
achivets of Raphael or Titian. Guster has some repe
for her many privations.
Mr Snagsby refers everythng not in th practical mysteries of
th business to Mrs Snagsby. She manages th money, reproache
the Tax-gatherers, appots the tim and plac of devotion on
Sundays,
licenses
Mr
Snagsby’s
entertainments,
and
acknowledge no responsbilty as to what sh thinks fit to provide
for dinnr; insomuch that she is th high standard of compari
among th neighbouring wives, a long way dow Chancery Lane
on both side, and even out in Holborn, who, i any doti
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pasages of arm, habitualy cal upon their husbands to look at
the differen betwee their (the wives’) poti and Mrs
Snagsby’s, and their (the husbands’) beaviour and Mrs
Snagsby’s. Rumour, always flying, bat-lke, about Ck’s Curt,
and skimming in and out at everybody’s windows, doe say that
Mrs Snagsby is jealus and inquisitive; and that Mr Snagsby is
tim worried out of house and home, and that if he had the
spirit of a mous h wouldn’t stand it. It is eve observed, that th
wives who quote him to their sef-wild husbands as a shg
exampl, in reality look dow upo look dow upo him; and that
nobody doe so with greater supercious than o particular
lady wh lord is more than suspected of laying his umbrela o
r as an instrument of correction. But th vague wisperings
may ari fro Mr Snagsby’s being, in his way, rathr a meditative
and poetical man; loving to walk in Staple Inn in th sumr time,
and to obsrve how countrifid the sparro and the laves are;
al to lunge about the Ro Yard of a Sunday afternoon, and to
remark (if i god spirits) that thre were old times once, and that
you’d find a stone coffin or two, now, under that chapel, he’l be
bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his iagiation, to, by
thinking of th many Chancelrs and Vices, and Masters of th
Rolls, wh are deceased; and he gets such a flavour of th country
out of tellg the two ’prenti how he has heard say that a brook
“as car as crystal” once ran right dow th middle of Holborn,
w Turnstile really was a turnstile leading slap away into th
adows—gets suc a flavour of the cuntry out of this, that he
nver wants to go there
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door lookig up at the clouds, sees a crow, who is out late, ski
tward over the laden s of sky begig to Cook’s Court.
Th cro flies straight acro Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn
Garde, into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Here, i a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr
Tulkinghrn. It is let off in sets of chambers now; and in th
shrunken fragments of its greatnss, lawyers li like maggots in
nuts. But its roy staircases, passage, and antechambers, sti
remain; and eve its painted ceilings, wre Allegory, in Roman
lmet, and celestial lin, spraws amg balustrades and pillars,
flrs, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes th had ache—as
uld se to be Allegory’s object alays, more or less. Here,
among hs many boxes labeld wth transcendant names, lives Mr
Tulkighorn, when not speechley at home in country-house
ere the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is
today, quiet at his table. An Oyster of the old school, whom nobody
can ope
Like as he is to look at, so is his apartmt in th dusk of th
pret afternoon Rusty, out of date, withdrawg from attenti,
able to afford it. Heavy broad-backed od-fashiond mahogany and
hrse-hair chairs, not easly lfted, obsolete tables with spindlelegs and dusty baize covers, pretati prints of th hoders of
great title in the last genration, or the last but one, environ hi
A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffl th flr whre he sits,
attended by tw candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks, that
give a very inuffict light to his large room. The title on the
backs of his boks have retired into the bidig; everything that
can have a lk has got one; n key i visble. Very few loose
papers are about. He has some manuscript near hm, but is not
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referring to it. With the round top of an inkstand, and two broke
bits of sealing-wax, he is silently and slly working out watever
train of idecision i in his mind. Now, th inkstand top is in th
ddl: nw, the red bit of sealig-wax, now, the black bit. That’s
t it. Mr Tulkighorn must gather them all up, and begin agai
Here, beath the paited ceg, with foreshortend Algory
staring dow at hi intrusion as if it meant to swop upo him, and
h cutting it dead, Mr Tulkinghrn has at once his huse and
office. He keeps no staff; only on middle-aged man, usualy a littl
out at elbows, who sits i a high Pew in the hall, and is rarely
overburded with business. Mr Tulkighrn is not in a common
ay. He wants no clrks. He is a great rervor of confideces, not
to be so tapped. His clients want him; he i all in all Drafts that he
require to be drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in th Temple
o mysterious instruction; fair copies that he require to be made,
are made at th stationers, expense being no conideration. Th
middle-aged man in th Pe, kns scarcely more of th affairs of
the Peerage, than any crossg-seeper in Holborn
The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other ikstand
top, the little sand-box. So! You to the mddl, you to the right, you
to th left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now
r never.—Now! Mr Tulkinghrn gets up, adjusts his spectacles,
puts o hi hat, puts th manuscript in his pocket, go out, te
th middle-aged man out at elbow, “I shall be back pretly.”
Very rarely tel him anything more explt.
Mr Tulkinghrn go, as th cro came—nt quite so straight,
but narly—to Cook’s Court, Curstor street. To Snagsby’s Law
Stationer’s, Deds egrossed and copied, Law-Writing exeuted in
all its branche, etc., etc., etc.
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It i swhere about five or six o’cock in the afternoon, and a
baly fragrane of warm tea hovers in Cook’s Court. It hovers
about Snagsby’s door. The hours are early there; dier at halfpast on, and supper at half-past ni. Mr Snagsby was about to
ded ito the subterranean regions to take tea, when he looked
out of his door just now, and saw the crow who was out late.
“Master at ho?”
Guster is mdig th shop, for th ’prentices take tea in th
kitchen, with Mr and Mrs Snagsby; consequently, the robeaker’s
two daughters, cobig their curls at the two glas i the two
sed-floor windows of th opposte house, are not driving th
tw ’prentices to distraction, as thy fondly suppo, but are
rely awakening the unprofitabl admration of Guster, whose
hair won’t grow, and nver would, and, it is cofidetly thought,
never wi
“Master at hoe?” says Mr Tulkighrn
Master is at ho, and Guster wi fetc him. Guster
diappears, glad to get out of the shop, whic sh regards with
mingled dread and verati, as a store house of awful
plts of the great torture of th law: a plac not to be
tered after the gas is turned off.
Mr Snagsby appears: greasy, warm, herbaceus, and cheing.
Bolts a bit of bread and butter. Says, “Bless my sul, sir! Mr
Tulkinghrn!”
“I want half a word with you, Snagsby.”
“Crtaiy, sir! Dear m, sir, why didn’t you sed your young
man round for me? Pray walk into th back shop, sir.” Snagsby
has brighted in a moment.
The cofid room, strong of parchmet greas, is warehouse,
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counting-huse, and copying-office. Mr Tulkighrn sits, facing
round, on a stool at the dek.
“Jarndyc and Jarndyce, Snagsby.”
“Ye, sir.” Mr Snagsby turn up th gas, and cough bed hi
and, modestly anticipating profit. Mr Snagsby, as a tid man, i
accustod to cough with a varity of expression, and so to save
words
“You copied some affidavits in that caus for me lately.”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“Thre was on of th,” says Mr Tulkinghrn, carelessly
feelig—tight, unopenabl Oyster of the old shool!—i the wrong
coat pocket, “th handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rathr
lke As I happed to be pasg, and thought I had it about m, I
looked i to ask you—but I haven’t got it. No matter, any other
tim will do—Ah! here it is!—I looked in to ask you who copid
this?”
“Who copied this, sir?” says Mr Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat
on the dek, and sparating al the sts at on with a twirl and
a twist of th left hand peculiar to law-stationers. “We gave this
out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at
that time. I can tell you in a moment w copied it, sir, by
referring to my Book.”
Mr Snagsby take his Book down from the safe, make another
bot of the bit of bread and butter wh seemed to have stopped
short, eye the affidavit aside, and brigs hi right forefinger
travellg dow a page of the Bok. “Jewby—Packer—Jarndyce.”
“Jarndyce! Here we are, sir,” says Mr Snagsby. “To be sure! I
mght have rembered it. This was given out, sir, to a Writer who
ldges just over on the oppote side of the lan.”
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Mr Tulkighorn has se the entry, found it before the Lawstationer, read it while th forefinger was comng dow th hi
“What do you cal him? Nemo?” says Mr Tulkinghrn.
“Nem, sir. Here it is. Forty-tw folio. Give out on th
Wednday night, at eight o’cock; brought i on the Thursday
morng at half after ni”
“Nem!” repeats Mr Tulkinghrn. “Ne is Latin for no on”
“It must be English for some on, sir, I thk,” Mr Snagsby
submits, wth his deferential cough “It is a pers’s name. Here it
i, you see, sir! Forty-tw folio. Given out Wednday night, eight
o’cock; brought in, Thursday mornig, half after n”
Th tail of Mr Snagsby’s eye bemes cocious of th head of
Mrs Snagsby lookig in at the shop-door to know what he man
by deserting his tea. Mr Snagsby addres an explanatory cough
to Mrs Snagsby, as wh should say, “My dear, a custoer!”
“Half after n, sr,” repeats Mr Snagsby. “Our law-writers,
who lve by job-work, are a queer lt; and this may not be his
name, but it’s th name he go by. I remember n, sir, that h
gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up do at th Rule
Office, and the King’s Be Office, and the Judges’ Chambers,
and so forth You know th kind of document, sir—wantig
eploy?”
Mr Tulkighorn glan through the little window at the back
of Coavins’s, th sheriff’s officer’s, whre lights shine in Cavins’s
wndows. Cavins’s coffe-ro is at th back, and th shadows of
several gentlmen under a cloud loo cludily upo th blinds.
Mr Snagsby takes th opportunity of slightly turning his head, to
glance over his shoulder at his littl woan, and to make
apologetic mtions with his mouth to this effect:
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“Tul-king-hrn—rich—in-flu-e-tial!”
“Have you given this man work before?” asks Mr Tulkinghrn.
“O dear, yes, sir! Work of yours.”
“Thikig of more important matters, I forget where you said
he lived?”
“Acros the lan, sir. In fact, he ldges at a—” Mr Snagsby
makes anthr bolt, as if th bit of bread and butter wre
insurmuntable—“at a Rag and Bottl shop.”
“Can you sho me the place as I go back?”
“With th greatest pleasure, sir!”
Mr Snagsby puls off hs slve and his grey coat, pulls on hi
black coat, takes his hat fro its peg. “Oh! here is my littl
man!” he says alud. “My dear, wi you be so kid as to te o
of the lads to look after the shop, whil I step across the lan with
Mr Tulkighorn? Mrs Snagsby, sir—I shan’t be two mutes, my
love!”
Mrs Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires bed the counter,
peps at them through the window-blnd, goes softly into the back
office, refers to th entries in th bok still lyig ope. Is evidetly
curius.
“You wil find that the plac is rough, sir,” says Mr Snagsby,
walking deferentially in th road, and leavig th narro
pavemt to the lawyer; “and the party is very rough. But they’re
a wid lot in geral, sir. Th advantage of this particular man is,
that he nver wants sp. He’l go at it right on end, if you want
hm to, as long as ever you like.”
It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full
effect. Jostlg agait clrks going to pot the day’s ltters, and
agait cunse and attorneys going home to dinner, and agait
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plaintiffs and defedants, and suitors of all sorts, and against th
geral crod, in wh way th forensic wsdom of age has
interpod a million of obstacles to th transaction of th
mmonest business of life—diving through law and equity, and
through that kindred mystery, th stret mud, which is made of
nobody knows what, and colts about us nobody kns wce
or how: we only knowing i genral that when there is too muc of
it, we find it necessary to shove it away—th lawyer and th lawstatir c to a Rag and Bottle shop, and general emporium of
much disregarded mercandise, lying and being in th shadow of
th wall of Lin’s Inn, and kept, as is announced in pait, to all
whom it may coern, by one Krook.
“This is whre he lives, sir,” says th law-stationer.
“This is whre he lives, is it?” says th lawyer unncernedly.
“Thank you.”
“Are you not going in, sir?”
“No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fids at pret. Good
eveg. Thank you!” Mr Snagsby lifts hi hat, and returns to his
ttle woman and his tea.
But, Mr Tulkighorn do not go on to the Fids at pret. He
goes a short way, turns back, co agai to the shop of Mr
Krok, and enters it straight. It is dim eugh, wth a blt-haded
candle or so in th windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in
th back part by a fire. Th old man rises and coms forward, with
another blot-headed candl i hi hand.
“Pray is your lodger within?”
“Male or femal, sir?” says Mr Krok.
“Male. Th pers wh doe copying.”
Mr Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows hi by sght. Has
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an indistict impre of his aritocratic repute
“Did you wish to see him, sir?”
“Yes.”
“It’s what I seldom do myself,” says Mr Krok with a gri
“Shal I call him dow? But it’s a weak chance if he’d come, sir!”
“I’ll go up to him, then,” says Mr Tulkighrn
“Second flor, sr. Take the candl. Up there!” Mr Krok, with
is cat beside him, stands at th bottom of th staircase lookig
after Mr Tulkighorn. “Hi-hi!” he says, when Mr Tulkighorn has
arly diappeared. The lawyer looks do over the handrai. Th
cat expands her wicked mouth, and snarl at hi
“Order, Lady Jane! Beave yourself to visitors, my lady! You
know what thy say of my lodger?” whispers Krok, going up a
step or two.
“What do they say of him?”
“They say he has sod himf to the Enemy; but you and I
know better—he do’t buy. I’l tel you what, though; my ldger i
so black-humoured and glmy, that I believe h’d as soo make
that bargai as any other. Do’t put hi out, sr. That’s my
advice!”
Mr Tulkighorn with a nd goes on his way. He co to the
dark door on th second flr. He knocks, receive no answer,
opes it, and accidentally extinguishe his candle in doig so.
The air of the room is almt bad enough to have extinguisd
it, if he had nt. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and
greas, and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pihed at th
middle as if Poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burn low In
the crner by the chy, stand a deal table and a broken dek; a
wildern marked with a rai of ik. In another corner, a ragged
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old portmanteau on one of the two chairs, serves for cabit or
wardrobe; no larger one i needed, for it coaps like the ceeks
f a starved man. Th flr is bare; except that on od mat,
trodde to shreds of rope-yarn, l perisg upo the hearth. No
urtai vei the darkne of the night, but the dioloured
sutters are draw together; and through the two gaunt hole
pirced i them, fam might be starig i—the Banshee of the
man upo th bed.
For on a low bed opposite th fire, a confusion of dirty
patcrk, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, th lawyer,
hesitatig just with the doorway, sees a man He l there,
dred in shirt and trousers, with bare fet. He has a ye look
i the spetral darkn of a candl that has guttered down, until
the whole legth of its wick (still burng) has doubld over, and
left a tor of winding shet above it. Hi hair is ragged, mingling
with his whiskers and his beard—the latter ragged too, and grown,
like th scum and mist around him, in neglt. Foul and filthy as
the ro is, foul and filthy as the air, it is not easy to perceive wat
fumes th are which most oppres th sen in it; but through
th geral sickliness and faitns, and th odour of stal
tobac, there co into the lawyer’s mouth the bitter, vapid
taste of opium.
“Hallo, my friend!” he cries, and strikes his iro candlestick
against th door.
He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a littl turnd
away, but his eyes are surey open.
“Hal, my friend!” he cries agai “Hal! Hal!”
A he rattle on the door, the candl whic has drooped s log,
goes out, and lave him i the dark; with the gaunt eye in the
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sutters starig down upon the bed.
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Chapter 11
Our Dear Brother
touch on the lawyer’s wrinkld hand, as he stands in the
dark ro, irresolute, makes him start and say, “What’s
that?”
“It’s m,” returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in
is ear. “Can’t you wake him?”
“No”
“What have you do with your candl?”
“It’s go out. Here it is.”
Krook take it, go to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and
trie to get a light. The dyig ashes have n light to spare, and h
deavours are vai Muttering after an inffectual cal to his
dger, that he wil go downstairs and brig a lghted candl from
the shop, the old man departs. Mr Tulkighorn, for so n
reason that he has, do not await his return i the room, but on
th stairs outside.
The welce light soon sh upon the wall, as Krook c
owly up, with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. “Does the
man gerally sp like this?” inquire th lawyer, in a low voice.
“Hi! I do’t know,” says Krook, shakig his head and lfting hi
yebrows. “I know nxt to nothing of his habits, excpt that he
keeps himself very clos”
Thus wispering, thy both go in togethr. As th light go in,
the great eye in the shutters, darkeg, se to close Not s the
eyes upon the bed.
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“God save us!” exclaims Mr Tulkighrn “He is dead!”
Krook drops the heavy hand he has take up, s suddenly that
the arm swgs over the bedsde.
They look at one another for a mot.
“Send for some doctor! Cal for Miss Flite up th stairs, sir.
Here’s poison by th bed! Call out for Flite, will you?” says Krok,
wth his lean hands spread out above th body like a vampire’s
wings
Mr Tulkinghrn hurri to th landing, and cals “Miss Flite!
Flte! Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flte!” Krook follws
hm with his eye, and, wile h is calling, finds opportunity to
teal to the old portmanteau and steal back agai
“Run, Flte, run! The nearest dotor! Run!” So Mr Krook
addres a crazy littl woan, wh is hi feale lodger: wh
appears and vanishe in a breath: wh soo returns, accompanied
by a testy medial man, brought from his dinner—wth a broad
snuffy upper lip, and a broad Sctch tongue
“Ey! Ble the hearts o’ ye,” says the medial man, lookig up
at th after a moment’s examation. “He’s just as dead as
Phairy!”
Mr Tulkighorn (standig by the old portmanteau) inquire if
he has be dead any tim?
“Any time, sir?” says th medical gentleman. “It’s probable h
wull have been dead aboot three hours.”
“About that tim, I should say,” obsrves a dark young man, on
the other side of the bed.
“Air you in th maydikl prayfesion yourself, sir?” inquire
the first.
The dark young man says yes
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“Thn I’ll just tak’ my depairture,” replies th othr; “for I’m
nae gude here!” With which remark, he finishe his brief
attendance, and returns to finish his dir.
The dark young surgeon pas the candl acro and acro
th face, and carefuly exam th Law-writer, wh has
tablished his pretesions to his name by beng indeed No
one.
“I kne this pers by sight, very well,” says he “He has
purcased opium of me, for th last year and a half. Was anybody
pret related to him?” glancg round upo the three
bystanders
“I was his landlord,” grimly answers Krok, taking th candle
from the surgeon’s outstretced hand. “He tod me on, I was th
aret relation he had.”
“He has died,” says the surgeon, “of an overdo of opium,
thre is no doubt. Th ro is strongly flavoured with it. Thre is
enough here now,” takig an old teapot from Mr Krook, “to ki a
dozen people.”
“Do you think he did it on purpose?” asks Krook.
“Took the overdo?”
“Ye!” Krok almost smacks his lips with th unction of a
horribl interest.
“I can’t say. I should thk it unlikely, as he has be i th
abit of taking so much. But nobody can te He was very poor, I
suppose?”
“I suppos he was. His ro—do’t look rich,” says Krok; w
ght have canged eye with his cat, as he casts his sharp glanc
around. “But I have never be in it since he had it, and he was
too close to nam the circumtanc to me”
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“Did he owe you any rent?”
“Six weks.”
“He wil never pay it!” says the young man, resumg hi
xamination. “It i beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as
Pharaoh; and to judge fro hi appearance and condition, I
should think it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good
figure when a youth, and I dare say good-lookig.” He says this,
nt unfeegly, whil sitting on the bedstead’s edge, with his fac
towards that other fac, and his hand upo the region of the heart.
“I rellect once thinking thre was something in his manr,
unuth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so? h
ntinues, looking round.
Krok repl, “You might as we ask m to deribe th ladi
whose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs Than that he
was my lodger for a year and a half, and lived—or didn’t live—by
law-writig, I know no mre of him”
During this dialogue, Mr Tulkighorn has stood aloof by the old
portmanteau, with his hands behnd him, equally removed, to all
appearance, fro all thre kinds of interest exhbited near th
bed—fro th young surgen’s profesional interest in death,
noticeable as beg quite apart fro his rearks on th deceasd
as an idividual; fro th old man’s unction; and th littl crazy
wman’s awe His imperturbabl face has be as inexpreve as
his rusty cloths. On could not eve say he has be thking all
this while. He has shon neithr patice nor impatice, nor
attention nor abstraction He has shon nothing but hi she As
easy might the tone of a deate musal intrumet be iferred
from its cas, as the tone of Mr Tulkighorn from hi case
He now interpo; addresing th young surgen, in hi
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unmoved profesional way.
“I looked i here,” he observes, “just before you, with the
intention of giving this deceased man, wh I never saw alive,
s employmet at his trade of copyig. I had heard of hi from
my statir—Snagsby of Cook’s Court. Sie n one here knows
anythng about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!”
to the lttle crazy woman, who has often se him in Court, and
whom he has often se, and who proposes, i frightened dumbsho, to go for th law stationer. “Suppose you do!”
While she is go, th surgen abandons hs hpe
investigation, and covers its subjet with th patcrk
cunterpane. Mr Krook and he iterchange a word or two. Mr
Tulkighorn says nthing; but stands, ever, near the oldportmanteau.
Mr Snabsby arrives hastily, in hi grey coat and his black
sleeve. “Dear me, dear me,” h says; “and it has come to this, has
it! Blss my soul!”
“Can you give the person of the house any informati about
this unfortunate creature, Snagsby?” inquire Mr Tulkinghrn.
“He was i arrears wth his rent, it sees. And he must be burid,
you know.”
“Well, sir,” says Mr Snagsby, coughng hs apolgetic cough
bed his hand; “I really don’t know what advice I could offer,
except sendig for th beadle.”
“I don’t speak of advice,” returns Mr Tulkinghrn. “I could
advise—”
(“No one better, sr, I am sure,” says Mr Snagsby, with his
deferential cough)
“I speak of affording some clue to his cotis, or to whre
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he cam from, or to anything coerning him”
“I assure you, sir,” says Mr Snagsby, after prefacing hs reply
wth his cough of geral propitiati, “that I no more kn
where he cam from, than I know—”
“Where he has gone to, perhaps,” suggests the surgeo, to help
hi out.
A paus Mr Tulkinghrn lookig at th law stationer. Mr
Krook, with his mouth open, lookig for sobody to speak nxt.
“As to his cotis, sir,” says Mr Snagsby, “if a pers was
to say to me, ‘Snagsby, here’s twenty thusand pound dow, ready
for you i th Bank of England, if you’l ony nam on of ’e,’ I
couldn’t do it, sir! About a year and a half ago—to th best of my
beef at the ti when he first cam to lodge at the present Rag
and Bottle Shop—”
“That was the tim!” says Krook, with a nd.
“About a year and a half ago,” says Mr Snagsby, strengthd,
“h cam ito our plac one mrnig after breakfast, and, findig
my littl woan (wich I name Mrs Snagsby wh I us that
appellation) i our shop, producd a spe of his handwritig,
and gave her to understand that he was in wants of copyig work
to do, and was—nt to put too fin a pot upon it—” a favourite
apolgy for plain-speaking wth Mr Snagsby, which he alays
ffers wth a sort of argumentative frankns, “hard up! My littl
man is not in geral partial to strangers, particular—not to put
to fi a point upo it—wn thy want anythng. But she was
rathr tok by something about this pers; whthr by his being
unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by wat
other ladi’ reas, I lave you to judge; and se acpted of th
specimen, and likewise of th addre My littl woan has’t a
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good ear for nam,” proceds Mr Snagsby, after coulting hi
ugh of consideration bend his hand, “and she considered
Nemo equally th same as Nimrod. In coquence of which, she
got into a habit of saying to me at mals, ‘Mr Snagsby, you haven’t
found Nimrod any work yet?’ or ‘Mr Snagsby, why didn’t you give
that eight-and-thirty Chanry folio in Jarndyc, to Nirod?’ or
such like. And that is th way he gradualy fe into job-wrk at our
plac; and that is th most I kn of him, except that h was a
quick hand, and a hand nt sparig of night-work; and that if you
gave hi out, say five-and-forty foo on the Wedneday night, you
would have it brought in on the Thursday mrnig. Al of whic—
” Mr Snagsby concludes by poltely motiing with his hat
toards th bed, as much as to add, “I have no doubt my
hurabl friend would confirm, if he were in a condition to do
it.”
“Hadn’t you better se,” says Mr Tulkighorn to Krook,
“whether he had any papers that may enghten you? There wil
be an Inquest, and you will be asked the question. You can read?”
“No, I can’t,” returns the old man, with a sudden gri
“Snagsby,” says Mr Tulkighorn, “look over the room for hi
He wil get ito s trouble or difficulty, otherwis Beig here
I’ll wait, if you make haste; and th I can testify on his bealf, if it
should ever be necessary, that al was fair and right. If you wi
hold the candl for Mr Snagsby, my frid, he’ll s see wether
there is anythig to help you.”
“In the first plac, here’s an old portmanteau, sir,” says
Snagsby.
, to be sure, s there is! Mr Tulkighorn do nt appear to
have seen it before, though he is standig so close to it, and though
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there is very little els, Heaven knows
The marin-store merchant holds the light, and the lawstationer conducts th search. Th surgen leans against a cornr
of th chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trebl just with
the door. The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dul black
breeches tied with ribbo at the knees, his large black waitcoat,
his long-sleeved black coat, and his wsp of limp wite nekerchief
tied in the bo the Peerage knows so we, stands in exactly th
same place and attitude.
There are so worthles arti of clothig in the old
portmanteau; there is a bundl of pawbrokers’ duplates, those
turnpike tikets on the road of Poverty; there is a crumpled paper,
smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda—as,
tok, such a day, so many grains; tok, such anthr day, so many
mre—begun s tim ago, as if with the intenti of beg
regularly cotiued, but soon lft off. There are a few dirty sraps
of newspapers, al referring to Croners’ Inquests; there i nothing
els. They searc the cupboard, and the drawer of the inksplashed table. There is nt a mrsel of an od letter, or of any
other writig, i either. The young surgeon exam the dres on
th law writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all h fids. Mr
Snagsby’s suggestion i th practical suggestion after all, and th
beadle must be called in
So the little crazy lodger go for the beadl, and the ret c
out of the room. “Don’t leave the cat there!” says the surgeon:
“that won’t do!” Mr Krook therefore drives her out before hi;
and she go furtively dotairs, wdig her lthe tai and
licking her lips
“Good night!” says Mr Tulkighorn; and goes home to Allgory
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and meditati
By this tim the news has got into the court. Groups of its
habitants assbl to dius the thing; and the outposts of the
army of obsrvatin (principaly boys) are pusd forward to Mr
Krok’s wido, which thy closy invest. A policeman has
already walked up to th ro, and walked dow again to th
door, wre h stands like a tor, only condescending to see th
boys at his bas occasonaly; but wenever he do see them, they
quail and fall back. Mrs Perkins, wh has not bee for some weks
speaking terms with Mrs Piper, in consequence of an
unpleasantness origiatig in young Perkins having “fetched”
young Piper “a crack,” re her friendly intercurs on this
auspicious ocasi. Th potboy at th cornr, wh is a privileged
amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life, and having to
deal with drunken men occasionaly, exchanges confidetial
communicati with th policeman, and has th appearance of an
impregnabl youth, unassailable by trunchens and unnfiabl
in station-huses. Pepl talk across th court out of window, and
bare-haded scouts come hurrying in fro Chancery Lane to
know what’s the matter. The genral feeg s to be that it’s a
blg Mr Krook warn’t made away with first, migld with a
lttle natural diappointmt that he was nt. In the midst of this
nsation, th beadle arrives.
The beadl, though generally understood in the neighbourhood
to be a ridiculous institution, is not withut a certain popularity for
the mt, if it were only as a man who is going to se the body.
Th policeman conders hi an imbele civilian, a reant of
th barbarous watc-times; but gives hi admission, as
thing that must be borne with until Governmt shal aboli
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hi The seati is heightened, as the tidigs spread from
uth to mouth that the beadl is on the ground, and has gone i
By-and-by th beadle comes out, once more intesifying th
nsation, wh has rathr languished in th interval. He is
understood to be i want of witne, for the iquest tomorrow,
who can te the Coror and Jury anythig watever repetig
th deceased. Is immediatey referred to innumerabl people wh
can tell nothing whatever. Is made more ibecile by being
constantly informd that Mrs Gren’s son “was a law-writer
hisself, and knowd him better than anybody”—which son of Mrs
Gre’s appears, on inquiry, to be at the pret tim aboard a
ve bound for China, three moths out, but codered
acbl by telgraph, on applati to the Lords of the
Admralty. Beadl goes into various shops and parlours,
examg the inhabitants; alays shutting the door first, and by
exclusion, delay, and geral idiotcy, exasperating th publ
Policeman see to smile to potboy. Public loses iterest, and
undergos reacti. Taunts th beadle, in shrill youthful voices,
wth having bod a boy; chorus fragments of a popular song to
that effect, and importing that th boy was made into soup for th
rkhuse. Policeman at last finds it necesary to support th law,
and seze a voalist; w is released upo th flight of th rest, on
ndition of his getting out of this th, come! and cutting it—a
condition h immediatey observe. So th senation dies off for
th time; and th unmoved policeman (to wh a littl opium,
more or less, is nothing), with his shig hat, stiff stok, inflxible
greatcoat, stout bet and bracet, and all things fitting, pursues his
unging way with a heavy tread: beatig the palms of hi white
gloves one against the other, and stoppig now and then, at a
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street-corner, to look casualy about for anything between a lot
child and a murder.
Under cver of the night, the feebl-mided beadl c
flitting about Chancery Lane with his sums, in which every
Juror’s nam i wrongly spet, and nothing is rightly spet but the
beadle’s own name, which nobody can read or wants to kn Th
summonses served, and his wtnsses forearnd, th beadle go
to Mr Krook’s, to kep a sal appotmet he has made with
crtai paupers; who, presently arrivig, are coducted upstairs;
where they lave the great eye in the shutter sothing new to
stare at, i that last shape which earthy lodgigs take for No
one—and for Every one.
Ad, all that night, the cffin stands ready by the old
portmanteau; and th lonely figure on th bed, wh path in life
has lai through five-and-forty years, li there, with no more
track behd him, that any on can trac, than a deserted infant.
Next day th court is all alive—i like a fair, as Mrs Perkis,
more than red to Mrs Piper, says, in amicable conversati
with that exct woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor
room at the So’s Arm, where the Harmoni Meetigs take plac
tw a-week, and where the chair is fild by a getlan of
professional celebrity, faced by littl Swills, th coic vocalist,
who hope (acrdig to the bi in the window) that hi friends
ll rally round hi, and support first-rate talent. Th Sol’s Arms
do a brik stroke of bus al the morng. Even chdre so
require sustaining, under the genral exctemt, that a pian
who has establihed himelf for the occas at the crner of the
curt, says hi brandy-balls go off like smoke What tim the
beadl, hovering between the door of Mr Krook’s establt
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and th door of th Sol’s Arms, shos th curiity in his keepig
to a fe discret spirits, and accepts th compliment of a glass of
ale or so in return
t the appoted hour arrives the Coroner, for whom the
Jurymen are waitig, and wh is received with a salute of skittl
from the good dry skittle-ground attacd to the So’s Arm The
Cror frequents more public-huses than any man alive Th
smell of sawdust, ber, tobacco-smoke, and spirits, is inseparabl
in hi vocati fro death in its most awful shape. He is
conducted by th beadle and th landlord to th Harmic
Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the pian, and take a
Windsr-chair at the head of a lg table, formed of sveral short
tabl put together, and ornamted with glutinous rings in
dls involutis, made by pots and glasses. As many of th Jury
as can crowd together at the tabl sit there The rest get among
th spittos and pipes, or lean against th pian Over th
ror’s had is a sall iro garland, th pendant handle of a
be, whic rather gives the Majesty of the Curt the appearanc of
going to be hanged.
Cal over and swear the Jury! Whe the crey is in
progress, senation is created by th entrance of a chubby littl
man i a large shirt-coar, with a moist eye, and an inflamed nose,
w modestly takes a position near th door as on of th geral
public, but sees familiar with th ro to A wisper circulate
that this is littl Swi. It is considered not unlikely that h w get
up an imitation of th Cror, and make it th principal feature
of the Harmoni Meetig in the evenig.
“Wel, gentlemen—” th Coror begins.
“Si there, wil you!” says the beadl Not to the Coroner,
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though it might appear so
“Wel, gentlemen!” resumes th Coror. “You are impanelled
hre, to inquire into th death of a certain man Evidence wll be
given before you, as to the circumtanc attendig that death,
and you wil give your verdit acrdig to the skittle; they must
be stopped you know, beadle!—evidece, and not accordig to
anything el The first thing to be do, is to vie the body.”
“Make way there!” cri the beadl
So they go out i a loose proceon, sothing after the
manr of a stragglig funeral, and make their ipetion in Mr
Krook’s back sed floor, from whic a few of the Juryme retire
pale and precipitatey. Th beadle is very careful that tw
gentlemen not very neat about th cuffs and buttons (for w
accomdation he has provided a specal littl tabl near th
Coror, in the Harmoni Meetig Room) should see al that i to
be see. For thy are th publ chroniclers of such inquiries, by
th line; and he is not superir to th universal human infirmity,
but hope to read i prit what “Mooney, the active and itellget
beadle of th district,” said and did; and eve aspires to see th
name of Moy as famliarly and patroisingly mentioned as th
am of the Hangman is, accrdig to the latest exampl
Little Sw i waitig for the Coroner and Jury on their return.
Mr Tulkinghrn, also. Mr Tulkinghrn is received wth distinction,
and seated near th Coror; betw that high judicial offir, a
bagatel-board, and the cal-box. The iquiry proceds The Jury
larn how the subjet of their inquiry did, and learn n more
about him. “A very emt solicitor is i attendan, gentlemen,”
says the Coror, “who, I am iformed, was acdetaly prest,
w discvery of th death was made; but h could only repeat
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the evidenc you have already heard from the surgeon, th
landlord, th lodger, and th law-stationer; and it is not necessary
to trouble hi Is anybody in attendan who knows anything
more?”
Mrs Piper pusd forward by Mrs Perki Mrs Piper sworn.
astasa Piper, gentl Married woman Now, Mrs Piper—
what have you got to say about this?
Why, Mrs Piper has a god deal to say, chiefly in parenth
and without puntuati, but nt muc to tel Mrs Piper lves in
th court (wich her husband is a cabit-maker) and it has long
been wel be-knwn among the neghbours (countig from the day
next but on before th half baptizing of Alxander James Piper
aged eghte month and four days old on accounts of not beig
expected to live such was th sufferings gentlemen of that chid in
is gums) as th Plaintive—so Mrs Piper insists o calg th
deceasd—was reported to have sold hif. Thinks it was th
Plaintive’s air in which that report originati. See th Plaintive
ften, and considered as his air was feariocious, and not to be
alwed to go about so chdre beg timd (and if doubted
hopig Mrs Perki may be brought forward for s i here and
wll do credit to her husband and hersf and famly). Has see th
Plaitive wxed and wrrited by the chdren (for chdren they
w ever be and you canot expet them specialy if of playful
disposition to be Met hoozellers whic you was not yoursef). On
accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamd as she see
m take a pikaxe fro his pocket and split Jonny’s had (wich
th child knows not fear and has repeatualy calld after hm c
at hi eels). Never however see the Plaitive take a pikaxe or any
othr wpping far fro it. Has see him hurry away wh run and
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calld after as if not partial to childre and never se hm speak to
ther cd nr grown perso at any tim (excepting the boy that
seeps the crossg do the lan over the way round the corner
wich if h was hre would tell you that he has be see a
speakig to him frequent).
Says the Coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, n, sir, he
i nt here. Says the Coroner, go and fetch him then In the
absence of th active and inteiget, th Cror converses wth
Mr Tulkinghrn. O! Here’s th boy, gentlemen!
Here he i, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy!—
But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a fe
preiminary paces.
Nam, Jo. Nothing el that he knows o Do’t know that
everybody has tw names. Never herd of sich a think. Don’t know
that Jo is short for a longer name. Thks it long enugh for
him.
He don’t find no fault with it. Spell it? No. He can’t spel it. No
father, no mother, no frieds Never be to school. What’s home?
Knos a bro’s a bro, and kns it’s wiked to te a li Don’t
recot who told hi about the broom, or about the lie, but
knows both. Can’t exactly say what’l be do to him arter he’s
dead if he tell a l to the gentl, here, but believe it’l be
thing wery bad to punis hi, and serve hi right—and s
he’l tell the truth.
“This wn’t do, gentlemen!” says th Coror, with a
mlanholy shake of the head.
“Do’t you think you can receive his evidence, sir?” asks an
attentive Juryman.
“Out of the question,” says the Coroner. “You have heard the
boy. ‘Can’t exactly say’ wo’t do, you kn. We can’t take
that, i a
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Curt of Justi, gentl It’s terrible depravity. Put the boy
aside”
Boy put asde; to the great edifiati of the audi;—
especially of Littl Swills, th Comic Vocalist.
No Is there any other witnes? No other witnes
Very well, gentlemen! Here’s a man unknn, proved to have
be i the habit of takig opium in large quantitie for a year and
a half, found dead of too muc opium If you think you have any
evidence to lead you to th conclus that he committed suicide,
you will come to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of
accidental death, you wi fid a Verdict accordingly.
Verdict accordigly. Accidental death No doubt. Gentlemen,
you are discharged. Good aftern
Wh the Coroner buttons his great coat, Mr Tulkighorn and
h give private audience to th rejected witns in a cornr.
That grac creature only knows that the dead man (whom
h regnised just now by hi yellow face and black hair) was
tim hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold
wnter night, wh he, th boy, was shivering in a doorway near
his crossing, th man turnd to look at him, and came back, and,
having questioned hi and found that he had nt a fried i the
wrld, said, “Neither have I. Not one!” and gave him the prie of a
supper and a nght’s ldgig. That the man had often spoke to
hm since; and asked him whthr he slept sound at night, and
how he bore cd and hunger, and whether he ever wied to die;
and similar strange queti That wh th man had no money,
h wuld say in pasg, “I am as por as you today, Jo;” but that
when he had any, he had always (as the boy mot heartily beeves)
be glad to give him so
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“He w wery good to me,” says the boy, wipig his eyes with
wretced sleeve. “We I see hi a-layi’ so stritched out just
nw, I wised he culd have heerd me tel him so He wos wery
good to me, he wos!”
As he shuffl dowstairs, Mr Snagsby, lying in wait for hm,
puts a half-cro in his hand. “If ever you see me coming past
your crossg with my little woman—I mean a lady—” says Mr
Snagsby, with his figer on his nose, “do’t alude to it!”
For s lttle tim the Juryme hang about the Sol’s Arm
quially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of
pipe smke that pervades th parlur of th Sol’s Arm; tw stro
to Hampstead; and four engage to go half-pric to the play at
nght, and top up with oysters Little Swls is treated on sveral
hands Being asked what he thinks of the proceedigs,
characterises th (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as
“a rummy start.” Th landlord of th Sol’s Arms, fiding Littl
Swills so popular, comds him highly to th Jurymen and
public; observing that, for a song in character, he don’t kn hi
qual, and that that man’s character-wardrobe would fill a cart.
Thus, gradually the So’s Arm mets into the sadowy night,
and then flare out of it strong in gas The Harmonic Meetig hour
arriving, th gentleman of professional celebrity takes th chair; is
faced (red-faced) by Littl Swills; thr friends raly round th,
and support first-rate talt. In the zenith of the eveg, Little
Swills says, Gentlemen, if you’ll permit me, I’ll attempt a short
description of a scene of real life that came off here today. Is much
applauded and enuraged; go out of th ro as Swills; comes
as the Croner (not the least in the world like him); deribe
the Inquest, with recreative interval of piano-forte
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acpanit to the refrai—With hi (the Coroner’s) tippy tol li
doll, tippy tol lo dol, tippy tol li doll, De!
Th jingling piano at last is silent, and th Harmic friends
rally round thr pillow Th thre is rest around th lonely
figure, now laid in its last earthy habitati; and it is watcd by
the gaunt eye in the shutters through so quiet hours of night.
If this forlorn man culd have be prophetically s lyig here,
by the mother at whose breast he ntld, a lttle cd, with eyes
upraised to hr loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowg ho to
clos upo th neck to which it crept, wat an impossibiity th
vision wuld have seed! O, if, in brighter days, th nowextiguised fire wth him ever burnd for one woan who held
hi i her heart, where is she, whe the ashes are above th
ground!
It i anything but a night of rest at Mr Snagsby’s in Cook’s
urt; wre Guster murders sleeps by going, as Mr Snagsby
hielf alws—not to put too fin a pot upo it—out of one fit
into twty. Th occasion of this seizure is, that Guster has a
tender heart, and a susptibl sothing that pobly might
have be imagination, but for Toting and her patro saint. Be it
wat it may, now, it was so direfuly impred at tea-time by Mr
Snagsby’s account of th inquiry at which he had assisted, that at
supper-ti she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a
flying Dutch-ch, and fell into a fit of unusual duratio: whic
e only cam out of to go into another, and another, and so on
through a chai of fits, with short intervals betwee, of whic sh
has pathetially availd hersef by consumig them in entreatie to
Mrs Snagsby nt to give her warnig “when s quite co to;”
and also in appeals to th wh establishment to lay her dow on
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the stone, and go to bed. Hen, Mr Snagsby, at last hearig the
ck at the lttle dairy i Curstor Street go into that diterested
ecstacy of his on th subjet of daylight, says, drawig a long
breath, though the mot patiet of me, “I thought you was dead, I
am sure!”
What queti this enthusastic fo supposes h settl w
he strai hielf to suc an extent, or why he should thus crow
(s men cro on varius triumphant public occasis, hver)
about what cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is
eugh that daylight comes, morning comes, noo comes.
Then the active and intellget, who has got into the mrnig
papers as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr Krok’s,
and bears off the body of our dear brother here departed, to a
hmmed-i churchyard, pestiferous and obs, whce
malignant diseases are counicated to th bodies of our dear
brothers and siters who have not departed; while our dear
brothrs and sisters wh hang about official back-stairs—wuld to
Heaven they had departed!—are very coplact and agreeabl
Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk would reject as a
savage aboation, and a Caffre would shudder at, thy bring
our dear brother here departed, to recve Christian burial
With house lookig on, on every side, save where a reekig
lttle tunne of a court gives ac to the iron gate—wth every
villany of life in acti cl o death, and every poisonous
elemet of death in action cose on lfe—here, they lower our dear
brother down a foot or two: here, sow him in corruptin, to be
raised in corruption: an aveging ght at many a sick-bedside: a
shameful testimony to future age, ho civilisation and barbarism
walked this boastful iand together.
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Cme night, come darknss, for you cant come to soo, or
stay too log, by suc a plac as this! C, stragglig lights ito
the windows of the ugly house; and you who do inquity therein,
do it at least with this dread sc sut out! C, flame of gas,
burng so sullenly above th iro gate, on which th poisoned air
deposits its witc-ontment slimy to th touc! It is wll that you
should cal to every passer-by, “Lok here!”
With the night, co a souchg figure through the tuncurt, to the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its
hands, and looks in betwee the bars; stands lookig in, for a little
whil
It then, with an old broom it carri, softly seeps the step, and
makes th archway clan. It doe so, very busly and trily; looks
in again, a littl wh; and so departs.
Jo, is it thu? Well, well! Thugh a rejected witnss, wh “can’t
exactly say” what wil be do to him in greater hands than me’s,
thou art not quite in outer darkn There is sthing like a
ditant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this:—
“He wos wery god to me, he wos!”
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Chapter 12
On The Watch
I
t has left off raig dow in Lincolnshire, at last, and
Cy Wold has taken heart. Mrs Rouncewll is ful of
hspitable cares, for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming
h fro Paris. Th fashionabl intelligence has found it out,
and cunicates the glad tidigs to beghted England. It has
al found out, that they wil entertai a briant and
distiguished circ of th
élite of the beau monde (th fashionabl
inteigece is weak in English, but a giant-refred in Frech), at
th ancient and hopitable famly seat in Lincolre
For the greater honour of the briant and ditiguished crc,
and of Chesny Wod into the bargai, the broke arc of th
bridge in the park is meded; and the water, nw retired within its
proper limits and again spand gracefully, makes a figure in th
prospect fro th huse. Th clear cold sunshi glances into th
brittl wds, and approvingly beds th sharp wind scattering
the laves and dryig the mo. It gldes over the park after th
moving shados of th clouds, and chas th, and never
catcs th, all day. It looks in at th windows, and toucs th
ancestral portraits with bars and patcs of brightness, never
conteplated by th painters. Athart th picture of my Lady,
over th great chimney-piece, it thro a broad bed-sister of
lght that strike do crookedly into the hearth, and se to
rend it.
Through th same cold sunshi, and th same sharp wid, my
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Lady and Sir Leicester, in thr traveng chariot, (my Lady’s
wman, and Sir Leicester’s man affectionate in th rumble,) start
for ho With a considerable amount of jingling and wipcracking, and many plunging demontrations on th part of tw
bare-backed horse, and two Cetaurs with glazed hats, jackboots,
and flowing man and tale, they rattle out of the yard of the
Hôte Britol in the Place Vendôme, and canter between the sunand-sadow-chequered coade of the Rue de Rivo and th
garde of th ill-fated palace of a headless king and que, off by
the Place of Conord, and the Elysan Fields, and the Gate of th
Star, out of Paris
Sooth to say, they cant go away too fast; for even here, my
Lady Dedlock has bee bored to death Concert, asmbly, opera,
theatre, drive, nthing i nw to my Lady, under the worn-out
haves. Only last Sunday, wh poor wretche were gay with
th walls, playing with chidre amg th clipped tre and th
statues in th Palace Garde; walking, a score abreast, i th
Elysian Fields, made more Elysan by performing dogs and
wooden hors; between wh filterig (a few) through th
gloomy Cathedral of our Lady, to say a word or two at the bas of a
piar, within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little
tapers—withut th walls, enmpassing Paris with dancing,
lovemaking, wi-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visitig,
billard, card, and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much
murderous refuse, anate and inanimate—oly last Sunday, my
Lady, in th desolati of Boredom and th Clutch of Giant
Despair, almost hated her own maid for beg in spirits
She cant, therefore, go too fast from Pari Weari of sul
lies before hr, as it lies bed—hr Ariel has put a girdle of it
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round the whole earth, and it cant be uncasped—but the
imperfet remedy is always to fly, fro th last place whre it has
be expericed. Fling Paris back into th distance, th,
exchanging it for endless aveues and cros-aveues of wntry
tre! And, w next behd, let it be some leagues away, wth
the Gate of the Star a white spek glttering in the sun, and the
cty a mre mund i a plai: two dark square towers risg out of
it, and light and shado desding on it asant, like th angels in
Jacob’s dream!
Sir Leicester is gerally in a complacent state, and rarely
bored. Whe he has nothing el to do, he can always conteplate
is on greatnss. It is a cosiderable advantage to a man, to have
so inexhaustibl a subjet. After reading his letters, he leans back
in hi cornr of th carriage, and geraly revis his importance
to society.
“You have an unusual amount of crrespode this
rnig?” says my Lady, after a lg tim Sh is fatigued with
readig. Has almt read a page in twenty mi
“Nothg in it, thugh. Nothg whatever.”
“I saw on of Mr Tulkinghrn’s long effusions I think?”
“You see everythg,” says Sir Leicester, with admirati
“Ha!” sigh my Lady. “He is the most tiresome of men”
“He sends—I really beg your pardo—he sends,” says Sir
Leicester, selecting th letter, and unfoding it, “a mesage to you.
Our stopping to change horses, as I came to his postsript, drove it
out of my memory, I beg you’l excuse me. He says—” Sir
Leicester is so long in taking out his eyeglass and adjusting it, that
my Lady looks a lttle irritated. “He says ‘In the matter of the right
of way—’ I beg your pardo, that’s nt the place He says—ye!
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Here I have it! He says, ‘I beg my respectful copliments to my
Lady, who, I hope, has befited by the change. Wi you do m the
favour to mti (as it may interest her), that I have sothing to
tel her on her return, in referen to the perso who cpid the
affidavit in th Chancery suit, which so powrfully stiulated hr
curisity. I have seen hi.’” My Lady, leang forward, lks out
of her window.
“That’s th message,” observed Sir Leicester.
“I should lke to walk a lttle,” says my Lady, stil lookig out of
her window.
“Walk?” repeats Sir Leicester, in a to of surprise.
“I should lke to walk a lttle,” says my Lady, with
unmistakeable distictness. “Please to stop th carriage”
Th carriage is stopped, th affectionate man alights fro th
rumbl, opens the door, and lts do the steps, obedit to an
impatit moti of my Lady’s hand. My Lady alights so quickly,
and walks away so quickly, that Sir Leicester, for all h
scrupulus politess is unable to assist her, and is left bend. A
pac of a mute or two has elapsd before he co up with her.
She smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with hi
for a quarter of a mi, is very muc bored, and resum her seat
in th carriage
The rattle and clatter cotiue through the greater part of three
days, with more or less of be-jingling and whip-cracking, and
more or less plunging of Centaurs and bare-backed hrses. Thr
curtly poten to eac other, at the Hotel where they tarry, i
the them of genral admration. Though my Lord
is a littl aged
for my Lady, says Madame, th hotess of th Golden Ape, and
though he might be her amabl father, one can s at a glan
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that thy love eac othr. On obsrve my Lord with hi wte
hair, standig, hat in hand, to help my Lady to and from the
carriage On obsrves my Lady, how recgniant of my Lord’s
politess, with an ination of her gracious head, and th
ncession of her so-gete fingers! It is ravishing!
The sea has n appreation of great mn, but knocks them
about like small fry. It is habitualy hard upon Sir Leicter, whose
untean it greenly mttl in the maner of sage-cheese, and
in wh aritocratic syste it effects a dial revoluti. It is th
Radial of Nature to him Neverthele, his dignty gets over it,
after stopping to refit: and h go on with my Lady for Chy
Wold, lyig only on night in Lodo on th way to Lincolnshire
Through th same cold sunlight—colder as th day dec,—
and through th same sharp wind—sarper as th separate
adows of bare tree gloom together in the woods, and as the
Ghot’s Walk, toucd at th western cornr by a pile of fire i th
sky, resign itself to coming night,—thy drive into th park. Th
Rooks, swgig in their lofty house in the e-tree avenue, seem
to discus th queti of th occupany of th carriage as it
passe undernath; some agreng that Sir Leicester and my Lady
are co down; so arguing with malontents who won’t admt
it; now, all consenting to consider th queti disposed of; now,
all breaking out again in vit debate, incited by on obstinate
and drosy bird, wh will persist in putting i a last contradictory
croak. Leavig them to swg and caw, the traveg charit rolls
on to the house; where fires gleam warmly through s of the
windows, though not through so many as to give an inabited
expression to th darkeg mass of frot. But th briant and
distiguished circ wi soo do that.
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Mrs Rouncew is in attedance, and receive Sir Leiceter’s
ustomary shake of the hand with a profound curtsey.
“How do you do, Mrs Rouncewe? I am glad to see you.”
“I hope I have the honour of welcg you in good health, Sir
Leicester?”
“In excellent health, Mrs Rouncew”
“My Lady is looking charmingly we,” says Mrs Rouncewll,
with another curtsey.
My Lady signifi, withut profus expenditure of wrds, that
she is as weariy well as she can hope to be
But Rosa is in th distance, bend th husekeeper; and my
Lady, wh has not subdued th quickness of hr observation,
watever els she may have coquered, asks:
“Who is that girl?”
“A young schoar of mi, my Lady. Rosa.”
“Ce here, Roa!” Lady Dedlock beko her, with even an
appearan of interest. “Why, do you know how pretty you are,
cd?” se says, touchig her shoulder with her two forefingers.
Rosa, very much abashed, says, “No, if you please, my Lady!”
and glances up, and glances dow, and don’t know whre to look,
but looks al the prettier.
“How old are you?”
“Nieteen, my Lady.”
“Nieteen,” repeats my Lady, thughtfuly. “Take care they
don’t spoil you by flattery.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
My Lady taps her dimpled chek with th same delicate glved
fingers, and go on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir
Leicester paus for her as her knightly escort. A starig od
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Dedlock in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if h didn’t
know what to make of it—which was probably his geral state of
md in the days of Queen Elizabeth
That evenig, i the housekeper’s room, Roa can do nthg
but murmur Lady Dedlock’s praises. She is so affabl, so graceful,
so beautiful, so elgant; has such a swet voice, and such a
thrilling touc, that Rosa can fe it yet! Mr Rouncew confirms
all this, not withut persal pride, rerving only th o poit of
affability. Mrs Rouncwel is nt quite sure as to that. Heave
forbid that she should say a syllable i dispraise of any member of
that excet famy; above all, of my Lady, whom the whole world
admires; but if my Lady would only be “a littl more fre,” not
quite so cold and distant, Mrs Rouncew thks she wuld be
re affable.
“’Tis almost a pity,” Mrs Rouncewe adds—ony “alt,”
becaus its borders on impiety to suppose that anythng could be
better than it is, in such an expres dispesati as th Dedlock
affairs, “that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter
nw, a grown young lady, to interest her, I think s would have
had th only kind of excellence she wants.”
“Might not that have made her stil mre proud,
grandmther?” says Watt; who has be home and co back
again, he is such a god grandson
“More and mt, my dear,” return the housekeeper with
dignity, “are words it’s not my place to us—nor so much as to
ar—applied to any drawback on my Lady.”
“I beg your pardo, grandmother. But she is proud, is she nt?”
“If she is, she has reason to be. Th Dedlock famly have always
reas to be.”
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“Well!” says Watt, “it’s to be hoped they li out of their PrayerBoks a certain passage for th co people about pride and
vaiglory. Forgive me, grandmther! Ony a joke!”
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlk, my dear, are not fit subjets
for jokig.”
“Sir Leicester is no joke by any means,” says Watt; “and I
humbly ask hi pardon. I suppo, grandmother, that, even with
the famy and their guests down here, there is no objecti to my
prolonging my stay at the Dedlock Arm for a day or two, as any
other traver might?”
“Surely, no in the world, child.”
“I am glad of that,” says Watt, “beaus I—beause I have an
iexpresble dere to exted my knowldge of th beautiful
nghbourhood.”
He happens to glance at Rosa, wh looks dow, and is very shy,
indeed. But, accordig to th od superstiti, it should be Rosa’s
ars that burn, and nt her fresh bright chks; for my Lady’s
aid is holdig forth about her at this mot, with surpasg
energy.
My Lady’s maid is a Frechwman of tw-and-thirty, fro
somewre in th Southrn country about Avignon and
Marseil—a large-eyed brown woan with black hair; w
uld be handsome, but for a certain feline mouth and geral
uncfortable tightne of fac, renderig the jaws too eager, and
th skul to prot. Thre is something indefiably kee and
wan about her anatomy; and se has a watchful way of lookig out
of the corners of her eyes without turnig her head, whic could
be pleasantly dipeed wth—especialy wen se is i an ilhumour and nar knves Through al the good taste of her dres
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and lttl adornts, the objecti so expres themsves, that
she sees to go about lke a very neat She-Wolf imperfetly
tamed. Besides being accomplished in all th knledge
appertaining to her post, she i almost an Englishwman i hr
acquaitanc with the language—cquently, sh is in n want
of words to shower upon Roa for having attracted my Lady’s
attention; and she pours th out with such grim ridicule as she
sits at dir, that her companion, th affectionate man, is rathr
reeved when she arrive at the spo stage of that performan
Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, be in my Lady’s service sine five
years, and always kept at th distance, and this do, this puppet,
caressed—absolutely cared—by my Lady on th moment of hr
arriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! “And do you know how pretty
you are, child?”—“No, my Lady.”—You are right there! “And h
old are you, chd! Ad take care they do not spo you by flattery,
child!” O ho drol! It is th
best thing altogether.
In short, it is such an admirabl thg, that Mademoiselle
Horte can’t forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, eve
among her countryw and othrs attached in like capacity to
the troop of vistors, relaps into sit ejoymet of the joke—an
joymt expred, in her own convivial manner, by an
additional tightne of fac, thin elongatio of copresd lips,
and sidewise look: which inte appreati of humour is
frequently reflted in my Lady’s mirrors, wh my Lady i not
among them
the mirrors in the house are brought ito action now: many
of them after a log blank. They reflet hands fac, sperig
faces, youthful faces, faces of threscore-and-te that w not
submit to be od; th entire collection of faces that have come to
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pass a January wk or tw at Chy Wold, and wh th
fashionabl inteigece, a mighty hunter before th Lord, hunts
th a keen sct, from their breakig cover at the Court of Sait
Jam’s to their beg run down to Death. The place in
Lincolnshire is al alive By day, guns and voices are heard ringig
in th wds, hrsemen and carriage enliven th park roads,
srvants and hangers-on pervade the Vilage and the Dedlock
Arm Se by nght, from ditant opegs i the tree, the row of
wndows i th long drawig-ro, whre my Lady’s picture
angs over th great chimney-piece, is like a ro of jels set in a
black frame. On Sunday, th chill littl church is almost warmd
by so muc gallant copany, and the genral flavour of the
Dedlock dust is queched in delicate perfum
Th brilliant and distiguished circ comprends within it, no
ctracted amount of educati, se, courage, honour, beauty,
and virtue. Yet there is sothing a little wrong about it, i
despite of its immen advantage. What can it be?
Dandyism? Thre is no King George th Fourth now (mre’s
th pity!) to set th dandy fashion; thre are no clar-starched
jack-to neckclth, no short-waisted coats, no false calve, no
stays. Thre are no cariatures, now, of effenate Exquisite so
arrayed, swog in opera boxes with excess of delight, and beg
revived by other daity creatures, pokig log-neked sctbottl at thr noses. Thre is no beau wh it takes four mn at
oce to shake into his buckskins, or wh go to see all th
executio, or who is troubled with the sef-reproach of having
oce consumd a pea. But is thre Dandyi in th briant and
distiguished circ notwithtandig, Dandyi of a more
mischievous sort, that has got below th surface and is doing less
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harmles things than jack-tong itself and stopping its ow
digestion, to which no ratial pers need particularly object?
Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. Thre are, at Chesny Wod
this January wk, some ladies and gentlemen of th nest
fashion, wh have set up a Dandyi—in Religi, for instance.
Who, i mre lackadaial want of an emotio, have agreed upon
a little dandy talk about the Vulgar wantig faith in things in
genral; manig, in the things that have be tried and found
wanting; as thugh a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith i
a bad sg, after findig it out! Who would make the Vulgar
very pictureque and faithful, by putting back th hands upo th
Clock of Tim, and cang a few hundred years of history.
Thre are also ladies and gentlemen of anthr fashion, not so
nw, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze o
th world, and to keep dow all its realities. For w everythng
must be languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual
stoppage. Who are to rejoice at nothing, and be sorry for nothing.
Who are nt to be diturbed by ideas On whom eve the Fi
rts, attendig i powder and walkig backward like the Lord
Chamberlai, must array themsves i the miers’ and taiors’
patterns of past geratis, and be particularly careful not to be
in earnt, or to receive any impres fro th moving age
Then there is my Lord Boodl, of cderable reputation with
his party wh has knn what office is, and w tes Sir Leter
Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really doe not
s to what the pret age i tendig. A debate i not what a
debate used to be; the House is nt what the House used to be;
eve a Cabit is not what it formrly was He percve wth
astonishment, that supposng th pret Government to be
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overthrown, the lited choic of the Crown, in the formati of a
ne Ministry, would lie betw Lord Codle and Sir Thas
Dodle—supposing it to be impossibl for th Duke of Fodle to
act with Goodle, which may be assumed to be th case in
nseque of th breach arising out of that affair with Hodle.
Then, giving the Home Departmet and the Leadersp of the
House of Comm to Joodl, the Exchequer to Koodl, th
lonies to Lodle, and th Foreign Office to Modle, what are
you to do with Noodl? You can’t offer him the Predey of the
Cunc; that is resrved for Poodl You can’t put him in the
Woods and Forests; that i hardly good enough for Quoodl What
follow? That th country is shipwreked, lost, and go to pieces
(as is made manifest to th patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock),
becaus you can’t provide for Noodle!
On th othr hand, th Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P.,
ctends acro the table with so one el, that the shpwreck
of the country—about whic there is no doubt; it is oy the
manr of it that is in question—i attributabl to Cuffy. If you had
do with Cuffy what you ought to have do when he first cam
into Parliament, and had preveted him fro gog over to Duffy,
you would have got him into an allianc with Fuffy, you would
have had with you the weight attacg as a sart debater to
Guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the eltions the
wealth of Huffy, you would have got in for three countie Juffy,
Kuffy, and Luffy, and you would have strengthend your
admiistrati by th official knowledge and th business habits of
Muffy. All this, istead of beig as you now are, dependent on th
mere caprice of Puffy!
A to this pot, and as to s mir topi, there are
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differences of opiion; but it is perfetly clear to th brilliant and
distiguished circ, all round, that nobody is in queti but
Bodl and hi retinue, and Buffy and
hi retiue. The are th
great actors for whom the stage i rerved. A People there are, n
doubt—a certain large number of supernumraries, wh are to be
occasonaly addresd and reled upon for shouts and choruses,
as on the theatrical stage; but Boodl and Buffy, their follwers
and famili, thr heirs, exeutors, administrators, and assigns,
are the born first actors, managers, and leaders, and n others can
appear upon the scene for ever and ever.
In this, to, thre is perhaps more Dandyi at Cy Wold
than th brilliant and distinguid circle wi fid god for itself
in th long run. For it is, eve with th stillest and politest crcles,
as with th circle th necroancer draws around him—very
strange appearances may be see in active moti outsde With
this differe: that, being realities and not phantoms, thre is th
greater danger of their breakig in
y Wold is quite full, anyh; so full, that a burng se
f injury arises in th breasts of ill-lodged ladies’ maids, and is not
to be extinguished. Only o ro is empty. It is a turret chamber
of the third order of merit, plainly but cofortably furnihed, and
having an old-fashioned busine air. It is Mr Tulkinghrn’s ro,
and is never bestod on anybody el, for he may come at any
tim He i nt c yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the
park fro th viage, in fi weathr; to drop into this ro, as if
he had never been out of it sie he was last seen there; to request
a servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived, in case h
should be wanted; and to appear ten minute before dir, in th
shadow of th library door. He slps in his turret, wth a
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complaig flag-staff over his head; and has some leads outside,
o which, any fi morning, wh he is dow hre, his black
figure may be se walking before breakfast like a larger species
of rook.
Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for hm i th dusk of
the lbrary, but he i nt there. Every day at dier, my Lady
glan down the table for the vacant plac, that would be waitig
to receive him if he had just arrived; but thre is no vacant place.
Every night, my Lady casually asks her maid:—
“Is Mr Tulkinghrn come?”
Every night the anr is, “No, my Lady, not yet.”
One night, while having her hair undred, my Lady lose
hersef in dep thought after this reply, until s se her own
broding face, in th opposite glass, and a pair of black eye
curiusly observig her.
“Be so good as to attend,” says my Lady then, addreg the
reflti of Horte, “to your business. You can conteplate
your beauty at anothr time.”
“Pardon! It was your Ladyship’s beauty.”
“That,” says my Lady, “you nedn’t cotemplate at al”
At legth, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright
groups of figures, whic have for the last hour or two enlvened
th Ghot’s Walk, are al dispersd, and only Sir Leicester and my
Lady remai upo the terrac, Mr Tulkighorn appears He
comes toards th at hi usual methdial pace, wich is never
quickend, never slackened. He wears his usual expressionless
mask—if it be a mask—and carri famly secrets in every limb of
his body, and every crease of his dres. Whethr his w soul i
devoted to the great, or whether he yieds them nothing beyond
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th services he sels, is his persal secret. He keeps it, as h keeps
th secrets of his cients; h is his own client in that matter, and
wll never betray hif.
“How do you do, Mr Tulkighrn?” says Sir Leicester, givig
hi his hand.
Mr Tulkighorn is quite wel Sir Leiter is quite well My
Lady is quite well A highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with hi
ands bed him, walks at Sir Leicester’s side, alg th terrace.
My Lady walks upon the other side.
“We expected you before,” says Sir Leicester. A gracious
bservation. As much as to say, “Mr Tulkinghrn, w remember
your existenc wen you are not here to red us of it by your
presenc We betow a fragmt of our mids upon you, sr, you
see!”
Mr Tulkinghrn, compredig it, in hi had, and says
is much oblged.
“I should have come dow sooer,” he explai, “but that I
have be muc engaged with those matters in the sveral suits
between yoursef and Boythorn.”
“A man of a very ill-regulated mid,” observe Sir Leicester,
wth severity. “An extremely dangerous person in any cunty.
A man of a very low character of mid.”
“He is obstinate,” says Mr Tulkinghrn.
“It is natural to such a man to be so,” says Sir Leicester, looking
most profoundly obstiate himself. “I am not at all surprised to
ar it.”
“Th ony questi is,” pursues the lawyer, “whther you w
give up anything.”
“No, sir,” replies Sir Leicester. “Nothng. I give up?”
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“I don’t mean anythng of importance. That, of course, I kn
you would not abandon. I mean any minor point.”
“Mr Tulkighorn,” returns Sir Leiter, “there can be no
r pot betwee mysf and Mr Boythorn. If I go farther, and
obsrve that I cant readiy cove how any right of m can
be a minor poit, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an
individual, as in refere to th family position I have it in charge
to maitai”
Mr Tulkighorn in his head agai “I have nw my
itructins,” he says. “Mr Boythorn wil give us a good deal of
troubl—”
“It is th character of such a mind, Mr Tulkighrn,” Sir
Leicester interrupts him, “to give trouble. An exceedigly iconditioned, leveg pers. A pers wh, fifty years ago, wuld
probably have bee tried at th Old Baiy for some demagogue
prodig, and severely punished—if not,” adds Sir Leicester,
after a moment’s paus, “if not hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
Sir Leicester appears to discarge his statey breast of a
burde, in passing this capital sentece; as if it wre th next
satisfactory thing to having the sete exeuted.
“But nght is cog on,” says he, “and my Lady wi take cod.
My dear, let us go in.”
A they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addre Mr
Tulkighorn for the first tim
“You st me a meage repectig the person whose writig I
happed to inquire about. It was like you to rember the
circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded
me of it again. I can’t imagi what assocation I had, wth a hand
like that; but I surely had some.”
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“You had so?” Mr Tulkighorn repeats
“O yes!” returns my Lady, carey. “I thk I must have had
s Ad did you realy take the troubl to find out the writer of
that actual thing—what is it!—Affidavit?”
“Yes.”
“How very odd!”
They pas into a sobre breakfast-room on the ground-floor,
lghted in the day by two dep windows. It i nw twilght. The fire
gls brightly on th panelled wal, and palely o th wdoglas, where, through the cod reflecti of the blaze, the cder
landscape shudders in th wind, and a grey mist creps along: th
nly traveller besdes th waste of clouds
My Lady lounges in a great chair i the cy-corner, and
Sir Leicester takes anthr great chair opposite Th lawyer
stands before the fire, with his hand out at arm’s lgth, shadig
his face. He looks across his arm at my Lady.
“Yes,” h says, “I inquired about the man, and found him. Ad
wat is very strange, I found him—”
“Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!” Lady
Dedlock languidly antiipates.
“I found him dead!”
“O dear me!” remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shoked
by the fact, as by the fact of the fact beg metid.
“I was directed to his lodgig—a miserabl, poverty-stricken
plac—and I found him dead.”
“You wll excuse me, Mr Tulkinghrn,” observe Sir Leicester.
“I think th less said—”
“Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear th story out” (it is my Lady
speakig). “It is quite a story for twilight. Ho very shoking!
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Dead?”
Mr Tulkinghrn reasserts it by anthr inclation of his head.
“Whether by his own hand—”
“Upon my hour!” cries Sir Leicester. “Really!”
“Do let me hear the story!” says my Lady.
“Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say—”
“No, you mustn’t say! Go on, Mr Tulkighrn”
Sir Leicester’s galantry concede th poit; thugh he still fe
that to bring this sort of squalor among th upper classes is
really—really—“I was about to say,” resumes th lawyer, wth
unditurbed calmn, “that whether he had died by his own hand
or not, it was beyond my powr to tell you. I should amd that
phras, however, by saying that he had unquestionably did of his
own act; though whether by his own deberate itenti, or by
mischance, can never certainly be knn. Th coror’s jury
found that he took the poon acdetaly.”
“And wat kind of man,” my Lady asks, “was this deplorable
creature?”
“Very difficult to say,” returns th lawyer, shaking his head.
“He had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglted, with his gypsy
cur, and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have
cdered him the coonest of the coon. The surgeon had a
ntion that he had onc be sothing better, both in
appearance and condition”
“What did they cal the wretced beg?”
“They cald him what he had cald hielf, but n oe knew
his name.”
“Not even any one who had attended on him?”
“No one had attended on him He was found dead. In fact, I
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found him”
“Without any clue to anything mre?”
“Withut any; there was,” says the lawyer meditativey, “an od
portmanteau; but—No, there were no papers”
During the utteran of every word of this short dialogue, Lady
Dedlock and Mr Tulkighorn, without any other alteration in their
customary deportmet, have looked very steadiy at one another—
as was natural, perhaps, in th discus of so unusual a subjet.
Sir Leicester has looked at th fire, with th geral expresion of
the Dedlock o the staircas The story beg told, he renws hi
statey protet, saying, that as it is quite clar that no association in
my Lady’s mid can possibly be traceabl to this poor wretch
(unl he was a begging-letter writer); he trusts to hear n mre
about a subjet so far removed fro my Lady’s station.
“Certainly, a collection of horrors,” says my Lady, gathrig up
her mantles and furs; “but they interest one for the mot! Have
the kidn, Mr Tulkighorn, to ope the door for me”
Mr Tulkighorn do so with deferene, and holds it ope,
wile she passes out. She passes cl to him, wth hr usual
fatigued maner, and it grace. They meet agai at dier—
again, next day—again, for many days in suc Lady
Dedlock is alays th same exhausted deity, surrounded by
wrsippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, eve wh
presiding at her own shri. Mr Tulkighrn is alays th same
speess repostory of nobl confideces: so oddly out of plac,
and yet s perfectly at home They appear to take as little note of
one another, as any two peopl, encosed within the sam wall,
culd. But, whether eac evermre watches and suspects th
other, evermre mitrustful of so great resrvati; whether
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eac i evermre prepared at al pots for the other, and nver to
be taken unaware; wat each wuld give to know ho much th
other knows—al this i hidde, for the tim, in their own hearts.
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Chapter 13
Esther’s Narrative
W
e held many coultations about what Riard was to
be; first, without Mr Jarndyc, as he had requested, and
afterwards with him; but it was a log tim before we
sed to make progress. Richard said he was ready for anythng.
Wh Mr Jarndyc doubted whether he might not already be too
old to enter the Navy, Riard said he had thought of that, and
perhaps he was Wh Mr Jarndyc asked him what he thought of
the Army, Riard said he had thought of that, too, and it was’t a
bad idea. Whe Mr Jarndyce advised him to try and decide with
elf, whether his old prefere for the sea was an ordiary
boyish inclination, or a strong ipul, Richard answered, w, h
realy had tried very often, and he culdn’t make out.
“Ho much of this indecision of character,” Mr Jarndyce said
to me, “is chargeable on that inprensibl heap of
uncertainty and prorastiation on which he has be thro
from his birth, I do’t preted to say; but that Cancry, amg its
thr sins, is responsible for some of it, I can plainy se It has
engendered or cofirmd i him a habit of putting off—and
trusting to this, that, and the other can, without knowing what
chance—and dismssing everythng as unttld, uncertain, and
confusd. Th character of much older and steadier people may be
ve changed by th circumstances surrounding th. It would be
to much to expect that a boy’s, in its formation, should be th
subjet of such influence, and esape th.”
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I felt this to be true; though, if I may venture to meti what I
thought bede, I thought it muc to be regretted that Riard’s
educati had not counteracted those influen, or direted hi
aracter. He had been eight years at a publi shool, and had
learnt, I understod, to make Latin Vers of several sorts, in th
most admirabl manr. But I never heard that it had bee
anybody’s business to find out what his natural bent was, or wre
is faigs lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to
him. He had
bee adapted to th Vers, and had learnt th art of making th
to suc perfection, that if he had remaied at school until he was
of age, I suppose he culd only have gone on makig them over
and over agai, unl he had enlarged his educati by forgettig
how to do it. Sti, although I had no doubt that they were very
beautiful, and very improving, and very sufficient for a great many
purposes of life, and alays rebered al through life, I did
doubt whthr Richard would not have profited by some o
studying him a littl, instead of hi studying th quite so much.
To be sure, I know nothing of the subjet, and do nt eve no
know whether the young gentl of clas Ro or Greece
ade verse to the sam extent—or whether the young gentl
of any country ever did.
“I have’t the least idea,” said Richard musg, “what I had
better be Excpt that I am quite sure I do’t want to go into the
Curch, it’s a toss-up.”
“You have no inclination in Mr Kenge’s way?” suggested Mr
Jarndyc
“I don’t know that, sir!” replied Richard. “I am fond of boatig.
rticd clrks go a good deal on the water. It’s a capital
profession!”
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“Surge—” suggested Mr Jarndyce.
“That’s th thing, sir!” cried Richard.
I doubt if he had ever onc thought of it before.
“That’s the thing, sir;” repeated Riard, with the greatest
ethusiasm. “We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!”
He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it
heartily. He said he had chose his professon, and the more he
thought of it, the more he thought that his detiy was car; the
art of healg was the art of all others for him Mistrustig that he
only came to this conclusion, becaus, having never had much
can of findig out for himelf what he was fitted for, and
having nver be guided to the divery, he was take by the
nwest idea, and was glad to get rid of the troubl of
cderati, I wodered whether the Lati Vers ofte ended
in this, or whthr Richard’s was a solitary case.
Mr Jarndyc took great pai to talk with hi, sriously, and to
put it to his god sen not to deceive hf i so important a
matter. Riard was a lttle grave after thes interviews; but
ivariably told Ada and m “that it was all right,” and then began
to talk about sothing el
“By Heaven!” crid Mr Boythorn, who interested himf
strongly in the subjet—though I ned nt say that, for he culd do
nothing weakly; “I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and
gallantry devoting himself to that nobl profession! Th more
spirit thre is in it, th better for mankind, and th wors for th
rceary task-masters and low tricksters who deght in putting
that iustrious art at a diadvantage in the world. By all that is
base and despicabl,” cried Mr Boythrn, “th treatmt of
Surgens aboard ship is such, that I would submit th legs—both
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lgs—of every meber of the Admralty Board to a copound
fracture, and reder it a transportable offence in any qualified
practitioner to st them, if the syste were not wholly changed in
ght-and-forty hours!”
“Wouldn’t you give them a week?” asked Mr Jarndyc
“No!” cried Mr Boythrn, firmly. “Not on any consideration!
Eight-and-forty hours! As to Corporati, Paris, VestryBoards, and similar gathrings of jolter-haded clds, wh
assemble to exchange such spee that, by Heave! thy ought
to be worked in quicksver mi for the short remaider of their
miserabl existece, if it were only to prevet thr detestable
Engl fro contaminatig a language spoken in th prece of
th Sun—as to th fellow, wh meanly take advantage of th
ardour of gentlemen in th pursuit of knledge, to rempen
the intiable servi of the bet years of their live, their log
study, and thr expensive education, with pittan to small for
the acptan of cerks, I would have the neks of every one of
them wrung, and their skulls arranged i Surgeo’ Hall for the
conteplation of th wh profession—in order that its younger
mbers might understand from actual masuremt, i early
life, how thk skulls may beme!”
He wound up this vement declaration by lookig round upo
us with a mot agreeable sme, and suddenly thunderig, Ha, ha,
ha! over and over agai, until anybody el mght have be
expeted to be quite subdued by the exertion.
As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choce,
after repeated perids for consideration had be remmended
by Mr Jarndyce, and had expired; and as h still contiued to
assure Ada and me, in th same final manner, that it was “al
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right”; it became adviabl to take Mr Kenge into council. Mr
Kenge, therefore, cam do to dier one day, and land back
i his chair, and turned his eyeglas over and over, and spoke i
a sonorous voice, and did exactly what I remember to have see
do when I was a little girl.
“Ah!” said Mr Kenge “Ye Well! A very god profession, Mr
Jarndyce; a very god profession.”
“Th course of study and preparation require to be diligently
pursued,” observed my Guardian, with a glance at Richard.
“O, n doubt,” said Mr Kenge. “Diligently.”
“But that beg the cas, mre or le, with al pursuits that are
rth much,” said Mr Jarndyce, “it is not a special consideration
ich anothr choice would be likely to esape.”
“Truly,” said Mr Kenge “Ad Mr Riard Carstone, who has s
ritoriously acquitted himf in the—sall I say the cas
shades?—in which his youth had be pasd, w, no doubt,
apply th habits, if not th priciples and practi, of versification
in that tongue in which a poet was said (uns I mistake) to be
born, nt made, to the more emtly practical fied of action o
ich he enters.”
“You may rely upo it,” said Richard, in his offhand manner,
“that I shal go at it, and do my best.”
“Very wll, Mr Jarndyce!” said Mr Kenge, gently nodding hi
ad. “Really, w w are assured by Mr Richard that he mean
to go at it, and to do his best,” nodding fegly and smoothy over
th expression; “I would submit to you, that w have only to
quire ito the bet mode of carrying out the object of his
ambition. Now, with referen to placg Mr Riard with s
sufficiently emt practitir. Is thre any o in vi at
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present?”
“No one, Rick, I thk?” said my Guardian
“No on, sir,” said Richard.
“Quite so!” obsrved Mr Kege “A to situati, no Is there
any particular feeg on that head?”
“N-n,” said Richard.
“Quite so!” observed Mr Kenge agai
“I should lke a lttle variety,” said Richard; “—I mean a god
range of experi.”
“Very requisite, no doubt,” returnd Mr Kenge “I thk this
may be easy arranged, Mr Jarndyc? We have only, i the first
plac, to discover a sufficiently eligible practitir; and, as soo
as w make our want—and, shall I add, our abiity to pay a
preium?—know, our only difficulty will be in th section of
one from a large number. We have only, in the sed place, to
bserve th littl formalities which are rendered necessary by
our tim of life, and our beg under the guardiansp of the
Curt. We shall soo be—shall I say, in Mr Richard’s own lighthearted maner, ‘going at it’—to our heart’s cotent. It is a
coincidence,” said Mr Kenge, with a tinge of melany in h
smil, “one of th coincidence which may or may not require
an explanation beyond our pret lted faculties, that I have a
cousin in th medical profe. He might be deed eigible by
you, and mght be diposed to respod to this proposal. I can
answer for him as littl as for you; but he might!”
As this was an opeg in th prospect, it was arranged that Mr
Kenge should se hs cous. And as Mr Jarndyce had before
propod to take us to Lodo for a fe weks, it was sttld nxt
day that we should make our visit at once, and combi Richard’s
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business with it.
Mr Boythrn leaving us within a wek, we tok up our abode at
a cherful lodging near Oxford Stret, over an uphlsterer’s shop.
London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and
hurs at a time; seng th sights; which appeared to be less
capable of exhaustio than we were. We made the round of the
pripal theatres, too, with great deght, and saw al the plays
that were worth seeng. I mention this, becaus it was at th
theatre that I began to be made unfortabl agai, by Mr
Guppy.
I was sitting in front of the box one nght with Ada; and Riard
was in th place he liked best, bed Ada’s chair; wh,
happening to look dow into th pit, I saw Mr Guppy, wth his hair
flatted dow upo hi head, and wo depicted in his face,
lookig up at me. I felt, all through th performance, that he never
looked at the actors, but cotantly looked at m, and always with
a carefully prepared expression of th deepet misery and th
profoundest dejection.
It quite spoiled my plasure for that night, beaus it was so
very embarrasg and so very ridiulus. But, from that tim
forth, w never went to th play withut my seeng Mr Guppy in
th pit, always with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar
turnd dow, and a geral febleness about hi If he were not
there wen we wet in, and I began to hope he would not co,
and yieded mysf for a lttle whil to the interest of the sc, I
was certain to enunter his languishig eye w I least
expeted it, and, from that tim, to be quite sure that they were
fixed upon me al the evenig.
I really cannot expres ho unasy this made me. If he would
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only have brushed up hi hair, or turned up his coar, it would
have be bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was
always gazing at me, and always in that demonstrative state of
despondency, put such a constraint upo me that I did not like to
laugh at th play, or to cry at it, or to move or to speak. I seed
abl to do nothing naturaly. A to esapig Mr Guppy by going to
the back of the box, I could nt bear to do that; beause I kn
Richard and Ada relied on having me next th, and that thy
could never have talked togethr so happily if anybody el had
been i my place. So there I sat, not knowig where to look—for
werever I looked, I knew Mr Guppy’s eyes were follg m—
and thinking of th dreadful expen to which this young man was
putting himself on my account.
Sotim, I thought of telg Mr Jarndyc Then I feared that
the young man would lo his stuation, and that I mght ruin hi
Sotim, I thought of cofidig in Riard; but was deterred by
th possibility of his fighting Mr Guppy, and giving him black eye
Sotim, I thought, should I frown at him, or shake my head.
Th I felt I could not do it. Sometimes, I considered whthr I
should write to his mothr, but that ended in my being convinced
that to ope a correspode would be to make the matter worse
I always cam to the cous, finally, that I culd do nothing.
Mr Guppy’s persverance, all this time, not only producd h
regularly at any theatre to whic we went, but caused him to
appear in the crowd as we were cog out, and eve to get up
bend our fly—where I am sure I saw him, two or three tim,
strugglig amg the mot dreadful spike After we got home, he
haunted a post opposite our house. Th uphsterer’s whre we
dged, beg at the corner of two streets, and my bedroom
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wndow being opposite th post, I was afraid to go near th
ndow w I wnt upstairs, lest I should see him (as I did on
oonlight night) leanig agait the pot, and evidetly catchig
cold. If Mr Guppy had not be, fortunatey for me, egaged in th
daytime, I realy should have had no rest from him
While w wre making this round of gaieti, in which Mr
Guppy so extraordiariy participated, th busss wich had
helped to brig us to town was nt negleted. Mr Kege’s cousi
was a Mr Bayham Badger, who had a good practic at Chela,
and atteded a large public Institution besides. He was quite
lling to receive Richard into his house, and to superinted h
studies; and as it seed that th could be pursued
advantageusly under Mr Badger’s roof, and Mr Badger liked
Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr Badger “wel eugh,”
an agreement was made, the Lord Chanr’s cent was
btaind, and it was all settld.
On th day wh matters were concluded betw Richard and
Mr Badger, we were all under engagemt to di at Mr Badger’s
house We were to be “mrey a famy party,” Mrs Badger’s nte
said; and w found no lady thre but Mrs Badger hersf. She was
surrounded in th drawig-ro by varius objects, indicative of
her paiting a lttle, playig the piano a lttle, playig the guitar a
lttle, playig the harp a little, sigig a little, workig a lttle,
readig a lttle, writig potry a little, and botanzig a lttle Sh
was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youthfully dresd, and of
a very fi complexi If I add to th littl list of hr
acplists, that s rouged a little, I do nt mean that there
as any harm in it.
Mr Bayham Badger himself was a pik, fre-faced, crispCharles Dicke
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lookig gentlan, with a weak voic, white teeth, light hair, and
surprised eye: some years younger, I should say, than Mrs
Bayham Badger. He admired hr exceedingly, but pricipally, and
to begin with, on the curious ground (as it sed to us) of her
having had three husbands We had barely taken our sats, when
said to Mr Jarndyce quite triumphantly,
“You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs Bayham Badger’s
third!”
“Indeed?” said Mr Jarndyce.
“Her third!” said Mr Badger. “Mrs Bayham Badger has not th
appearan, Mis Sumrso, of a lady who has had two former
husbands?”
I said, “Not at al!”
“And most remarkable men!” said Mr Badger, in a to of
confidence. “Captai Swor of th Royal Navy, wh was Mrs
Badger’s first husband, was a very distiguished officer indeed.
The nam of Professr Dingo, my imdiate preder, is one of
European reputatio”
Mrs Badger overhard him, and smd.
“Ye, my dear!” Mr Badger replied to th smile, “I was
obsrving to Mr Jarndyc and Mis Sumrso, that you had had
tw formr husbands—both very distinguished men. And thy
found it, as peopl geraly do, difficult to beeve.”
“I was barey twenty,” said Mrs Badger, “wh I married
Captain Swosser of th Royal Navy. I was in th Mediterranean
with him; I am quite a Saior. On the twelfth anniversary of my
weddig-day, I beam the wife of Professr Dingo.”
(“Of European reputation,” added Mr Badger in an undertone)
“And when Mr Badger and mysf were married,” pursued Mrs
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Badger, “we wre marrid o th same day of th year. I had
be attacd to the day.”
“So that Mrs Badger has be married to three husbands—two
of th highly distiguished men,” said Mr Badger, summing up
th facts: “and, each time, upo th twty-first of Marc at
Eleven in the foreoon!”
We all expressed our admirati
“But for Mr Badger’s modety,” said Mr Jarndyc, “I would
take leave to correct him, and say thre distinguid men.”
“Thank you, Mr Jarndyc! What I alays tel him!” obsrved
Mrs Badger.
“And, my dear,” said Mr Badger, “what do I alays te you?
That wthut any affectation of disparagig such profesional
distiction as I may have attaid (wich our friend Mr Carsto
ll have many opportunities of estiating), I am not so wak—n,
realy,” said Mr Badger to us genrally, “so unreasable—as to
put my reputation on the sam footing with suc first-rate m as
Captai Swossr and Professr Dingo. Perhaps you may be
interested, Mr Jarndyce,” continued Mr Bayham Badger, leadig
th way into th next drawing-ro, “in this portrait of Captai
Swossr. It was take on his return home from the African
Stati, where he had suffered from the fever of the cuntry. Mrs
Badger considers it to yellow But it’s a very fi had. A very
fin head!”
We all ecd “A very fi head!”
“I feel when I lok at it,” said Mr Badger, “‘that’s a man I
should like to have se!’ It strikingly bespeaks th first-class man
that Captai Swossr pre-emiently was On the other sde,
Professr Dingo. I knew him well—attended him in his last
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illns—a speaking lkeness! Over th piano, Mrs Bayham Badger
when Mrs Swossr. Over the sofa, Mrs Bayham Badger when Mrs
Dingo Of Mrs Bayham Badger in esse, I poss th origial, and
have no copy.”
Dinner was nw anunced, and we went dotairs. It was a
very geteel entertaient, very handsy served. But th
Captai and the Professr sti ran in Mr Badger’s head, and, as
da and I had the honour of beg under hi particular care, we
had the full befit of them
“Water, Mi Summers? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray.
Bring me th Professor’s goblt, James!”
Ada very much admired some artificial flrs, under a glass.
“Astoishig ho thy keep!” said Mr Badger.
“They wre presented to Mrs Bayham Badger when she was in
the Mediterranan”
He invited Mr Jarndyce to take a glass of claret.
“Not that claret!” h said. “Excus me! Th is an ocasion, and
o an ocasion I produc some very special claret I happen to
have. (Jam, Captai Swossr’s win!) Mr Jarndyc, this i a win
that was imported by th Captain, we wi not say h many years
ago You will fid it very curius. My dear, I shall be happy to take
some of this wi with you (Captai Swosser’s claret to your
mistress, James!) My love, your health!”
After dinner, when we ladi retired, we took Mrs Badger’s first
and sd husband with us. Mrs Badger gave us, in the drawgro, a Bigraphial sketch of th life and services of Captai
Swosser before his marriage, and a more minute account of hi
datig fro th ti wh he fe in lve with her, at a bal on
board th Crippler, given to th officers of that ship wh she lay
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i Plymouth Harbour.
“The dear old Crippler!” said Mrs Badger, shaking hr had.
“She was a nobl vessel Trim, ship-shape, al a taunto, as Captain
Swosser usd to say. You must excuse me if I oasally
introduc a nautical expresion; I was quite a sair oce. Captain
Swosser loved that craft for my sake. Whe she was no longer in
mmission, h frequently said that if he were rich enugh to buy
hr old hulk, he would have an inscription let into th tibers of
the quarter-dek where we stood as partnrs in the dane, to mark
the spot where he fel—raked fore and aft (Captain Swossr used
to say) by the fire fro my tops. It was his naval way of mentiong
my eyes.”
Mrs Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glas
“It was a great cange from Captain Swossr to Profesr
Dingo,” she resumed, with a plaitive smile “I felt it a god deal at
first. Such an entire revoluti in my mode of life! But custo,
combined with science—particularly science—inured me to it.
Being th Professor’s sole companion in his botanal excursion, I
almost forgot that I had ever bee afloat, and became quite
learned. It is singular that th Professor was th Antipodes of
Captain Swosser, and that Mr Badger is not in th least like
either!”
We then pasd into a narrative of the deaths of Captain
Swossr and Professr Dingo, both of whom seemed to have had
very bad coplaits. In th course of it, Mrs Badger signfid to us
that she had never madly loved but once; and that th object of
that wild affection, never to be recalled i its fre ethusasm,
was Captain Swosser. Th Professor was yet dying by inche in
th most dismal manr, and Mrs Badger was giving us imitation
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of his way of saying, with great difficulty, “Where is Laura? Let
Laura give me my toast and water!” when the etranc of the
gentlemen consigned him to th tomb.
No, I obsrved that evenig, as I had obsrved for s days
past, that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each
othr’s society; which was but natural, seeng that thy were going
to be separated so soo. I was threfore not very much surprised,
w we got ho, and Ada and I retired upstairs, to find Ada
mre sit than usual; though I was not quite prepared for her
cg ito my arm, and beginnig to speak to me, with her fac
dden.
“My darlg Esther!” murmured Ada. “I have a great sret to
tell you!”
A mighty seret, my pretty one, no doubt!
“What is it, Ada?”
“O Esther, you would never guess!”
“Shal I try to guess?” said I.
“O n! Do’t! Pray don’t!” crid Ada, very muc startled by the
idea of my doig so.
“Now I wnder wh it can be about?” said I, preteding to
nsider.
“It’s about,” said Ada in a whsper. “It’s about—my cous
Richard!”
“Well, my own!” said I, kissing her bright hair, which was al I
culd see. “And what about him?”
“O Esther, you would never guess!”
It was s pretty to have her clging to me in that way, hidig
hr face; and to kn that she was not crying in sorro, but in a
lttle glow of joy, and pride, and hope; that I would nt help her
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just yet.
“He says—I kn it’s very foish, we are both so young—but
h says,” with a burst of tears, “that he lves me dearly, Esther.”
“Dos he indeed?” said I. “I never heard of such a thing! Why,
my pet of pets, I culd have told you that weeks and weeks ago!”
To see Ada lift up her flushed fac i joyful surpris, and hold
me round th neck, and laugh, and cry, and blus, and laugh, was
so pleasant!
“Why, my darlg!” said I, “what a goe you must take me for!
Your cousin Richard has be loving you as plaiy as h could,
for I don’t kn ho long!”
“And yet you never said a word about it!” cried Ada, kissing me.
“No, my lve,” said I. “I waited to be tod.”
“But nw I have told you, you do’t think it wrong of me; do
you?” returned Ada. Sh might have coaxed m to say No, if I had
be the hardet-hearted Duea i the world. Not beg that yet,
I said No, very frey.
“And no,” said I, “I kn the worst of it.”
“O that’s nt quite the worst of it, Esther dear,” crid Ada,
hding me tighter, and laying dow her face again upo my
breast.
“No?” said I. “Not even that?”
“No, not eve that!” said Ada, shakig her head.
“Why, you never mean to say —!” I was begig in joke
But Ada, lookig up and smiling through her tears, cried, “Ye I
do! You know, you know I do!” and then sobbed out, “With all my
heart I do! With all my whole heart, Esther!”
I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as wel as I
had known the other! And we sat before the fire, and I had al the
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talkig to mysf for a little whil (though there was not muc of
it); and Ada was soo quiet and happy.
“Do you think my cousin Jo knows, dear Dame Durde?” she
asked.
“Unless my cous Jo is bld, my pet,” said I, “I should thk
my cous Jo kns pretty we as much as we kn.”
“We want to speak to him before Richard go,” said Ada,
timdly, “and we wanted you to advis us, and to tel h so
Perhaps you wouldn’t mind Richard’s coming in, Dame Durde?”
“O! Richard is outsde, is he, my dear?” said I.
“I am not quite certain,” returnd Ada, with a bashful simplicity
that would have won my heart, if she had not won it long before;
“but I thk he’s waiting at the door.”
Thre h was of course. Thy brought a chair on eithr side of
m, and put me between them, and realy seed to have falen in
ve with m, intead of one another; they were so cofidig, and
s trustful, and so fond of me They went on i their own wild way
for a little whe—I nver stopped them; I enjoyed it too muc
ysf—and then we gradually fel to coderig how young they
wre, and ho thre must be a lapse of several years before this
early love could co to anythng, and ho it could come to
appine only if it were real and lastig, and inspired th wth a
steady resutio to do their duty to eac other, with cotancy,
fortitude, and persverance: each alays for th othr’s sake.
We! Riard said that he would work his figers to th bo for
Ada, and Ada said that she would work her fingers to th bone for
Richard, and thy cald me all sorts of endearing and sensible
nam, and we sat there, advisg and talkig, half the night.
Finally before we parted, I gave them my prom to speak to their
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cousin Jo tomorro
So, wh tomorro came, I went to my Guardian after
breakfast, in the room that was our town substitute for the
Growlery, and told him that I had it in trust to tel him sothing.
“Well, little wman,” said h, shuttig up hs bok, “if you have
accepted th trust, thre can be no harm in it.”
“I hope nt, Guardian,” said I. “I can guarantee that there is no
crey in it. For it only happened yesterday.”
“Aye? And what is it, Esther?”
“Guardian,” said I, “you remember the happy night when w
first cam down to Bleak House? Wh Ada was sigig in the
dark room?”
I wised to recal to his remebrane the look he had given me
th. Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so.
“Beause,” said I, with a littl hesitation.
“Yes, my dear!” said he “Don’t hurry.”
“Beause,” said I, “Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And
have told eac other so”
“Already!” cried my Guardian, quite astonished.
“Ye!” said I, “and to tell you the truth, Guardian, I rather
expected it.”
“Th deuc you did!” said he
He sat considering for a minute or tw; with his smil at oce so
handsome and so kind, upo his changing face; and th
requested m to lt them know that he wisd to se them Wh
they cam he encrced Ada wth one arm, in his fatherly way, and
addred himself to Richard with a cherful gravity.
“Rick,” said Mr Jarndyce, “I am glad to have wo your
confidence. I hope to prerve it. Whe I conteplated th
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relatis betw us four which have so brighted my life, and so
invested it with ne interest and pleasures, I certainly did
conteplate, afar off, th possibility of you and your pretty cous
re (do’t be shy, Ada, don’t be shy, my dear!) beig in a mind to
go through lfe together. I saw, and do s, many reasons to make
it desirable. But that was afar off, Rick, afar off!”
“We lok afar off, sir,” returned Richard.
“Well!” said Mr Jarndyce. “That’s ratial. No, hear me, my
dears! I mght tel you that you do’t know your own mids yet;
that a thousand things may happe to divert you from one
anothr; that it is we this chain of flrs you have taken up is
very easily broke, or it might beme a chain of lead. But I wi
not do that. Such wisdom wi come soo eugh, I dare say, if it is
to come at all. I wi assume that, a fe years he, you will be in
your hearts to one another, what you are today. Al I say before
speakig to you accordig to that assumpti is, if you
do
change—if you do come to fid that you are more co-place
cousins to each othr as man and woman, than you were as boy
and girl (your manhood will excus me, Rik!)—don’t be ashamd
stil to cofide in me, for there wil be nothing monstrous or
un i it. I am oly your friend and distant kinsan I have
power over you whatever. But I wis and hope to retai your
confidence, if I do nothing to forfet it.”
“I am very sure, sir,” returnd Richard, “that I speak for Ada,
too, when I say that you have the stronget power over us both—
roted in respect, gratitude, and affection—strengthg every
day.”
“Dear Cous Jo,” said Ada, on his shoulder, “my father’s
plac can never be empty again. All th love and duty I could ever
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have rendered to him, is tranferred to you.”
“Ce!” said Mr Jarndyc “Now for our asumption. Now we
lft our eyes up, and look hopefuly at the ditan! Rik, the world
is before you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it wi
receive you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your ow
fforts. Never sparate the two, like the heathen waggoner.
Ctancy i lve i a good thing; but it means nothing, and is
thing, without ctancy i every kind of effort. If you had the
abiities of all th great men, past and pret, you could do
nthing wel, without sirely meanig it, and setting about it. If
you entertain th supposition that any real suc, in great things
or in smal, ever was or could be, ever wi or can be, wrested from
Fortun by fits and starts, leave that wrog idea hre, or leave
your cousin Ada here.”
“I w leave it here, sir,” replied Richard, smiling, “if I brought
it here just now (but I hope I did nt), and will work my way on to
my cous Ada in th hopeful distance.”
“Right!” said Mr Jarndyce. “If you are not to make hr happy,
why should you pursue her?”
“I wouldn’t make her unhappy—no, not even for her lve,”
retorted Richard, proudly.
“Well said!” cried Mr Jarndyce; “that’s we said! She remain
here, in her home with me Love her, Rik, i your active life, no
less than i her ho wh you revisit it, and al wi go we
Otherwis, all wil go il That’s the end of my preacg. I think
you and Ada had better take a walk.”
Ada tenderly embracd him, and Riard heartily shook hands
with hi, and then the cousi went out of the room—lookig
back agai directly, though, to say that they would wait for me
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The door stood open, and we both follwed them with our eyes,
as thy passd dow th adjoining ro on which th sun was
shining, and out at its farthr end. Richard with hi had bent, and
her hand draw through hi arm, was talkig to her very
earntly; and she looked up in his fac, ltenig, and seemed to
nothing e. So young, so beautiful, so ful of hope and
prom, they went on lghtly through the sunght, as their own
happy thoughts might then be traversg the years to co, and
making th all years of brightness. So thy passd away into th
adow, and were gone It was ony a burst of light that had be
radiant. The room darked as they went out, and the sun was
ouded over.
“Am I right, Esther?” said my Guardian, when they were go
He who was so good and wis, to ask me whether he was right!
“Rik may gai, out of this, the qualty he wants Wants, at the
core of so much that is god!” said Mr Jarndyce, shaking his had.
“I have said nothing to Ada, Esthr. She has her friend and
counllor alays near.” Ad he laid hi hand lovingly upo my
head.
I could nt help showing that I was a little moved, though I did
all I could to conal it.
“Tut tut!” said he. “But we must take care, too, that our little
man’s life is not all consumd in care for othrs.”
“Care? My dear Guardian, I beeve I am the happit creature
in th world!”
“I beeve so, to,” said he. “But some one may find out, wat
Esther nver wil—that the little woman is to be held in
remebrance above al other peopl!”
I have oitted to mention in its place, that thre was some on
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e at th family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a
gentleman. It was a gentleman of a dark complexi—a young
surgen. He was rathr rerved, but I thught him very sensible
and agreable. At least, Ada asked me if I did not, and I said yes.
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Chapter 14
Deportment
R
iard lft us on the very next eveg, to begin his n
areer, and ctted Ada to my charge with great love
for her, and great trust in m It touched m then to
reflt, and it toucs me now, more nearly, to remember (having
what I have to tel) how they both thought of me, eve at that
egrossing time. I was a part of al thr plans, for th pret and
th future. I was to write to Richard oce a wk, making my
faithful report of Ada who was to write to hi every alternate day.
I was to be informd, under his ow hand, of all his labours and
succes; I was to obsrve ho resolute and persvering he would
be; I was to be Ada’s bridesaid wh thy were marrid; I was to
ve with them afterwards; I was to kep all the keys of their house;
I was to be made happy for ever and a day.
“And if th suit sould make us rich, Esthr—which it may, you
know!” said Richard, to cron all.
A shade crod Ada’s face.
“My dearet Ada,” asked Richard pausg, “wy not?”
“It had better declare us poor at once,” said Ada.
“O! I don’t kn about that,” returned Richard; “but, at al
vets, it wn’t declare anythng at once. It hasn’t declared
anything in Heaven knows how many years”
“To true,” said Ada.
“Ye, but,” urged Riard, anrig what her look suggested
rathr than her words, “th loger it go on, dear cous, th
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nearer it must be to a settlt on way or othr. Now, is not
that reasonable?”
“You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it w
ake us unhappy.”
“But, my Ada, we are nt going to trust to it!” crid Riard.
“We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if it sould
make us rich, we have no constitutial objection to beg rich.
The Court is, by so sttlet of law, our grim old guardian,
and we are to suppose that what it gives us (wn it gives us
anything) is our right. It is nt neary to quarrel with our
right.”
“No,” said Ada, “but it may be better to forget al about it.”
“Well, we!” cried Richard, “thn we wi forget all about it! We
cgn the whole thing to oblivion. Dam Durden puts on her
approving face, and it’s done!”
“Dame Durde’s approving fac,” said I, lookig out of the box
in which I was packing his boks, “was not very visibl w you
calld it by that name; but it doe approve, and she thks you
can’t do better.”
So, Richard said thre was an end of it,—and immediatey
began, on n other foundatio, to buid as many castl i the air
as would man th great wal of Cha. He went away in hgh
spirits. Ada and I, prepared to miss him very much, commenced
our quieter career.
On our arrival in Londo, we had calld with Mr Jarndyc at
Mrs Jeyby’s, but had not be so fortunate as to find her at hoe.
It appeared that she had go somewre, to a tea-driking, and
had take Mis Jellyby with her. Besde the tea-drikig, there
as to be some considerable spee-making and letter-writing o
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th geral merits of th cultivation of coffe, cojontly wth
atives, at the Settlet of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved, n
doubt, suffit active exercise of pen and ink, to make hr
daughter’s part in the proeedings, anythg but a hoday.
It beg, nw, beyond the tim appoted for Mrs Jelyby’s
return, we calld agai Sh was i town, but not at home, having
gone to Mil End, directly after breakfast, on s Borrioboolan
business, arising out of a Society cald th East London Branch
Ad Ramficatio As I had nt seen Peepy on the occas of our
last cal (wn he was not to be found anywre, and w th
ook rather thought he must have strolld away with the
dustman’s cart), I now inquired for him again. Th oyster shells he
had been buidig a house with were sti i the pasage, but he
was nowre discoverabl, and th cook supposed that he had
“gone after the sheep.” When we repeated, with so surpri,
“Th shep?” she said, O yes, on market days he sometimes
followd th quite out of to, and came back in such a state as
ver was!
I was sitting at the window with my Guardian, on the following
morng, and Ada was busy writing—of course to Richard—wh
Miss Jeyby was announced, and entered, leading th idential
Peepy, whom she had made so endeavours to reder
pretabl, by wiping th dirt into cornrs of hs face and hands,
and making his hair very wet and th vitly frizzling it wth
her fingers Everythig the dear chd wore, was either too large
for him or too smal Ag his other cotraditory derations he
had the hat of a Bishop, and the little gloves of a baby. His boots
wre, on a small scale, th bots of a plughman: wile his legs, so
crossed and recrossed with scratche that thy looked lke maps,
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wre bare, below a very short pair of plaid drawers fiished off
with two fril of perfectly different patterns The defict buttons
on his plaid frock had evidetly be supplied from one of Mr
Jeyby’s cats, they were so extremely brazen and so muc to
large Most extraordinary specmens of nedlewrk appeared o
veral parts of his dress, whre it had be hastily mended; and I
regnised th same hand on Miss Jellyby’s. She was, hver,
unaccountably improved in her appearance, and looked very
pretty. She was conscious of poor little Peepy beg but a faiure
after al her trouble, and she showed it as se cam in, by the way
in which she glanced, first at him and th at us
“O dear me!” said my Guardian, “Due East!”
Ada and I gave her a cordial wel, and preted her to Mr
Jarndyce; to wh she said, as she sat dow:
“Ma’s compliments, and she hpe you’ll excuse her, becaus
she’s correcting profs of th plan. She’s going to put out five
thusand new circulars, and she kns you’ll be iterested to har
that. I have brought one of them with m Ma’s cplimts”
With which she preted it sulkily enugh
“Thank you,” said my Guardian. “I am much oblged to Mrs
Jellyby. O dear me! This is a very wind!”
We were busy with Peepy; takig off hi cerial hat; askig hi
f he rebered us; and so on. Peepy retired bed his elbo at
first, but relented at th sight of sponge-cake, and allowd me to
take him on my lap, where he sat mung quietly. Mr Jarndyc
th wthdrawing into th temporary Grolery, Miss Jeyby
oped a conversati with her usual abruptnss.
“We are gog on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn,” said she
“I have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn’t be wrse off if
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I was a what’s-his-name-man and a brothr!”
I tried to say sothing soothing.
“O, it’s of no us, Miss Sumrson,” excaimed Miss Jellyby,
“though I thank you for the kid itenti al the sam I know
h I am usd, and I am not to be talked over.
You wouldn’t be
talked over, if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wid Beasts
under the piano!”
“I shan’t!” said Pepy.
“Very wel, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!”
returned Mis Jellyby, with tears in her eye “I’l never take pai
to dre you any more.”
“Yes, I wi go, Caddy!” cried Peepy, wh was realy a god
child, and w was so moved by his sister’s vexati that he went
at once.
“It ses a littl thing to cry about,” said poor Miss Jeyby,
apolgetically; “but I am quite worn out. I was directing th new
rculars till two this morning. I detest the whole thing so, that that
alone make my head ache til I can’t see out of my eyes. And look
at that poor unfortunate child. Was thre ever such a fright as he
is!”
Peepy, happiy uncus of the defects in his appearan, sat
on the carpet bend one of the lgs of the pian, lookig caly
out of his de at us, whil he ate his cake
“I have set him to the other end of the room,” obsrved Mis
Jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, “beause I don’t want h
to hear the coversation. Those lttle things are so sarp! I was
going to say, we realy are going on worse than ever. Pa will be a
bankrupt before long, and th I hope Ma wi be satisfied.
There’l be nbody but Ma to thank for it.”
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We said we hoped Mr Jellyby’s affairs wre not in so bad a state
as that.
“It’s of no use hopig, though it’s very kind of you!” returned
Miss Jeyby, shakig hr head. “Pa tod me, only yesterday
mrng, (and dreadfuly unappy he is,) that he couldn’t weathr
th storm. I should be surprid if he could. Whe al our
tradesmen send into our huse any stuff thy like, and th
rvants do what they like with it, and I have no tim to iprove
things if I knew how, and Ma do’t care about anything, I should
lke to make out how Pa is to weather the storm. I deare if I was
Pa I’d run away!”
“My dear!” said I, smiling. “Your papa, no doubt, considers h
famy.”
“O yes, his famy is all very fin, Mis Sumrso,” repld
Miss Jeyby; “but what comfort is his famly to hm? His family i
nothing but bis, dirt, waste, noi, tumbles dowstairs, confusion,
and wretcedn. His scramblg home, from week’s-ed to
week’s-end, is lke one great washg-day—only nothing’s
wasd!”
Miss Jeyby tapped her fot upo th flr, and wiped her eye
“I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,” sh said, “and am so angry
with Ma, that I can’t find words to expre myslf! However, I am
t going to bear it, I am determid. I won’t be a slave all my lfe,
and I won’t submt to be proposed to by Mr Qual A pretty thing,
indeed, to marry a Philanthropist. As if I hadn’t had enugh of
that!” said por Miss Jeyby.
I must cfe that I culd not help feeg rather angry with
Mrs Jelyby, mysf; seg and hearig this ngleted girl, and
knowing how muc of bitterly satirical truth there was i what s
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said.
“If it was’t that we had be intimate w you stopped at our
huse,” pursued Miss Jeyby, “I should have be asamed to
here today, for I know what a figure I must s to you two.
But, as it is, I made up my mind to cal: especially as I am not
lkey to se you agai, the next tim you co to town.”
She said this wth such great significance that Ada and I
glanced at o anothr, foreng something more
“No!” said Miss Jeyby, shaking her head. “Not at all likely! I
know I may trust you two. I am sure you won’t betray m I am
egaged.”
“Without their knowledge at home?” said I.
“Why, god gracious me, Mi Summers,” she returnd,
justifying hrsf i a fretful but not angry manner, “h can it be
otherwis? You know what Ma is—and I nedn’t make poor Pa
mre mirable by tellg
him.”
“But would it not be adding to his unappines to marry
without his knowledge or cot, my dear?” said I.
“No,” said Miss Jeyby, softenig. “I hope nt. I should try to
make him happy and comfortable wh he came to se me; and
Peepy and the others should take it in turn to co and stay wth
me; and they should have some care take of them, then.”
There was a good deal of affecti i poor Caddy. She sftened
more and more while saying this, and cried so much over th
unwted lttle home-piture she had raied in her mid, that
Peepy, i hi cave under the piano, was touched, and turnd
hmself over on his back with loud lamentation It was not until I
had brought hi to ki hi siter, and had restored him to his
plac in my lap, and had sho him that Caddy was laughng (s
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laughd expressly for th purpo), that we could recall his peace
of mind; eve th, it was for some time conditional on his taking
us i turns by the ch, and smoothing our fac al over with his
and. At last, as his spirits were not yet equal to th piano, we put
hi on a cair to look out of window; and Mis Jellyby, holdig
hm by on leg, resumed her confidence.
“It began in your coming to our house,” she said.
We naturally asked how?
“I felt I was so awkward,” she replied, “that I made up my md
to be improved in that respet, at al evets, and to larn to dance
I told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to danc
Ma looked at me in that provokig way of hers as if I was’t i
ght; but, I was quite determid to be taught to dan, and s I
wt to Mr Turveydrop’s Academy in Nean Street.”
“And was it there, my dear—” I began
“Yes, it was there,” said Caddy, “and I am engaged to Mr
Turveydrop. There are two Mr Turveydrops, father and s My
Mr Turveydrop is th son, of course. I only wish I had be better
brought up, and was likely to make him a better wfe; for I am very
fond of him”
“I am sorry to hear this,” said I, “I must confess.”
“I do’t know why you should be srry,” sh retorted a little
anxiously, “but I am engaged to Mr Turveydrop, whether or no,
and he is very fond of me. It’s a secret as yet, eve o his side,
becaus od Mr Turveydrop has a share in th conti, and it
mght break hi heart, or give him so other shock, if he was told
of it abruptly. Old Mr Turveydrop is a very gentlanly man
indeed—very gentlemany.”
“Does his wife know of it?” asked Ada.
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“Old Mr Turveydrop’s wife, Miss Clare?” returnd Miss Jellyby,
openig her eyes. “Thre’s no such pers. He is a widowr.”
We wre here iterrupted by Peepy, whose lg had undergone
so much on account of his sister’s unnsciously jerkig it like a
be-rope wenever she was emphati, that the afflited chd n
bemoand his sufferings with a very low-spirited noi A h
appealed to me for compassion, and as I was only a lister, I
undertook to hold him Mis Jellyby proceeded, after begging
Peepy’s pardon with a ki, and asurig him that she hadn’t
mant to do it.
“That’s th state of th case,” said Caddy. “If I ever blam
ysf, I sal thk it’s Ma’s fault. We are to be married whenever
we can, and then I shall go to Pa at the offic and write to Ma. It
wn’t much agitate Ma: I am only pen and ink to her. One great
comfort is,” said Caddy, with a sob, “that I shall never hear of
Africa after I am married. Young Mr Turveydrop hates it for my
sake; and if od Mr Turveydrop knows thre is such a place, it’s as
much as he doe”
“It was he wh was very gentlemany, I thk?” said I.
“Very gentlemanly, indeed,” said Caddy. “He is celbrated
almost everywre, for his Deportment.”
“Does he teach?” asked Ada.
“No, he don’t teac anythg in particular,” replied Caddy. “But
his Deportment is beautiful.”
Caddy went o to say, with coderabl hestation and
reuctan, that there was one thg more she wied us to know,
and felt we ought to know, and whic sh hoped would not offend
us. It was, that she had improved her acquaintance with Miss
Flte, the lttle crazy old lady; and that se frequently wet there
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early i the mrnig, and mt her lover for a few miutes before
breakfast—only for a few miutes “I go there, at other tim,” said
Caddy, “but Prince doe not come th. Young Mr Turveydrop’s
name is Prince; I wish it was’t, becaus it sounds like a dog, but
of course he didn’t christe himelf. Old Mr Turveydrop had hi
ritened Pri, in rebrane of the Pri Reget. Old Mr
Turveydrop adored the Pri Reget on acunt of h
Deportmet. I hope you won’t think the worse of m for having
made the lttle appotments at Mi Flte’s, where I first wet
with you; beause I lke the poor thing for her own sake and I
beeve se like m. If you could se young Mr Turveydrop, I am
ure you would think well of him—at last, I am sure you culdn’t
pobly think any i of hi I am going there now, for my leon. I
couldn’t ask you to go with me, Miss Sumrson; but if you
wuld,” said Caddy, wh had said all this, earntly and
tremblgly, “I should be very glad—very glad.”
It happed that we had arranged with my Guardian to go to
Miss Flite’s that day. We had told him of our formr visit, and our
account had interested him; but something had alays happened
to prevet our going there agai A I trusted that I mght have
sufficient influe with Miss Jellyby to prevet her taking any
very rash step, if I fuly accepted th confidence she was so wg
to place i m, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Peepy
should go to th Acadey, and afterwards meet my Guardian and
Ada at Mi Flite’s—w name I now learnt for th first time.
This was o codition that Miss Jeyby and Peepy should come
back with us to dier. The last artie of the agreement beg
joyfully acded to by both, we smartend Pepy up a lttle, with
th assistance of a fe pi, some soap and water, and a
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hairbrush; and went out: bedig our steps towards Newman
Stret, which was very near.
I found th Acadey established in a sufficiently dingy huse at
th cornr of an archway, with busts in all th staircase wndows.
In the sam house there were al establhed, as I gathered from
the plates o the door, a drawg-master, a cal-mercant (there
as, certainly, no ro for his coals), and a lithgraphic artist. On
th plate which, in size and situati, tok predece of all th
rest, I read, Mr TURVEYDROP. The door was ope, and the hal
was blocked up by a grand piano, a harp, and sveral other
musical instruments in cases, all in progress of removal, and al
lookig rakish in th daylight. Miss Jeyby informd me that th
Acadey had bee lent, last night, for a concert.
We went upstairs—it had be quite a fi house once, w it
was anybody’s busss to keep it clan and fre, and nobody’s
business to smoke in it all day—and into Mr Turveydrop’s great
ro, which was built out into a mew at th back, and was
lighted by a skylight. It was a bare, resounding ro, smelng of
stables; with cane forms alg th walls; and th walls ornamented
at regular iterval with paited lyres, and little cut-glas
branche for candles, which seed to be shedding thr odfashioned drops as othr branche might shed autum leave
Several young lady pupils, ranging fro thirte or fourte years
of age to two or three and twenty, were asbld; and I was
lookig among th for thr instructor, wh Caddy, pinching
my arm, repeated th ceremony of introducti. “Mi
Sumrso, Mr Pri Turveydrop!”
I curtseyed to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful
appearance, with flaxe hair parted in th middle, and curlg at
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the ends al round hi head. He had a little fiddl, whh we used
to call at shool a kit, under his lft arm, and its little bow in the
same band. Hi littl dancing sho were particularly diminutive,
and h had a littl innocent, femini manr, which not only
appealed to me in an amiabl way, but made this singular effect
upon me: that I receved the impreson that he was like his
mothr, and that his mothr had not bee much codered or
wll usd.”
“I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby’s friend,” he said, bong
lw to m “I began to fear,” with timd tendern, “as it was past
th usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming.”
“I beg you will have the goodn to attribute that to me, who
have detaid her, and to receive my excuses, sir,” said I.
“O dear!” said he
“And pray,” I entreated, “do nt al me to be the cause of any
more delay.”
With that apology I withdre to a seat betwee Pepy (who,
beg w usd to it, had already climbed into a crnr plac) and
an od lady of a ceorious countenance, whose two niece were in
the clas, and who was very indignant with Peepy’s boots Pri
Turveydrop then tinkld the strings of his kit with his figers, and
the young ladi stood up to dance Just then, there appeared from
a side-door, old Mr Turveydrop, in the full lustre of hi
Deportmt.
He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexi, false teth,
false whkers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded
breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbo
to be complete. He was pinched in, and sweled out, and got up,
and strapped dow, as much as he could possibly bear. He had
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suc a nkcoth on (puffig his very eyes out of their natural
shape), and his chin and eve his ears so sunk into it, that it
sed as thugh he must invitably double up, if it wre cast
loose. He had, under hi arm, a hat of great sze and weight,
sheving doward fro th cron to th bri; and in his hand a
pair of white glve, with which he flapped it, as he stod poised
on one lg, in a high-shouldered, round-ebod state of elegan
not to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eyeglass, he had a
suff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but
any touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was nt like age, he
was like nthing in the world but a mode of Deportmet.
“Father! A vistor. Mis Jellyby’s fried, Mis Sumrsn.”
“Distinguid,” said Mr Turveydrop, “by Miss Sumrson’s
pre” As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almt beve I
saw creases come into th white of his eye
“My fathr,” said th son, aside to me, with quite an affecting
belief in hm, “is a celebrated character. My fathr is greatly
admired.”
“Go on, Prin! Go on!” said Mr Turveydrop, standig with his
back to th fire, and waving his glve condescendingly. “Go on,
my son!”
At this coand, or by this gracious permission, th lesson
went on. Pri Turveydrop, sotim, played the kit, dancig;
sometimes played th pian, standing: sometimes hummed th
tune with what little breath he culd spare, whil he st a pupi
right; always conscietiusy moved with th least proficient
through every step and every part of the figure; and never reted
for an instant. Hi distinguished fathr did nothing whatever, but
stand before th fire, a model of Deportment.
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“And he never do anything else,” said the old lady of the
censorious countean “Yet wuld you believe that it’s his name
on the door-plate?”
“His son’s name is th same, you kn,” said I.
“He wuldn’t let his son have any name, if h could take it fro
m,” returned the old lady. “Lok at the son’s dress!” It certaiy
was plai—threadbare—almost sabby. “Yet the father must be
garnished and tricked out,” said th old lady, “beause of h
Deportment. I’d deport him! Transport hi would be better!”
I felt curius to kn more, concernng this pers. I asked,
“Dos he give less in Deportment, now?”
“No!” returned the old lady, shortly. “Never did.”
After a moment’s cosideration, I suggested that perhaps
fencing had bee his accomplishment?
“I don’t belve he can fence at all, ma’am,” said th old lady.
I looked surprised and inquisitive Th old lady, beming more
and more incensed agait th Master of Deportment as she dwet
upo th subjet, gave me some particulars of his carer, with
strong assurances that thy were mildly stated.
He had married a mek lttle dancig-mitres, with a tolerabl
nnection (havig never in his life before don anythng but
deport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at th best,
suffered her to work herself to death, to maitai him in those
xpenses which were indispesabl to hs posti. At oce to
xhibit hi Deportmet to the bet mdels, and to kep the bet
model constantly before hif, he had found it necessary to
frequent all public places of fashionabl and lounging resort; to be
een at Brighton and elsere at fasabl ti; and to lead
an idle life in th very best cloths. To enable hi to do this, th
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affectinate lttle dang-mitres had toild and laboured, and
would have toild and laboured to that hour, if her strength had
lasted so long. For, th maipring of th story was, that, in spite
f th man’s absorbing selfis, his wife (overpored by hi
Deportment) had, to th last, believed in him, and had, on hr
death-bed, in th most moving terms, confided him to thr son as
one who had an inextinguisabl cai upon him, and whom he
could never regard with to much pride and deference. Th son,
inheriting his mothr’s belief, and having th Deportment always
before him, had lived and gron in th same faith, and now, at
thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a-day, and
looked up to him with veneratio on the old imagiary pinnac
“Th airs th fe give hif!” said my informant, shaking
her head at old Mr Turveydrop with speechles indignati, as he
drew on his tight gloves: of course unnscus of the homage s
as rederig. “He fuly beeves he is one of the aritocracy! And
h is so condescending to th son h so egregiusly deludes that
you might suppose hi th most virtuous of parents. O!” said th
old lady, apostrophig him with infinte vehemee, “I culd bite
you!”
I could nt help beg amused, though I heard the old lady out
with feegs of real corn It was difficult to doubt her, with the
father and s before me What I mght have thought of them
without the old lady’s acunt, or what I might have thought of the
old lady’s acunt without them, I cant say. There was a fitne
f things in th wh that carrid conviction with it.
My eye were yet wanderig, from young Mr Turveydrop
workig so hard to old Mr Turveydrop deporting hif so
beautifully, when the latter cam amblig up to m, and etered
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into conversati
He asked me, first of al, whthr I conferred a charm and a
distiction o Lodo by residing in it? I did not think it
nary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that,
in any case, but merely tod hi whre I did reside.
“A lady so gracful and accomplished,” he said, kig his right
glove, and afterwards extendig it towards the pupi, “w look
ltly on the deficenc here. We do our bet to po—
polish—po!”
He sat down bede m; takig so pai to sit on the form, I
thught, in imitation of th print of his illustrius model on th
sofa. And realy he did lok very like it.
“To polish—po—polish!” he repeated, taking a pinch of
snuff and gently fluttering hi fingers. “But we are not—if I may
say so, to one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art;” with
th hgh-suldered bo, wich it seed imposble for him to
ake without lifting up his eyebrows and sutting his eye—“we
are not what we used to be in poit of Deportment.”
“Are we not, sir?” said I.
“We have degenrated,” he returned, shakig his head, whic
could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. “A leveing age
is not favourable to Deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I
speak with s lttle partialty. It may nt be for me to say that I
have bee called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop; or
that His Royal Highne the Pri Regent did m the honour to
iquire, on my removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilon at
Brighton (that fin buidig) ‘Who is he? Who the Devil is he? Why
do’t I know hi? Why has’t he thirty thousand a year?’ But
thes are little matters of anedote—the genral property,
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ma’am,—sti repeated ocasionally, among th upper classes.”
“Indeed?” said I.
He repld with the high-shouldered bo “Where what is lft
among us of Deportment,” h added, “sti lingers. England—alas,
my country!—has degerated very much, and is degerating
every day. She has not many gentlemen left. We are fe I see
nothing to succeed us, but a race of weavers.”
“On might hope that the rac of gentlem would be
perpetuated here,” said I.
“You are very good,” he smd, with the high-shouldered bo
again. “You flatter me. But, no—n! I have never bee able to
imbue my poor boy with that part of his art. Heave forbid that I
should disparage my dear chid, but he has—no Deportment.”
“He appears to be an excelt master,” I observed.
“Understand me, my dear madam, he is an excelt master. All
that can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be iparted, h
an ipart. But there are things”—he took another pih of snuff
and made the bow agai, as if to add, “thi kind of thing, for
instance.”
I glanced toards th centre of th ro, wre Miss Jeyby’s
lover, now engaged with single pupi, was undergong greater
drudgery than ever.
“My amable chd,” murmured Mr Turveydrop, adjustig hi
cravat.
“Your son is indefatigabl,” said I.
“It i my reward,” said Mr Turveydrop, “to hear you say so In
some respects, he treads in th fotsteps of his saited mothr.
She was a devoted creature. But Wooan, lovey Wooan,” said
Mr Turveydrop, with very diagreeabl gallantry, “what a sex you
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are!”
I ro and jod Miss Jeyby, wh was, by this time, putting o
her bot. The tim alltted to a leon having fully eapsd,
thre was a geral putting on of bonnets Whe Mi Jellyby and
th unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to beme betrothd
I do’t know, but they certaiy found no, o this occason, to
exchange a dozen wrds.
“My dear,” said Mr Turveydrop benignly to his son, “do you
know the hour?”
“No, father.” The son had n watch. The father had a
handsome god on, which he puld out, with an air that was an
example to mankid.
“My so,” said he “it’s two o’cock. Ret your school at
Kegton at three”
“That’s time enugh for me, father,” said Prince. “I can take a
morsel of dier, standig, and be off.”
“My dear boy,” returned his father, “you must be very quick.
You will find th cold mutton on th table.”
“Thank you, father. Are you off no, father?”
“Ye, my dear. I suppose,” said Mr Turveydrop, shutting h
ye and lifting up his shoulders, wth modest cocious, “that
I must sho mysef, as usual, about to.”
“You had better di out cofortably, sowhere,” said hi
son.
“My dear chd, I itend to. I shal take my little mal, I think, at
the Frenc house, in the Opera Colade.”
“That’s right. Good-bye, fathr!” said Price, shaking hands.
“Good-bye, my son Bless you!”
Mr Turveydrop said th in quite a pious manner, and it sed
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to do his son god; wh, in parting fro him, was so pleased with
m, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, that I almost felt as if it
were an unkidn to the younger man nt to be abl to believe
implicitly in th elder. Th fe moments that were occupid by
Prin in takig leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw,
beg in th secret), enanced by favourable impresion of h
almost childish character. I felt a liking for him, and a compassi
for hm, as h put his littl kit in his pocket—and with it his desire
to stay a littl w with Caddy—and went away godhumouredly to his cld mutton and hi school at Kensigton, that
made me scarcy less irate with his fathr than th censorious old
lady.
The father opened the room door for us, and bod us out i a
manr, I must acknowledge, worthy of hi sg origial In the
sam style he prestly pasd us on the other side of the street,
on his way to the aritocratic part of the town, where he was going
to show himelf among the few other gentl lft. For s
moments, I was so lost in rensiderig what I had hard and se
Newman Street, that I was quite unabl to talk to Caddy, or
even to fix my atteti on what she said to me: epealy wen I
began to iquire in my md whether there were, or ever had
bee, any othr gentlemen, not in th dancing profesion, wh
lived and founded a reputati entirely on thr Deportment. This
became so belderig, and suggested th possibiity of so many
Mr Turveydrops, that I said, “Esthr, you must make up your
mnd to abando this subjet altogether, and attend to Caddy.” I
acrdigly did s, and we catted all the rest of the way to
Lincoln’s Inn.
Caddy tod me that her lover’s education had bee so neglted,
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that it was not alays easy to read his notes. She said, if he were
not so anxius about his spelling, and tok les pais to make it
car, he would do better; but he put so many unneary ltters
ito short words, that they sotim quite lt their Engli
appearance. “He doe it with th best intention,” observed Caddy,
“but it has’t the effect he mean, poor fellow!” Caddy then went
on to reason, how could he be expeted to be a sar, when he
had pasd his whole life i the dang-school, and had do
thing but teach and fag, fag and teach, mornig, noon, and
night! And what did it matter? She could write letters eugh for
both, as s kn to her cot, and it was far better for him to be
amiabl than learned. “Beides, it’s not as if I was an
acplisd girl who had any right to give hersef airs,” said
Caddy. “I know little enough, I am sure; thanks to Ma!”
“There’s another thing I want to tel you, now we are al,”
continued Caddy; “which I should not have liked to mention
unl you had seen Pri, Mi Sumers You know what a
huse ours is. It’s of no us my trying to learn anythng that wuld
be usful for Prince’s wife to kn, in our house. We live in such a
state of muddle that it’s impossible, and I have oly be more
dieartened wenever I have trid. So I get a lttle practi
th—wh do you think? Por Miss Flite! Early i th morning, I
help her to tidy her room, and clean her birds; and I make her cup
of cffee for her (of curse s taught me), and I have learnt to
make it so w that Prince says it’s th very best coffe he ever
tasted, and would quite deght old Mr Turveydrop, who is very
particular ideed about his coffe I can make littl puddings to;
and I know how to buy nek of mutton, and tea, and sugar, and
butter, and a good many housekepig things. I am nt clver at
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my needl, yet,” said Caddy, glang at the repairs on Peepy’s
frok, “but perhaps I shall improve And since I have be
gaged to Pri, and have be dog al this, I have felt bettertempered, I hope, and mre forgivig to Ma. It rather put me out,
at first this morning, to see you and Miss Clare lookig so neat and
pretty, and to fe ashamed of Pepy and myself to; but, on th
hole, I hope I am better-tepered than I was, and mre forgivig
to Ma.”
The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and
toucd min. “Caddy, my lve,” I replied, “I begi to have a great
affection for you, and I hope we shall be friends.” “Oh, do
you?” cried Caddy; “ho happy that would make me!” “My dear
Caddy,” said I, “let us be friends fro this time, and let us ofte
have a chat about thes matters, and try to find the right way
through them.” Caddy was overjoyed. I said everythig I could, in
my old-fashioned way, to comfort and enurage hr; and I wuld
nt have objected to old Mr Turveydrop, that day, for any smalr
consideration than a settlt on his daughter-in-law.
By this time w were come to Mr Krok’s, wh private door
stood open. There was a bi, pasted on the door-post, anung
a room to let on the sed floor. It remded Caddy to tel me as
proceeded upstairs, that there had be a sudden death there,
and an inquest; and that our little friend had be i of the fright.
The door and window of the vacant room beg open, we looked
i It was the room with the dark door, to whic Mis Flite had
secretly directed my attention wh I was last in th huse. A sad
and desolate plac it was; a gly, sorroful place, that gave me
a strange seation of mournfulnes and eve dread. “You look
pal,” said Caddy, w we cam out, “and cod!” I fet as if th
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ro had chilled me.
We had walked slowly, while we were talking; and my Guardian
and Ada were here before us. We found them in Mis Flte’s
garret. They were lookig at the birds, whil a mdial gentlan
was so god as to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and
compassion, spoke with her cherfully by th fire
“I have fiished my professional vit,” he said coming forward.
“Miss Flite is much better, and may appear in Court (as her mind
i st upo it) torro She has been greatly mied there, I
understand.”
Miss Flite received th compliment with complacency, and
dropped a geral curtsey to us
“Houred, indeed,” said she, “by anthr visit fro th Wards
in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Blak Hous
beath my humble rof!” with a speal curtsey. “Fitz-Jarndyce,
my dear;” she had bestod that name on Caddy, it appeared, and
always called her by it; “a double welcom!”
“Has sh be very il?” asked Mr Jarndyc of the gentlan
whom we had found in attendan on her. She anered for
hersef directly, though he had put the question in a whisper.
“O decidedly unll! O very un indeed,” she said,
confidentially. “Not pain, you know—trouble. Not bodily so much
as nervous, nervous! Th truth is,” in a subdued vo and
tremblg, “we have had death here. There was po i the
huse. I am very susceptible to such horrid thgs. It frighted
m Ony Mr Woodcurt knows how muc My physian, Mr
Woodcourt!” wth great statess. “Th Wards in Jarndyce—
Jarndyce of Blak Hous—Fitz-Jarndyc!”
“Miss Flite—” said Mr Woodcourt, in a grave kid of voice, as if
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he were appealg to her while speakig to us; and laying hi hand
gently on her arm; “Miss Flite describes her ils with her usual
accuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in th house which
might have alarmed a stronger pers, and was made ill by th
distress and agitation. She brought me here, in th first hurry of
th discovery, thugh to late for me to be of any us to th
unfortunate man. I have compesated myself for that
disappotmt by cog here since, and beg of so smal us
to her.
“Th kindet physcian in th colge,” wispered Miss Flite to
. “I expet a judgement. On the day of Judgemet. And sal
then cofer estate”
“She will be as wel, in a day or two,” said Mr Woodcurt,
lookig at her with an observant smil, “as she ever w be. In
other words, quite well of course Have you heard of her good
fortune?”
“Mot extraordinary!” said Miss Flite, siling brightly. “You
never heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday,
Conversation Kenge, or Guppy (Crk to Conversation K.), plac
in my hand a paper of shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Alays th
am number i the paper. Alays one for every day in the week.
Now you know, really! So we-timed, is it not? Ye-es! Fro
when do thes papers c, you say? That is the great question.
Naturally. Shall I te you what I think? I think,” said Miss Flite,
drawg hersef back with a very shrewd look, and shakig her
right forefinger in a most signifiant manner, “that th Lord
Canr, aware of the lgth of tim during whic the Great
Seal has be ope, (for it has been open a lg tim!) forwards
them Until the Judget I expet, is given Now that’s very
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creditable, you kn. To confess in that way that he
is a lttle sow
for human lfe. So delicate! Attendig Court the other day—I
attend it regularly—with my doumts—I taxed him with it, and
h almost confessed. That is, I smiled at hm fro my be, and
he smild at me fro his be But it’s great god fortun, is it
nt? Ad Fitz-Jarndyce lays the moy out for me to great
advantage O, I assure you to the greatest advantage!”
I cgratulated her (as s addred hersef to me) upon this
fortunate additi to her income, and wished her a long
continuan of it. I did not speculate upo th source fro wh
it came, or wonder wh humanity was so coderate My
Guardian stod before me conteplating th birds, and I had no
need to lok beyod hi
“And wat do you cal these littl fells, ma’am?” said he in
is pleasant voice. “Have thy any names?”
“I can answer for Miss Flite that thy have,” said I, “for she
proised to tell us what thy were. Ada remembers?”
Ada remembered very we
“Did I?” said Mi Flite—“w’s that at my door? What are you
ltening at my door for, Krook?”
The old man of the house, pusg it open before hi,
appeared thre wth his fur-cap in his hand, and his cat at hi
heels
“I warn’t listeing, Miss Flite,” he said. “I was going to give a
rap with my knuckles, ony you’re so quick!”
“Make your cat go dow Drive her away!” th old lady angriy
exclaimed.
“Bah, bah!—Thre ai’t no danger, getlfolks,” said Mr Krok,
lookig sowly and sharply from one to another, until he had
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looked at al of us; “she’d never offer at the birds when I was here,
un I tod her to it.”
“You will excuse my landlord,” said th old lady with a
dignified air. “M, quite M! What do you want, Krok, wen I have
pany?”
“Hi!” said the old man “You kn I am the Chancellr.”
“Well?” returned Mi Flite. “What of that?”
“For the Chanor,” said the old man with a cuckle, “not to
be acquaited with a Jarndyc is queer, ai’t it, Mis Flte?
Mightn’t I take the liberty?—Your servant, sr. I know Jarndyc
and Jarndyce a’most as we as you do, sir. I knd od Squire
To, sr. I nver to my knowldge see you afore though, not even
i Curt. Yet, I go there a mortal sght of tim i the course of the
year, takig one day with another.”
“I nver go there,” said Mr Jarndyc (whic he never did on
any coderati). “I would sooner go—somewhere els.”
“Would you, though?” returned Krook, grinning. “You’re
bearig hard upo my nobl and learned brothr in your meang,
sir; thugh perhaps it is but nat’ral in a Jarndyce. Th burnt chid,
sr! What, you’re lookig at my ldger’s birds, Mr Jarndyc?” The
old man had c by little and lttle into the room, until he n
touched my Guardian with his elbow, and looked close up ito hi
fac wth hi spectacd eyes. “It’s one of her strange ways, that
she’ll never te th names of th birds if she can hp it, thugh
she named ’em all.” This was i a wisper. “Shal I run ’em over,
Flite?” h asked alud, winking at us and poiting at her as she
turned away, affectig to swp the grate
“If you like,” she anered hurriedly.
The old man, lookig up at the cages, after another look at us,
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wnt through the list.
“Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, As, Waste, Want,
Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cung, Folly, Words, Wigs,
Rags, Sheepski, Plunder, Preedet, Jargon, Gamon, and
Spiach. That’s the whole cotio,” said the old man, “all
ooped up together, by my noble and larnd brother.”
“This is a bitter wind!” muttered my Guardian
“Whn my nobl and learned brothr gives hs Judget,
they’re to be let go free,” said Krook, winkig at us agai “And
th,” h added, whispering and grinning, “if that ever was to
appen—which it won’t—th birds that have never be caged
wuld kill ’em.”
“If ever the wid was i the east,” said my Guardian,
pretendig to look out of the window for a weathercock, “I think
it’s there today!”
We found it very difficult to get away from the house It was not
Miss Flite wh detained us; she was as reasabl a littl creature
in consulting th conveience of othrs, as thre possibly could be
It was Mr Krook. He seed unabl to detac himelf from Mr
Jarndyc If he had been liked to him, he could hardly have
attended h mre closey. He proposed to show us his Court of
Cancery, and all th strange medley it contained; during th
of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept clos to Mr
Jarndyce, and sometimes detaid him, under on prete or
other, until we had pased on, as if he were tormented by an
inclation to eter upo some secret subjet, which he could not
make up hi mind to approach. I cant imagi a countean
and manr more singularly expresive of caution and indecision,
and a perpetual impulse to do somethg he could not resolve to
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venture on, than Mr Krook was, that day. Hi watchfulne of my
Guardian was incessant. He rarely removed his eye fro his face.
If he went on beside him, he obsrved him with the slyne of an
old white fox. If he went before he looked back. When we stood
still, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across and
across hs ope mouth with a curius expresion of a se of
por, and turng up his eyes, and lorig hi grey eyebro
unti they appeared to be shut, seed to san every lamt of
his face.
At last, having bee (always atteded by th cat) all over th
house, and having seen the whole stock of mianous lumber,
wich was certainly curius, we came into th back part of th
hop. Here, on the head of an empty barrel stood on ed, were an
ink-bottl, some od stumps of pen, and some dirty playbis; and,
against th wal, were pasted several large prited alphabets in
veral plain hands.
“What are you doig here?” asked my Guardian
“Trying to learn myself to read and write,” said Krok.
“And ho do you get on?”
“Sl Bad,” returned the old man, impatietly. “It’s hard at
my time of life.”
“It would be easr to be taught by so one,” said my
Guardian.
“Ay, but they might teach me wrong!” returned the old man,
wth a wonderfully suspicious flas of his eye “I don’t know wat I
may have lost, by not beig learnd afore I wuldn’t lke to lose
anythng by beig learnd wrog now”
“Wrong?” said my Guardian, with his god-humured s
“Who do you suppose would teac you wrog?”
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“I do’t know, Mr Jarndyc of Bleak House!” repld the old
man, turng up his spectacles on his foread, and rubbing hi
hands “I do’t suppo as anybody would—but I’d rather trust my
own sef than another!”
The aners, and hi maner, wre strange enough to cause
my Guardian to inquire of Mr Woodcourt, as we all walked across
Lincoln’s Inn togethr, wthr Mr Krok were really, as hi
dger represented him, deranged? The young surgeon repld,
no, he had see no reas to thk so. He was exceedigly
distrustful, as ignoran usually was, and he was always more or
less under th influence of raw gin; of which he drank great
quantitie, and of whic he and his back-shop, as we mght have
obsrved, smt strongly; but he did nt think him mad, as yet.
On our way home, I so coated Peepy’s affecti by buyig
hm a windmill and tw flur-sacks, that he wuld suffer nobody
e to take off his hat and gloves, and would st nowhere but at my
sde. Caddy sat upo the other side of me, next to Ada, to whom
we imparted the whole history of the engagemet as soon as we
got back. We made much of Caddy, and Pepy to; and Caddy
brightened excedigly; and my Guardian was as merry as w
were; and we were all very happy inded; until Caddy went home
at nght in a hackny-coac, with Peepy fast aseep, but holdig
tight to the windm
I have forgotten to mention—at least I have not mentioned—
that Mr Woodcurt was the sam dark young surgeo whom we
had met at Mr Badger’s. Or, that Mr Jarndyce invited hm to
dinner that day. Or, that he cam Or, that when they were al
gone, and I said to Ada, “Now, my darling, lt us have a little talk
about Richard!” Ada laughd and said—
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But, I do’t think it matters what my darlig said. Sh was
always merry.
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Chapter 15
Bell Yard
W
hi we were i London, Mr Jarndyc was cotantly
bet by the crowd of excitable ladi and getl
prodings had so much astoished us. Mr
Quale, who presented himelf so after our arrival, was in al
such excitets. He sed to projet th tw shining knbs of
templ of hi ito everything that went on, and to brush his hair
farther and farther back, until the very roots were alt ready to
fly out of his head in iappeasable phianthropy. All objects wre
alke to him, but he was alays particularly ready for anything i
the way of a testionial to any one His great power sd to be
is powr of indiscriminate admirati. He would sit, for any
lgth of tim, with the utmot enjoymet, bathing hi templ i
the light of any order of lumnary. Having first se hi perfectly
salwed up in admration of Mrs Jellyby, I had suppod her to
be the absrbig object of his devotion. I soon diovered my
mistake, and found him to be train-bearer and organ-blr to a
w prossion of people.
Mrs Pardiggl came on day for a subscription to something—
and with her, Mr Qual Whatever Mrs Pardiggle said, Mr Qual
repeated to us; and just as he had draw Mrs Jellyby out, he drew
Mrs Pardiggle out. Mrs Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to
my Guardian, in bealf of her eloquent fried, Mr Guser. With
Mr Gusher, appeared Mr Quale again. Mr Gusher, beg a flabby
gentleman with a moit surface, and eye so much to small for h
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moon of a fac that they seemed to have be origialy made for
somebody e, was not at first sight prepossing; yet, he was
scarcy seated, before Mr Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly,
wthr he was not a great creature—which he certainly was,
flabbiy speakig; though Mr Qual meant in intelltual beauty—
and whthr we were not struck by his massive configuration of
brow? In short, we heard of a great many Mis of various
srts, amg this set of peopl; but, nothing respeting them was
alf so clear to us, as that it was Mr Quale’s mission to be i
cstasies wth everybody el’s mission, and that it was th most
popular mission of all.
Mr Jarndyce had fal into this company, in th tenderness of
hi heart and his earnt dere to do al the good i hi power; but
that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory cpany, where
bevolence tok spasmodic forms; whre charity was assumed,
as a regular uniform, by loud profesors and speculators i cheap
notority, vement in profesion, restles and vain in acti,
srvil in the last degree of mean to the great, adulatory of
one another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to
help the weak from fallg, rather than with a great deal of bluster
and sf-laudation to rais them up a lttle way when they were
dow; he plainly tod us. Whe a testial was origiated to Mr
Quale, by Mr Guser (who had already got one, origiated by Mr
Quale), and w Mr Gusher spoke for an hour and a half on th
ubject to a meeting, iudig two charity schools of smal boys
and girls, wh were specialy reminded of th widow’s mite, and
requeted to come forward with half-pece and be acceptable
sacrifi; I thk the wid was in the east for three whole weeks
I mention this, beaus I am coming to Mr Skimpole again. It
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sed to me, that his offhand professions of chidishness and
carelesss were a great relief to my Guardian, by contrast wth
such things, and were th more readily believed in; since, to find
one perfectly undegnig and candid man, among many
opposite, could not fai to give him pleasure. I should be sorry to
imply that Mr Skimpole divid this, and was politic: I really never
understood him well enough to know. What he was to my
Guardian, he certainly was to th rest of th world.
He had nt be very wel; and thus, though he lived i
London, we had se nthing of him until n He appeared one
morng, in his usual agreabl way, and as ful of plasant spirits
as ever.
We, he said, here he was! He had be bious, but ric m
were often bilious, and therefore he had be persuadig himelf
that he was a man of property. So h was, in a certain point of
vi—in his expansive intentions. He had be erichig h
medical attedant in th most lavish manr. He had always
doubled, and sometimes quadrupled his fe. He had said to th
doctor, “Now, my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to
uppo that you attend me for nothing. I am overwhelg you
wth money—in my expansive intentions—if you only knew it!”
Ad really (he said) he meant it to that degree, that he thought it
muc the sam as dog it. If he had had those bits of mtal or thin
paper to which mankid attached so much importance, to put i
the dotor’s hand, he would have put them in the dotor’s hand.
Not having them, he substituted the will for the ded. Very wel! If
h really meant it—if h w were genui and real: which it
was—it appeared to him that it was th same as co, and
canelld the oblgation.
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“It may be, partly, beause I know nothing of the value of
money,” said Mr Skimpole, “but I often fe this. It ses so
reasonabl! My butcher says to me, he wants that lttle bi It’s a
part of th pleasant unnscius poetry of th man’s nature, that
h always calls it a ‘littl’ bi—to make th paymt appear easy to
both of us. I reply to the butcher, My good fried, if you kn it
you are paid. You haven’t had the troubl of cog to ask for the
lttle bi. You are paid. I mean it.”
“But, suppose,” said my Guardian, laughg, “he had meant th
meat in th bi, instead of providing it!”
“My dear Jarndyc,” he returned, “you surpris me You take
th butcr’s position. A butcr I once dealt wth, ocupied that
very ground. Says he, ‘Sir, why did you eat sprig lamb at
eighteen-penc a pound?’ ‘Why did I eat sprig lamb at eighteenpence a pound, my hot friend?” said I, naturaly amazed by th
queti. ‘I like sprig lamb!’ This was so far convicing. ‘Wel, sr,
‘says he, ‘I wish I had meant th lamb as you mean th money!”
‘My god fellow,’ said I, ‘pray let us reason like intellectual beigs
Ho could that be? It was impossible. You had got the lamb, and I
have not got the moy. You culdn’t realy man the lamb
wthut sending it in, wreas I can, and do, really mean th
y without paying it!’ He had nt a word. There was an ed of
the subject.”
“Did he take no legal prodings?” inquired my Guardian.
“Yes, h tok legal proeedings,” said Mr Skimpol. “But, in
that, he was influed by passion; not by reason. Passion reds
me of Boythrn. He write me that you and th ladies have
proised him a short visit at his bacher-huse in Linshire.”
“He is a great favourite with my girls,” said Mr Jarndyce, “and I
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have proised for th.”
“Nature forgot to shade him off, I thk?” observed Mr
Skipo to Ada and m “A little too boterous—lke the sa? A
lttle too vehemet—lke a bul, who has made up his mid to
cder every cour scarlet? But, I grant a sledge-hamrig
srt of merit in him!”
I should have be surprisd if those two could have thought
very highly of one another; Mr Boythorn attacg so muc
importance to many things, and Mr Skipole caring so littl for
anythng. Bedes which, I had noticed Mr Boythrn more than
oce on th point of breaking out into some strong opiion, wh
Mr Skimpole was referred to. Of course I merely jod Ada i
aying that we had be greatly plasd with him
“He has ivited me,” said Mr Skimpole; “and if a chid may
trust himself in such hands: wh th pret chid is enuraged
to do, with the united tendern of two angel to guard hi: I
shall go He propo to frank me dow and back again. I suppo
it will cost money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or somethg
of that sort? By th bye Coavinses. You remember our friend
Cavinses, Mi Summers?”
He asked me, as th subjet aro in hi mind, in his graceful
ght-hearted manr, and without the least embarrasst.
“O yes!” said I.
“Coavinses has be arrested by th great Baiiff,” said Mr
Skimpole. “He will never do vice to th sunshi any more”
It quite shocked m to hear it; for, I had already recalled, with
anythng but a serius association, th image of th man sitting o
the sofa that night, wipig his head.
“His succesr informd me of it yesterday,” said Mr Skimpole.
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“His succesr is in my house now—i possesion, I thk h call
t. He cam yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter’s birthday. I put
it to him, ‘This i unreasonable and inveient. If you had a
blue-eyed daughter you wouldn’t like me to co, univited, on
her birthday?’ But, he stayed.”
Mr Skimpole laughd at th pleasant absurdity, and lightly
toucd th piano by which he was seated.
“And h told me,” h said, playing littl chords whre I shall
put full stops, “That Coavis had left. Thre childre. No
mothr. And that Coavins’ profession. Beg unpopular. Th
rising Coavinses. Were at a considerable disadvantage.”
Mr Jarndyc got up, rubbig his head, and began to walk about.
Mr Skimpole played th melody of on of Ada’s favourite songs.
Ada and I both looked at Mr Jarndyce, thking that w knew
at was passing in his mind.
After walking, and stopping, and several times leaving off
rubbing his had, and begig again, my Guardian put hi hand
upo th keys and stopped Mr Skimpole’s playing. “I don’t like
this, Skimpole,” he said thughtfully.
Mr Skipo, who had quite forgotten the subjet, looked up
surprised.
“Th man was necessary,” pursued my Guardian, walkig
backward and forward in the very short spac betwee the pian
and the end of the room, and rubbig his hair up from the back of
his head as if a high east wid had bln it into that form. “If w
make such men necessary by our faults and foies, or by our want
of worldly knowldge, or by our mifortune, we must nt revenge
ourselve upon them. There was no harm in his trade. He
maintaid his childre. One would like to know more about this.”
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“O! Cavis?” cried Mr Skipole, at length percving what
he meant. “Nothing easer. A walk to Coavi’ headquarters,
and you can kn what you wi”
Mr Jarndyc ndded to us, who were only waitig for the
signal “Ce! We wi walk that way, my dears. Why nt that way,
as so as another!” We were quickly ready, and went out. Mr
Skimpole went with us, and quite enjoyed th expediti. It was so
ne and so refreng, he said, for him to want Coavins, instead
of Coavinses wantig him!
He took us, first, to Curstor Street, Chanry Lan, were
thre was a huse with barred widos, which he cald
Cavinses’ Castle. On our going into th entry and ringig a be, a
very hideous boy cam out of a sort of offic, and looked at us over
a spiked wicket.
“Who did you want?” said th boy, fitting tw of th spikes into
is chi
“There was a follower, or an officr, or sothing, here,” said
Mr Jarndyce, “wh is dead.”
“Yes?” said the boy. “Well?”
“I want to kn his name, if you please?”
“Name of Neckett,” said the boy.
“And his address?”
“Bell Yard,” said the boy. “Chandlr’s shop, lft hand side,
name of Blder.”
“Was he—I do’t know how to shape the question,” murmured
my Guardian—“idustrius?”
“Was Nekett?” said the boy. “Yes, wery much so. He was
ver tired of watchig. He’d set upo a pot at a street corner,
eight or ten hours at a stretch, if he undertook to do it.”
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“He might have done wors,” I heard my Guardian soliloquise.
“He mght have undertake to do it, and not do it. Thank you.
That’s al I want.”
We lft the boy, with hi head on one sde, and his arm on the
gate, fondlg and suckig the spike; and went back to Lincoln’s
Inn, whre Mr Skimpole, wh had not cared to reain nearer
Cavinses; awaited us Th, we al went to Bell Yard; a narro
alley, at a very short distance. We soo found th chandler’s shop.
In it, was a good-natured-lookig old woman, with a dropsy, or an
asthma, or perhaps both
“Neckett’s childre?” said she, in reply to my inquiry. “Ye,
surely, miss. Thre pair, if you please Dor right opposite th top
of th stairs” And she handed me a key across th counter.
I glancd at the key, and glancd at her; but sh took it for
granted that I kn what to do with it. As it culd only be
tended for the chdre’s door, I cam out, without askig
anymore questions, and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as
quietly as we could; but, four of us made some noi o th aged
boards; and, w we came to th secod story, we found we had
diturbed a man who was standig there, lokig out of his room.
“Is it Gridly that’s wanted?” he said, fixing his eye o me wth
an angry stare
“No, sir,” said I, “I am gog higher up.”
He looked at Ada, and at Mr Jarndyce, and at Mr Skipole:
fixing th same angry stare on each in succesion, as thy passed
and followd me. Mr Jarndyce gave him god day. “Good day!” h
said, abruptly and fircely. He was a tal sal man with a
carern head, on which but littl hair reaid, a deeply lined
face, and prot eye. He had a cobative look; and a chafing,
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irritabl manner, whic, assated with his figure—still large and
powrful, thugh evidently in its dec—rathr alarmed me. He
ad a pen in his hand, and, in th glimpse I caught of his ro in
passing, I saw that it was covered with a litter of papers
Leavig him standig there, we went up to the top room. I
tapped at th door, and a littl shri voice inside said, “We are
locked in. Mrs Blder’s got th key!”
I appld the key on hearig this, and opeed the door. In a
poor ro, with a sloping ceiling, and containing very littl
furniture, was a mite of a boy, som five or six years od, nursg
and hushg a heavy chd of eighteen mths. There was n fire,
thugh th weathr was cold; both childre were wrapped i some
poor shawls and tippets, as a substitute. Thr clothng was not so
warm, however, but that their no lked red and pihed, and
thr small figures shrunken, as th boy walked up and dow,
nursing and hushig th child with its head on his shoulder.
“Who has lked you up her alone?” we naturaly asked.
“Charley,” said the boy, standing sti to gaze at us
“Is Charly your brother?”
“No. She’s my siter Charltte. Father caled her Charly.”
“Are there any more of you bede Charly?”
“Me,” said the boy, “and Emma,” pattig the lp boet of th
child he was nursg. “And Charley.”
“Whre is Charley now?”
“Out a-wasg,” said the boy, beging to walk up and down
again, and taking th nanke bonnet much to near th
bedstead, by trying to gaze at us at the sam tim
We were lookig at one another, and at these two cdren,
when there cam into the room a very little girl, chdi in figure
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but srewd and older-lookig in the fac—pretty-facd too—
wearig a womanly srt of bonnet muc too large for her, and
drying her bare arm on a womany sort of apron. Her fingers
were white and wrinkld with wasg, and the soap-suds were
yet smoking wh she wiped off her arms. But for this, she might
have be a child, playig at washig, and imitating a poor
workig-woman with a quick obsrvatin of the truth.
She had c runnig from so place in the neghbourhood,
and had made al the haste she could. Consequently, though sh
was very lght, s was out of breath, and could not speak at first,
as she stod panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at
us.
“O, here’s Charly!” said the boy.
Th child h was nursing, stretcd forth its arms, and cried
out to be take by Charly. The little girl took it, i a womanly srt
of manner begig to the apron and the bot, and stood
lookig at us over the burde that clung to her mot affectiately.
“Is it posble,” whispered my Guardian, as we put a chair for
the lttle creature, and got her to sit down with her load: the boy
kepig c to her, holdig to her apron, “that this chd works
for th rest? Lok at this! For God’s sake look at this!”
It was a thing to look at. The three cdre close together, and
two of them relyig soy on the third, and the third so young and
yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangey o th
childish figure
“Charley, Charly!” said my Guardian. “How old are you?”
“Over thirte, sir,” replied th child.
“O! What a great age,” said my Guardian “What a great age,
Charly!”
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I cannot describe th tenderness with which he spoke to her,
half playfuly, yet all th more compassionately and mournfully.
“And do you live ale here with the babi, Charly?” said
my Guardian
“Ye, sr,” returned the cd, lookig up into his face with
perfet confidece, “since fathr died.”
“And ho do you lve, Charly? O! Charly,” said my Guardian,
turning his face away for a moment, “ho do you live?”
“Si father did, sr, I’ve gone out to work. I’m out wasg
today.”
“God hep you, Charly!” said my Guardian. “You’re not tal
ough to reach the tub!”
“In patte I am, sir,” she said, quickly. “I’ve got a high pair as
belonged to mothr.”
“And wh did mothr die? Por mothr!”
“Mothr died, just after Emma was born,” said th child,
glancing at th face upo her bosom. “Thn fathr said I was to be
as god a mothr to her as I could. Ad so I trid. And so I worked
at ho, and did cleaning and nursing and washing, for a long
tim before I began to go out. And that’s how I know how; do’t
you see, sir?”
“And do you often go out?”
“As often as I can,” said Charley, opeing hr eye, and sing,
“beause of earng sixpences and shillings!”
“And do you alays lck the babi up when you go out?”
“To keep ’em safe, sir, don’t you see?” said Charly. “Mrs
Blder comes up now and th, and Mr Gridley comes up
sometimes, and perhaps I can run in sometimes, and thy can
play, you kn, and Tom ain’t afraid of beig locked up, are you,
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Tom?”
“No-o!” said Tom, stoutly.
“When it comes on dark, th lamps are lighted dow i th
urt, and thy sho up here quite bright—almt quite bright.
Do’t they, Tom?”
“Yes, Charly,” said Tom, “alt quite bright.”
“Then he’s as good as gold,” said the lttle creature—O! in suc
a motherly, womany way! “And when Ema’s tired, he puts her
to bed. And wh he’s tired he go to bed hif. And w I
c home and light the candl, and has a bit of supper, he sts up
agai and has it with me Do’t you, Tom?”
“O yes, Charly,” said Tom. “That I do!” And either in this
glips of the great plasure of his lfe, or i gratitude and lve for
Carley, w was all in all to him, he laid his face amg th
anty folds of her frock, and pased from laughing into crying.
It was the first tim since our entry that a tear had be shd
among thes cdre The lttle orphan girl had spoke of their
father, and their mther, as if al that sorrow were subdued by the
necessity of taking courage, and by her chidish importance in
beig able to wrk, and by her bustling busy way. But now, wh
Tom crid; although s sat quite tranquil, lookig quietly at us,
and did not by any movement disturb a hair of th head of eithr
of her littl charges; I saw tw silent tears fal dow her face.
I stood at the window with Ada, pretendig to look at the
husetops, and th blackened stack of chimneys, and th poor
plants, and the birds in lttle cages begig to the neghbours,
w I found that Mrs Blder, fro th shop below, had come i
(perhaps it had take her all this tim to get upstairs) and was
talkig to my Guardian
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“It’s not much to forgive ’em th rent, sir,” she said: “wh could
take it fro th!”
“We, well!” said my Guardian to us two. “It is enough that the
tim will c when this good woman wil find that it
was much,
and that forasuch as s did it unto the least of thes —!” This
child,” he added, after a fe moments, “could she possibly
continue th?”
“Realy, sr, I think s mght,” said Mrs Blder, getting her
havy breath by painful degre. “She’s as handy as is possible to
be. Blss you, sir, th way she tended th tw childre, after th
ther died, was the talk of the yard! And it was a woder to s
her with him after he was took il, it realy was! ‘Mrs Blder,’ he
said to m the very last he spoke—he was lyig there—’Mrs
Blder, watever my calling may have bee, I see a Angel sitting
i this room last night along with my chd, and I trust her to Our
Father!’“ “He had no othr calg?” said my Guardian
“No, sir,” returned Mrs Blinder, “h was nothing but a folrer.
When he first came to lodge here, I didn’t kn what he was, and I
cfe that when I found out I gave hi notic It wasn’t liked i
the yard. It was’t approved by the other ldgers It i
not a
gente calg,” said Mrs Blder, “and most people do object to
it. Mr Gridley objected to it very strong; and he is a god lodger,
though his temper has be hard tried.”
“So you gave him notice?” said my Guardian
“So I gave hi notice,” said Miss Blder. “But really wh th
time came and I kn no othr ill of him, I was in doubts. He was
punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir,” said Mrs
Blder, unnsciously fixing Mr Skipole with hr eye; “and it’s
sthing in this world, eve to do that.”
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“So you kept him after all?”
“Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr Gridley, I could
arrange with th othr lodgers, and should not so much mind its
beg lked or disliked in th yard. Mr Gridly gave his conset
gruff—but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has be
kind to th childre si A pers is never knn ti a pers is
proved.”
“Have many peopl been kid to the chdren?” asked Mr
Jarndyc
“Upon th wh, not so bad, sir,” said Mrs Blinder; “but,
certainly not so many as would have be, if thr fathr’s caling
had be different. Mr Coavi gave a guina, and the follrers
made up a littl purs Some neighbours in th yard, that had
alays joked and tapped their shoulders when he wet by, cam
forward with a littl subscription, and—in geral—not so bad.
Silarly with Carltte. So peopl won’t employ her, beause
she was a follerer’s chid; some people that do emply her, cast it
at her; s make a mrit of having her to work for them, with
that and all her drawbacks upo her: and perhaps pay her less and
put upon her more. But sh’s patieter than others would be, and
i clver too, and alays willg up to the full mark of her strength
and over. So I should say, in genral, not so bad, sir, but might be
better.”
Mrs Blider sat down to give hersef a mre favourabl
pportunity of revering her breath, exhausted anew by so much
talkig before it was fully restored. Mr Jarndyc was turnig to
speak to us, when his attenti was attracted by the abrupt
entran into the room of the Mr Gridley who had be
tid, and whom we had se on our way up.
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“I don’t know what you may be doig here, ladies and
gentlemen,” he said, as if he rented our prece, “but you’l
xcuse my coming in. I don’t come in to stare about me. Well,
Charly! Well, Tom! Well, little one! How is it with us al today?”
He bent over th group in a caressing way, and carly was
regarded as a friend by th childre, thugh his face retaid its
stern character, and hi manr to us was as rude as it could be.
My Guardian noticed it, and repeted it.
“No one, surely, would c here to stare about him,” he said
mildly.
“May be so, sir; may be so,” returned the othr, takig To
upon his kn, and waving him off impatietly. “I do’t want to
argue with ladi and gentl I have had enough of arguing, to
last on man his life”
“You have sufficient reason, I dare say,” said Mr Jarndyce, “for
beg chafed and irritated—”
“Thre agai!” exclaimed the man, beming vitly angry. “I
am of a quarrelsom temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!”
“Not very, I thk.”
“Sir,” said Gridly, putting down the chd, and going up to hi
as if he mant to strike him “Do you know anything of Courts of
Equity?”
“Perhaps I do, to my sorro”
“To your sorro?” said th man, pausing in hs wrath “If so, I
beg your pardon. I am not pote, I know. I beg your pardo! Sir,”
with renwed viole, “I have be dragged for five-and-twenty
years over burnig iron, and I have lt the habit of treadig upo
vevet. Go into the Court of Chanry yoder, and ask what i one
f th standing jokes that brighte up thr business sometimes,
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and they wil tell you that the bet joke they have i the man from
Shropsre. I,” he said, beatig one hand on the other,
passionately, “am th man fro Shropshire”
“I beeve, I and my famy have al had the honour of
furnishig some etertainmt in th same grave place,” said my
Guardian, composdly. “You may have heard my name—
Jarndyc”
“Mr Jarndyce,” said Gridley, with a rough sort of salutati,
“you bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear m More
than that, I tell you—and I tell this gentlan, and thes young
ladi, if thy are friends of yours—that if I tok my wrogs i any
other way, I should be driven mad! It is ony by resetig them,
and by revengig them in my mind, and by angrily deandig the
justi I never get, that I am able to kep my wits together. It is
nly that!” he said, speakig in a hy, rustic way, and wth
great vehemee. “You may te me that I overexcite mysf. I
answer that it’s in my nature to do it, under wrog, and I must do
it. There’s nothing betwee dog it, and skig ito the sg
state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the Curt. If I was
ce to sit dow under it, I should beme imbecile.”
Th passion and heat in which he was, and th manner i
ich his face worked, and th vit gesture with wich h
accompanied what he said, were most painful to see
“Mr Jarndyce,” h said, “conder my case. A true as there is a
Heave above us, this is my case. I am on of tw brothrs. My
father (a farmer) made a will, and left his farm and stock, and s
forth, to my mothr, for her life. After my mothr’s death, all was
to come to me, except a legacy of thre hundred pounds that I was
th to pay my brothr. My mothr died. My brothr, some time
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afterwards, claimed his legacy. I, and some of my reatis, said
that he had had a part of it already, i board and lodging, and
s other things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing
e. No o disputed th w; no on disputed anythng but
whether part of that three hundred pounds had bee already paid
or not. To settle that question, my brother filg a bill, I was
obliged to go into this accursd Cancery; I was forcd thre,
beause the law forced me, and would let m go nere els
Sevente people were made defendants to that simple suit! It
first came on, after tw years. It was th stopped for anthr tw
years, while th Master (may his head rot off!) inquired whthr I
was my fathr’s son—about which, thre was no dispute at all wth
any mortal creature. He then found out, that there were nt
defendants enough—remeber, there were only sveteen as
yet!—but, that we must have another who had be lft out; and
must begin all over agai The cts at that tim—before the thing
was begun!—wre three tim the legacy. My brother would have
given up th legacy, and joyful to esape more costs. My wh
tate, lft to m i that will of my father’s, has gon in cots The
suit, still undecded, has fal into rack, and ruin, and despair,
wth everythig els—and here I stand, th day! No, Mr
Jarndyce, in your suit thre are thusands and thusands involved
were in mi there are hundreds. Is mi le hard to bear, or i
t harder to bear, when my whole living was in it, and has be
thus shamefully sucked away?”
Mr Jarndyc said that he codoed with him with al his heart,
and that he set up n mopoy, himf, in beg unjustly treated
by this monstrous syste
“Thre again,” said Mr Gridley, with no diminuti of h rage
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“Th syste! I am told on al hands, it’s th syste. I mustn’t look
to individuals It’s the syste I mustn’t go into Court, and say, ‘My
Lord, I beg to know this from you—i this right or wrong? Have
you the fac to te me I have reved justie, and therefore am
did?’ My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there, to
admnister the syste I mustn’t go to Mr Tulkighorn, the
solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn Fids, and say to him wh h makes me
furius, by being so co and satisfied—as thy all do, for I kn
they gai by it whil I lo, do’t I?—I mustn’t say to hi, I wil
ave something out of some o for my ruin, by fair means or foul!
He is not repobl It’s th syste. But if I do no vice to any
of them, here—I may! I do’t know what may happe if I am
carrid beyond myself at last!—I wll accuse th individual
wrkers of that syste against me, face to face, before th great
eternal bar!”
His passion was fearful. I could not have beved in such rage
without seeing it.
“I have done!” he said, sitting dow and wping his face. “Mr
Jarndyc, I have do! I am violet, I know. I ought to know it. I
have be in prison for contept of Court. I have be in prison
for threateg the stor. I have be in this trouble, and that
trouble, and shall be again. I am th man fro Shropshire, and I
stim go beyond amusig them—though they have found it
amusig, too, to se me cotted into custody, and brought up i
ustody, and all that. It would be better for me, they tel m, if I
restrained myself. I te th that if I did restrain myself, I should
beme imbecile. I was a god-enough-tempered man once, I
beeve. People i my part of the country, say, they reber m
so; but, now, I must have this vent under my sen of injury, or
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nthing could hold my wits together. ‘It would be far better for
you, Mr Gridly,’ the Lord Chanor tod me last week, ‘not to
aste your ti here, and to stay usefully employed, do i
Shropshire.’ ‘My Lord, my Lord, I kn it would,’ said I to hm,
‘and it would have be far better for me never to have heard the
name of your high office; but, unappily for me, I can’t undo th
past, and th past drive me hre!’—Besides,” h added, breaking
fircely out, “I’ll shame th To th last, I’l sho myself in that
court to its shame. If I kn wh I was going to die, and could be
arried there, and had a vo to speak with, I would die there,
saying, ‘You have brought me here, and set me from here, many
and many a ti No snd me out fet foret!’“ Hi
untenance had, perhaps for years, beme so set in its
ntetius expression that it did not softe, eve now w h
as quiet.
“I cam to take th babi do to my ro for an hur,” h
aid, going to them agai, “and let them play about. I didn’t man
to say all this, but it don’t much signify. You’re not afraid of me,
Tom; are you?”
“No!” said To “You ai’t angry with
me.”
“You are right, my chd. You’re going back, Carly? Aye?
Come, then, lttle one!” He took the younget chd on his arm,
were se was wig enough to be carried. “I shouldn’t woder if
w found a gingerbread soldier dowstairs. Let’s go and look for
hi!”
He made his formr rough salutati, wich was not defit
in a certain respect, to Mr Jarndyce; and bong slightly to us,
wnt dowstairs to his ro
Upon that, Mr Skipo began to talk for the first tim since
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our arrival, in his usual gay strai He said, We, it was realy very
plasant to s how things laziy adapted themve to purpose
Here was this Mr Gridley, a man of a robust w and surpring
ergy—intelectually speaking, a sort of inarmious
blacksth—and he could easily imagine that thre Gridley was,
years ago, wanderig about in lfe for sothing to expend his
superfluous combatives upo—a sort of Young Love among
th thrns—whn th Court of Chancery came in his way, and
acodated him with the exact thing he wanted. There they
wre, matcd, ever afterwards! Othrwise he might have bee a
great genral, blowing up al srt of towns, or he might have be
a great politician, dealg in all sorts of parliamentary rhtoric;
but, as it was, he and the Court of Chanry had fal upon eac
other in the pleasantest way, and nbody was muc the wrse,
and Gridley was, so to speak, fro that hour provided for. Th
look at Coavinses! Ho delghtfully poor Coavinses (fathr of th
charming chidre) illustrated th same principl! He, Mr
Skimpole, hif, had sometimes repined at th existe of
Cavinses. He had found Coavis in his way. He could have
dispensed with Coavins. Thre had be times, w, if h had
be a Sultan, and his Grand Vizir had said o morning, “What
do the Commander of the Faithful require at the hands of hi
ave?” he mght have even gone so far as to reply, “The head of
Cavi!” But what turned out to be the cas? That, al that
time, he had bee giving emplyment to a most deserving man;
that he had be a befactor to Coavi; that he had actualy
be enabling Coavins to brig up th charming chidre i
this agreabl way, developing th socal virtues? Insomuch that
his heart had just now sweled, and th tears had come ito h
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eyes, when he had looked round the room, and thought, “I was the
great patron of Coavi, and his little coforts were my work!”
Thre was something so captivating in his light way of toucng
th fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful chid by th
de of the graver chdhood we had seen, that he made my
Guardian smile eve as he turnd toards us fro a littl private
talk with Mrs Blinder. We kid Charly, and took her downstairs
with us, and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her
work. I do’t know where sh was going, but we saw her run, suc
a littl, littl creature, in her womanly bonnet and apron, through
a covered way at the bottom of the court; and met ito the cty’s
strife and sound, like a dewdrop in an ocan.
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Chapter 16
To-All-Al’s
M
y Lady Dedlock is restles, very restless. Th astonished
fashionabl inteigece hardly kns whre to have
her. Today se is at Chesny Wod; yeterday she was
at her house in town; tomorrow sh may be abroad, for anything
th fashionabl inteigece can with confidence predict. Eve Sir
Leicester’s galantry has some troubl to keep pace with her. It
would have more, but that his other faithful aly, for better and for
worse—the gout—darts into the old oak bed-camber at Cy
Wod, and grips him by both legs.
Sir Leiter recve the gout as a troubl den, but til
a demon of th patrician order. All th Dedlks, in th direct male
line, through a course of time during and beyond which th
ry of man goeth not to the cotrary, have had the gout. It
can be proved, sir. Othr men’s fathrs may have did of th
rhumatism, or may have taken base contagion fro th tainted
blood of the sik vulgar, but the Dedlock famy have
cunated sothing excusive, eve to the lvelg proce
f dying, by dying of thr own family gout. It has come dow
through thr illustrius li, like th plate, or th picture, or th
plac in Linshire. It is amg thr dignities. Sir Leicester is,
perhaps, nt wholly without an impreson, though he has nver
resolved it into words, that th angel of death i th discharge of
his necessary duti may obsrve to th shades of th aristoracy,
“My lords and gentl, I have the honour to pret to you
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another Dedlock certifid to have arrived per the famy gout.”
Hence, Sir Leter yields up his famy legs to the famy
dirder, as if he hed hi nam and fortun on that feudal teure
He fes, that for a Dedlock to be laid upo his back and
spasmdically twitched and stabbed in his extreities, is a liberty
take swhere; but, he thinks, “We have al yieded to this; it
begs to us; it has, for s hundreds of years, been understood
that we are nt to make the vaults in the park interestig on more
ignobl terms; and I submit myself to th compromise.”
And a godly sho h makes, lying in a flus of crimson and
gold, in the midst of the great drawg-room, before hi favourite
picture of my Lady, with broad strips of sunight shig in, dow
th long perspective, through th long line of widos, and
alternatig with soft relfs of shadow. Outside, the statey oaks,
rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known
ploughshare, but was sti a Chase when kigs rode to battle with
sword and shield, and rode a huntig with bow and arro; bear
wtnss to his greatnss. Inside, his forefathrs, lookig on hi
fro th walls, say, “Each of us was a passing reality hre, and left
this coloured shadow of hif, and melted into remembrance as
dreamy as th distant voices of th roks now lulng you to rest;”
and bear their testiony to his greatn, too. And he is very
great, this day. Ad woe to Boythorn, or other daring wight, who
shall preumptuously contet an inch with him!
My Lady is at pret repreted, near Sir Leicester by hr
portrait. Sh has fltted away to town, with no intenti of
remaig there, and will soon flit hither again, to the cfusin of
th fashionabl inteigece. Th house in to is not prepared for
her recpti It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury i
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powder, gapes discsolate at th hal-window; and he mentioned
last nght to another Mercury of his acquaitan, al
accustod to god society, that if that sort of thing was to last—
wich it couldn’t, for a man of his spirits couldn’t bear it, and a
man of his figure couldn’t be expected to bear it—thre would be
resource for him, upo his honour, but to cut his throat!
What cecti can there be, between the place in
Linolnsre, the house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the
whereabout of Jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that ditant
ray of light upon him when he swpt the churchyard-step? What
connection can thre have bee betw many people in th
innumerabl histories of this world, wh, fro opposite sides of
great gulfs, have, neverthel, be very curiousy brought
together!
Jo sweps his crosing all day long, unnscious of th lk, if
any lik thre be. He sums up his mental codition, wh asked a
questi, by replyig that he “don’t kn nthk.” He kns that
it’s hard to kep the mud off the crossg i dirty weather, and
harder sti to live by dog it. Nobody taught him, eve that muc;
he found it out.
Jo lives—that is to say, Jo has not yet died—in a ruinous place,
known to th like of him by th name of Tom-all-Alone’s It is a
black, dilapidated stret, avoded by all decent people; whre th
crazy houses were seized upo, wh thr decay was far
advancd, by so bod vagrants, who, after establig their
own po, took to letting them out in ldgigs. Now, thes
tumbling tements contai, by night, a swarm of miry. As, o
th ruined human wretch, verm parasite appear, so, th
ruined sheters have bred a crod of foul existe that crawls in
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and out of gaps in walls and boards; and cois itself to slp, in
maggot numbers, whre th rain drips i; and comes and go,
fetcng and carrying fever, and sowng more evil in its every
footprit than Lord Coodl, and Sir Thomas Doodl, and the Duke
f Foodle, and all th fi gentlemen in office, dow to Zodle,
shall set right in five hundred years—thugh born expresly to do
it.
Twice, lately, thre has be a cras and a clud of dust, like
the spriging of a mi, in Tom-al-Alone’s; and, eac tim, a
house has fal These acdets have made a paragraph in the
nespapers, and have filled a bed or tw in th nearet hspital
The gaps remai, and there are not unpopular lodgigs among the
rubbi As several more house are nearly ready to go, the nxt
crash in Tom-all-A’s may be expected to be a god on
This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It wuld be
an insult to th discernment of any man with half an eye, to te
m so. Whethr “To” is th popular repretative of th
riginal plaintiff or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce; or,
wether To lived here when the suit had laid the street waste, al
alone, until other settlers cam to join him; or, whether the
traditional titl is a comprensive name for a retreat cut off fro
honest cpany and put out of the pal of hope; perhaps nobody
knows. Certainly, Jo don’t kn
“For I don’t,” says Jo, “I don’t know nothk.”
It must be a strange state to be lke Jo! To shuffle through the
streets, unfamiliar with the shape, and i utter darkn as to the
meaning, of th mysterious symbo, so abundant over th
shops, and at th cornrs of strets, and on th doors, and in th
ndows! To see people read, and to see people write, and to se
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the potm dever ltters, and nt to have the least idea of all
that language—to be, to every scrap of it, sto bld and dumb! It
must be very puzzlg to se the good copany going to the
churche on Sundays, with thr boks in thr hands, and to think
(for perhaps Jo does think, at odd times) what doe it all mean, and
if it mean anythng to anybody, ho comes it that it mean
nothing to me? To be hustled, and jostled, and moved on; and
realy to fee that it would appear to be perfectly true that I have
n bus, here, or there, or anywhere; and yet to be perplxed
by the coderati that I
am here, sohow, too, and everybody
overlooked me unti I beam the creature that I am! It must be a
strange state, not merely to be told that I am scarcy human (as i
the cas of my offering mysf for a witne), but to fee it of my
own knowledge all my life! To se the horse, dogs, and cattle, go
by me, and to know that in ignrance I beg to them, and not to
th superir begs in my shape, wh delicacy I offend! Jo’s
ideas of a Crimal Trial, or a Judge, or a Bishop, or a
Governmt, or that intimable jewel to him (if he only knew it)
the Ctitution, should be strange! His whole material and
immaterial life is woderfuly strange; his death, th stranget
thing of al
Jo co out of Tom-al-A’s, metig the tardy mornig
wich is alays late in getting dow thre, and munches his dirty
bit of bread as he comes along. His way lying through many
streets, and the house not yet beg ope, he sits down to
breakfast on the doorstep of the Soty for the Propagati of the
Gospel in Foreign Parts, and gives it a brus wh he has finished,
as an acknledgment of th accomdation. He admires th size
of th edifice, and wonders what it’s all about. He has no idea,
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poor wretch, of th spiritual destitution of a coral ref in th
Pacifi, or what it costs to look up th precious souls amg th
a-nuts and bread-fruit.
He goes to his crossg, and begin to lay it out for the day. The
town awake; the great tee-totum is set up for its daiy spi and
wirl; all that unaccountabl readig and writig, wich has be
uspeded for a few hours, rec Jo, and the other lower
animals, get on in th unteigible mess as thy can. It is marketday. The blided oxe, over-goaded, over-driven, never-guided,
run into wrog places and are beate out; and plunge, red-eyed
and foaming, at sto walls; and often sorely hurt th innocent,
and often sorely hurt themve Very like Jo and his order; very,
very like!
A band of music comes and plays. Jo listes to it. So doe a
dog—a drover’s dog, waiting for his master outside a butcr’s
hop, and evidently thinkig about those sheep he has had upon
his mind for some hours, and is happily rid of. He ses perplexed
repetig three or four; can’t reber where he lft them; looks
up and do the street, as half expetig to see them astray;
suddenly priks up hi ears and remembers all about it. A
throughly vagabond dog, accustod to low company and publichuses; a terrific dog to shep; ready at a whistle to scamper over
their backs, and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated,
improved, developed dog, wh has be taught his duti and
knows ho to discarge th. He and Jo liste to th music,
probably wth much th same amount of animal satisfacti;
likew, as to awaked assocation, aspiration, or regret,
mlanholy or joyful referen to things beyond the s, they
are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human
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ltener is the brute!
Turn that dog’s desdants wid, like Jo, and in a very fe
years they wil so degenrate that they wil l eve their bark—
but not their bite.
Th day changes as it wears itself away, and bemes dark and
drizzly. Jo fights it out, at his crossg, amg the mud and
ws, th horses, whips, and umbrelas, and gets but a scanty
sum to pay for th unavoury sheter of Tom-all-A’s. Twilight
c on; gas begin to start up i the shops; the lamplghter, with
hi ladder, run alg the margi of the pavet. A wretced
eveg is beginnig to close i
In his chambers, Mr Tulkinghrn sits meditating an application
to the nearet magistrate tomorrow mornig for a warrant.
Gridley, a disappoited suitor, has be here today, and has be
alarming. We are not to be put in bodily fear, and that illconditioned fellow shall be hed to bail again. Fro th ceig,
foreshorted Allegory, in th pers of o impossible Roman
upside dow, points with th arm of Samson (out of joint, and an
odd one), obtrusively toward the window. Why should Mr
Tulkighorn, for suc n reason, look out of window? Is the hand
nt always poting there? So he do nt look out of window.
And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? Thre
are wome eough i the world, Mr Tulkighorn thinks—too
many; they are at the bottom of al that goes wrong i it, though,
for the matter of that, they create bus for lawyers What
would it be to s a woman going by, eve though sh were going
secretly? Thy are all secret. Mr Tulkinghrn knos that, very
w
But thy are not all like th woman wh now leave hm and h
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house bend; between whose plai dre, and her refind
manner, thre is something exceedigly insistet. She should
be an upper servant by her attire, yet, in her air and step, though
both are hurrid and assumed—as far as she can assume i th
muddy strets, wich she treads with an unaccustod fot—she
is a lady. Her face is ved, and sti she sufficiently betrays hrsf
to make mre than one of those who pas her look round sharply.
Sh never turns her head. Lady or servant, sh has a purpo i
r, and can fo it. She never turns her head, unti she comes to
th crossing whre Jo plies with his bro. He cros wth hr,
and begs. Sti, s do nt turn her head until sh has landed on
th othr side. Th, she slightly beckons to hm, and says “Co
here!”
Jo follws her, a pac or two, into a quiet court.
“Are you the boy I have read of in the papers?” sh asked
bend her veil
“I don’t kn,” says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, “nothk
about no papers. I do’t know nothink about nothink at al”
“Were you examed at an Inquest?”
“I do’t know nthink about n-where I was took by the beadle,
do you man?” says Joe. “Was the boy’s nam at the Inkw,
Jo?”
“Yes.”
“That’s me!” says Jo
“Ce farther up.”
“You mean about the man?” says Jo, folg. “Him as wo
dead?”
“Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was
living, so very ill and poor?”
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“O jist!” says Jo
“Did he look like—not like you?” says the woman with
abhorren
“Oh nt so bad as me,” says Jo. “I’m a reg’lar one I am! You
didn’t kn him, did you?”
“How dare you ask me if I knew him?”
“No offence, my lady,” says Jo, with humity; for even he has
got at th suspicion of her beg a lady.
“I am not a lady. I am a servant.”
“You are a jolly srvant!” says Jo, without the least idea of
saying anythng offesive; merely as a tribute of admirati
“Lite and be st. Don’t talk to me, and stand farther from
m! Can you show me al those plac that were spoken of i the
acunt I read? The plac he wrote for, the place he died at, th
place were you wre take to, and the place where he was
buried? Do you know the plac where he was burid?”
Jo answers with a nod; having also nodded as each othr plac
as mentioned.
“Go before me, and sho me all th dreadful places. Stop
opposite to each, and don’t speak to me unles I speak to you.
Don’t look back. Do what I want, and I will pay you we”
Jo attends cosey whil the words are beg spoke; tel them
off on hi broom-handle, findig them rather hard; paus to
consider thr meang; considers it satisfactory, and nods h
ragged head.
“I am fly,” says Jo. “But fen larks, you know. Stow hookig it!”
“What do the horrible creature mean?” exclai the servant,
reiling fro him.
“Sto cuttig away, you kn!” says Jo
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“I do’t understand you. Go on before! I will give you more
my than you ever had i your life”
Jo scres up his mouth into a whistle, gives hi ragged head a
rub, takes his bro under his arm, and leads th way; passing
deftly, with his bare feet, over the hard stones, and through th
mud and mire
k’s Court. Jo stops. A paus
“Who lives here?”
“Hi wot give him his writig, and give me half a bul,” says Jo
in a whisper, withut lookig over his shoulder.
“Go on to the next.”
Krok’s house. Jo stops again. A longer paus
“Who lives here?”
“He lived here.” Jo answers as before
After a silence he is asked, “In which ro?”
“In the back room up there. You can se the wider from th
rner. Up there! That’s where I see him stritched out. Th is th
public ’ous whre I was tok to.”
“Go on to the next!”
It is a longer walk to th next; but, Jo, relieved of hi first
suspicion, sticks to th terms imposed upo hi, and doe not
look round. By many devious ways reekig with offence of many
kinds, they c to the little tunn of a court, and to the gas-lamp
(lighted now), and to the iron gate.
“He was put there,” says Jo, hoding to the bars and lkig in.
“Where? O, what a s of horror!”
“Thre!” says Jo, pointing. “Over yinder. Among th piles of
bo, and cose to that there kitchen winder. They put hi wery
ngh the top. They was obliged to stamp upo it to git it i I culd
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unkiver it for you with my broom, if the gate was ope That’s why
thy locks it, I s’pose,” giving it a shake. “It’s alays locked. Lok
at the rat!” cri Jo, excited. “Hi! Look! There he go! Ho! Into
the ground!”
Th servant shriks ito a cornr—into a cornr of that hideus
archway, with its deadly stains contaminating hr dres; and
putting out hr tw hands, and passionately teg hi to keep
away from her, for he is loathsome to her, so remai for s
moments Jo stands staring, and is still staring wh she revers
herself.
“Is this plac of aboation, consecrated ground?”
“I don’t know nothink of consequential ground,” says Jo, sti
staring.
“Is it bld?”
“WHICH?” says Jo, in the last degree amazed.
“Is it bld?”
“I’m blt if I kn,” says Jo, starig more than ever; “but I
shouldn’t think it warn’t. Blt?” repeats Jo, somthing troubld
in hi mind. “It an’t don it much god if it is. Blt? I should thk
it was t’othred myself. But I don’t know nothink!”
The servant take as lttle heed of what he says, as s s to
take of what she has said hersef. She draw off her glove, to get
some money fro her purs Jo silently notices h wite and
small hr hand is, and what a jolly servant she must be to wear
such sparkling rings.
She drops a piece of money in his hand, withut toucng it,
and shuddering as thr hands approach. “No,” she adds, “sho
the spot again!”
Jo thrusts the handl of his broom betwee the bars of the gate,
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and with his utmost powr of elaboration, poits it out. At length,
lookig asde to see if he has made himelf intelgible, he finds
that he is alone.
His first proding, is, to hod th piece of money to th
gaslight, and to be overpowred at finding that it is yellow-gold.
His next is, to give it a on-sded bite at the edge, as a test of its
qualty. His nxt, to put it in hi mouth for safety, and to sp the
step and pasage with great care. Hi job do, he sets off for Tomall-Alone’s; stopping i th light of innumerabl gas-lamps to
produc th piece of gold, and give it anthr on-sided bite, as a
reassurance of its beg genui
Th Mercury in powder is in no want of society tonight, for my
Lady go to a grand dier, and three or four bal Sir Leter
i fidgety, down at Chy Wold, with no better copany than
the gout; he coplai to Mrs Rounwell that the rai make
uc a mtonous pattering on the terrac, that he can’t read the
paper, eve by th fireside in his own snug dreng-ro
“Sir Leicester would have done better to try th othr side of
the house, my dear,” says Mrs Rouncewe to Rosa. “His dressingro is on my Lady’s side. And in all th years I never hard th
tep upon the Ghost’s Walk, more ditit than it is tonight!”
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Chapter 17
R
ichard very often came to see us while we reaind in
London (though he soon faied in hi ltter writig), and
wth his quick abiities, his god spirits, his god teper,
hi gaity and fres, was always deghtful. But, though I liked
hm more and more, th better I kn him, I still felt more and
mre, how muc it was to be regretted that he had be educated
in no habits of application and cotration. Th syste w
ad addred hm i exactly th same manr as it had
addresd hundreds of other boys, al varying in caracter and
capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks, alays wth
fair credit, and often wth distinction; but in a fitful, dazzling way
that had confirmed his reance on th very qualities in himself,
wich it had be most desirable to direct and train. Thy were
great qualti, without whic no high place can be meritoriously
won; but, like fire and water, though exct servants, they were
very bad masters. If thy had be under Richard’s direction, thy
wuld have be hi friends; but Richard beg under thr
direction, thy became his enies.
I write do the opi, nt beause I beeve that th or
any other thing was s, beause I thought so; but only beause I
did think s, and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and
did. Thes were my thoughts about Riard. I thought I often
bserved besides, ho right my Guardian was in what h had said;
and that th uncertainties and delays of th Chancery suit
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imparted to his nature something of th careless spirit of a
gamter, who felt that he was part of a great gamg syste
Mr and Mrs Bayham Badger cog on afternoon, when my
Guardian was not at ho, in th course of conversati I
naturally inquired after Riard.
“Why, Mr Carsto,” said Mrs Badger, “is very we, and is, I
assure you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swor
usd to say of me that I was always better than land a-had and a
breeze a-starn to the midspmen’s me wen the purser’s junk
had be as tough as the fore-tops weather earrings It was
is naval way of mentioning gerally that I was an acquisition to
any soety. I may reder the sam tribute, I am sure, to Mr
Carsto. But I—you won’t think me preature if I mention it?”
I said n, as Mrs Badger’s inuatig tone sed to require
such an answer.
“Nor Miss Clare?” said Mrs Bayham Badger, swetly. Ada said
no, to, and looked unasy.
“Why, you se, my dears,” said Mrs Badger—“you’ll excuse me
callg you my dears?”
We entreated Mrs Badger nt to metin it.
“Beaus you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so,”
pursued Mrs Badger, “so perfetly charming. You se, my dears,
that although I am sti young—or Mr Bayham Badger pays m the
compliment of saying so—”
“No,” Mr Badger called out, like some on contradicting at a
public meeting. “Not at all!”
“Very we,” smed Mrs Badger, “we wi say still young.”
(“Undoubtedly,” said Mr Badger.)
“My dears, thugh still young, I have had many opportunities of
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observing young men. Thre were many such on board th dear
old Crippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with Captai
Swosser in th Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity of
knowing and befriendig the midspm under Captai
Swosser’s command. You never heard th called th young
gentlemen, my dears, and probably would not understand
allusions to thr pipe-claying thr wekly accounts; but it is
otherwis with m, for blue water has be a sd home to m,
and I have been quite a saior. Agai, with Professr Dingo.”
(“A man of European reputation.” murmured Mr Badger.)
“When I lost my dear first, and became th wfe of my dear
sed,” said Mrs Badger, speakig of her formr husbands as if
thy were parts of a charade, “I stil ejoyed opportunities of
observing youth Th class attedant on Profesor Dingo’s lecture
as a large on, and it beame my pride, as th wife of an emt
scientific man seekig hersf in science th utmost consolation it
culd impart, to throw our house ope to the studets, as a kind of
Sctifi Excange. Every Tuesday evenig there was leade
and a mxed biuit, for all who chose to partake of those
refreshments. Ad there was sce to an unlted extet.”
(“Rearkabl asbl those, Mis Sumrso,” said Mr
Badger, reverentially. “Thre must have be great intellectual
friction going on thre, under th auspice of such a man!”)
“And no,” pursued Mrs Badger, “n that I am the wfe of my
dear third, Mr Badger, I still pursue th habits of observation
whic were formed during the lifetim of Captai Swossr, and
adapted to ne and unexpeted purpo durig the lfeti of
Professr Dingo. I therefore have not co to the coderati of
Mr Carstone as a Neophyte. And yet I am very muc of the
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opinion, my dears, that he has not cho his profesion
advisedly.”
Ada looked so very anxius now, that I asked Mrs Badger on
at she founded her supposition?
“My dear Miss Sumrson,” she replied, “on Mr Carsto’s
character and coduct. He is of such a very easy disposition, that
probably he would nver think it worth while to mti how he
really fes; but, he fe languid about th profesion. He has not
that positive interest i it which makes it his vocati. If he has
any decided impre in refere to it, I should say it was that
it is a tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not proising. Young men,
like Mr Allan Woodcourt, wh take it fro a strong interest in all
that it can do, wi find some reard in it through a great deal of
work for a very little moy, and through years of cderabl
durance and disappoitmt. But I am quite conviced that this
would never be the cas with Mr Carston”
“Dos Mr Badger thk so to?” asked Ada tidly.
“Why,” said Mr Badger, “to tell th truth, Miss Clare, this vi
f th matter had not occurred to me until Mrs Badger mentioned
it. But, when Mrs Badger put it in that light, I naturally gave great
coderation to it; kng that Mrs Badger’s mind, in additi to
its natural advantage, has had th rare advantage of beg
formd by tw such very distiguished (I will eve say
illustratis) public men as Captai Swosser of th Royal Navy
and Professor Dingo Th conclusion at which I have arrived i—
in short, is Mrs Badger’s colus.”
“It was a maxim of Captain Swor’s,” said Mrs Badger,
“speakig in his figurative naval manr, that wh you make
pitc hot, you cannot make it too hot; and that if you only have to
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swab a plank, you should swab it as if Davy Jos were after you.
It appears to me that this maxim is applicable to th medical, as
ll as to th nautical profession.”
“To all professions,” observed Mr Badger. “It was admirably
said by Captain Swosser. Beautifully said.”
“People objected to Professr Dingo, when we were stayig in
the North of Devon, after our marriage,” said Mrs Badger, “that he
disfigured some of th houses and othr buildings, by chipping off
fragments of th edifices with his littl gegical hamr. But
th Professor replied, that he knew of no buiding, save th
Temple of Science. Th principl is th same, I thk?”
“Precisely th same,” said Mr Badger. “Finey expred. Th
Professor made th same remark, Mi Summers, i h last
illns; wh (his mind wandering) he insisted o keeping hs lttl
ammer under th pillow, and chipping at th countenances of th
attendants Th ruling passion!”
Athough we could have diped with the legth at whic Mr
and Mrs Badger pursued the coversation, we both felt that it was
diterested i them to expres the opi they had
cunated to us, and that there was a great probabity of its
beg sund. We agreed to say nthing to Mr Jarndyc until we
had spoke to Riard; and, as he was cg next eveg, w
resved to have a very serious talk with him
So, after he had be a lttle whil with Ada, I went in and
found my darlg (as I knew she would be) prepared to coder
hi thoroughly right in whatever he said.
“Ad ho do you get on, Riard?” said I. I alays sat do on
the other side of him He made quite a siter of me
“O! we enugh!” said Richard.
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“He can’t say better than that, Esther, can he?” crid my pet,
triumphantly.
I tried to look at my pet in th wisest manner, but of course I
couldn’t.
“Well enough?” I repeated.
“Yes,” said Richard, “we enugh. It’s rather jog-trotty and
humdrum. But it’ll do as we as any thg else!”
“O! my dear Richard!” I remontrated.
“What’s the matter?” said Riard.
“Do as we as anythg else!”
“I do’t think there’s any harm in that, Dam Durde,” said
Ada, looking so confidigly at me across him! “Beause if it wi do
as we as anythg else, it wi do very we, I hope.”
“O yes, I hope so,” returnd Richard, carelessly tossing his hair
from his forehead. “After al, it may be only a kind of probatin till
ur suit is—I forgot thugh. I am not to mention th suit.
Forbidde ground! O yes, it’s al right enough. Let us talk about
something el.”
Ada wuld have done so, wgly, and with a ful persuasion
that we had brought the question to a mot satisfactory state But I
thought it would be use to stop there, so I began agai
“No, but Richard,” said I, “and my dear Ada! Cider h
important it is to you both, and what a poit of hour it is
toards your cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnt
without any resrvati I think we had better talk about this,
realy, Ada. It wi be to late, very soo.”
“O yes! We must talk about it!” said Ada. “But I think Richard
i right.”
What was the use of my tryig to look wi, when she was s
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pretty, and so engagig, and so fond of him!
“Mr and Mrs Badger were here yesterday, Riard,” said I,
“and they sed dipod to think that you had no great likig
for th profession.”
“Did they though?” said Riard, “O! We, that rather alters
the cas, beause I had n idea that they thought so, and I should
not have liked to disappoit or inconvence th. Th fact is, I
don’t care much about it. But O, it don’t matter! It’ll do as we as
anythng el!”
“You hear him, Ada!” said I.
“The fact is,” Riard proceeded, half thoughtfully and half
jocoy, “it is not quite in my way. I do’t take to it. And I get too
much of Mrs Bayham Badger’s first and second.”
“I am sure that’s very natural!” crid Ada, quite deghted. “The
very thing we both said yesterday, Esthr!”
“Th,” pursued Richard, “it’s montous, and today i to
like yesterday, and tomorro is to like today.”
“But I am afraid,” said I, “ths is an objection to all kids of
application—to life itself, except under some very un
circumstance.”
“Do you think so?” returnd Richard, still considerig.
“Perhaps! Ha! Why, then, you know,” he added, suddenly
becong gay again, “w trave outsde a circ, to what I said just
n It’ll do as we as anythg else. O, it’s al right enough! Let us
talk about sothing el” But, eve Ada, with her loving fac—
and if it had sed innocent and trusting, wh I first saw it in
that memorabl November fog, h much more so did it see
now, w I kn her innocent and trusting heart—eve Ada
shook her head at this, and looked serious. So I thought it a good
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opportunity to hnt to Richard, that if he were sometimes a littl
careles of hf, I was sure he never meant to be careless of
Ada; and that it was a part of his affectionate conderation for her,
not to slight th importance of a step that might influence both
thr lives. This made him almost grave
“My dear Mother Hubbard,” he said, “that’s the very thing! I
have thought of that, several tim; and have be quite angry
with mysf for meanig to be so muc i earnet, and—
show—not exactly beg s I do’t know how it is; I seem to
want sthing or other to stand by. Even you have no idea how
fond I am of Ada (my darlg cous, I love you, so much!) but I
do’t settle down to constancy in other things. It’s suc uphi
rk, and it takes such a ti!” said Richard, wth an air of
vexation.
“That may be,” I suggested, “beause you don’t like what you
have chosen.”
“Poor fell!” said Ada, “I am sure I don’t woder at it!”
No It was nt of the least use my trying to look wis I tried
again; but ho could I do it, or ho could it have any effect if I
could, wh Ada rested her clasped hands upo his shoulder, and
we he looked at her teder blue eyes, and whe they looked at
hi!
“You se, my preious girl,” said Richard, passing her golde
curls through and through his hand, “I was a littl hasty, perhaps;
or I misunderstod my own inclinations, perhaps. Thy don’t see
to li in that directi I culdn’t tell, till I tried. Now the question
is, whthr it’s worth while to undo all that has be done. It
ses like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.”
“My dear Richard,” said I, “ho can you say about nthing
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particular?”
“I don’t mean absolutey that,” he returned. “I mean that it may
be nothg particular, becaus I may never want it.”
Both Ada and I urged, i reply, not only that it was dededly
wrth while to undo what had bee done, but that it must be
undo I then asked Riard whether he had thought of any mre
congeal pursuit?
“Thre, my dear Mrs Shipto,” said Richard, “you touc me
home Yes, I have. I have be thinkig that the law is the boy for
me.”
“Th law!” repeated Ada, as if she were afraid of the name.
“If I went into Kenge’s office,” said Richard, “and if I wre
placed under arti to Kenge, I should have my eye on the—
hum—th forbidden ground—and should be able to study it, and
master it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglted, and was
beg properly conducted. I should be abl to took after Ada’s
interests, and my own interests (th same thing!); and I should peg
away at Blacksto and all th fellow wth th most
tremendous ardour.”
I was not by any means so sure of that; and I saw ho hi
hankerig after the vague things yet to co of those lgdeferred hpe, cast a shade o Ada’s face. But I thught it best to
encurage him in any project of cotiuous exertion, and only
advised him to be quite sure that his mind was made up now
“My dear Mirva,” said Richard, “I am as steady as you are I
made a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won’t do so any
more, and I’ll beme such a lawyer as i not often se. That is,
you know,” said Richard, reapsing into doubt, “if it really is worth
ile, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing
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particular!”
This ld to our saying agai, with a great deal of gravity, all that
w had said already, and to our coming to much th same
conclusion afterwards. But, we so strongly advised Richard to be
frank and ope with Mr Jarndyce, withut a moment’s delay; and
his disposition was naturaly so opposed to conalment; that h
ught hi out at onc (takig us with him,) and made a full
avoal. “Rick,” said my Guardian, after hearing him attentivey,
“w can retreat with honour, and we wil But we must be
careful—for our cous’s sake—Rick, for our cousin’s sake—that
w make n mre suc mitakes. Therefore, in the matter of th
aw, we will have a good trial before we dede We wil look before
we leap, and take plty of tim about it.”
Richard’s enrgy was of such an impatit and fitful kind, that
he would have lked nthing better than to have gone to Mr
Kege’s offic i that hour, and to have entered into artic with
hi on the spot. Submitting, however, with a good grac to the
caution that we had shon to be so necesary, h conteted
hmself with sitting dow amg us in hs lghtest spirits, and
talkig as if his one unvarying purpoe in life from chdhood had
be that on which now held possession of hi My Guardian
was very kind and crdial with hi, but rather grave; enough so to
caus Ada, wh he had departed and we were going upstairs to
bed, to say:
“Cousi John, I hope you do’t think the worse of Riard?”
“No, my lve,” said he
“Beause it was very natural that Richard should be mistake
in such a difficult case. It is not un.”
“No, no, my love,” said he. “Don’t lok unappy.”
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“O, I am not unappy, cousin Jo!” said Ada, smiling
ceerfully, with her hand upon hi shoulder, where se had put it
i biddig him good nght. “But I should be a little s, if you
thought at al the worse of Riard.”
“My dear,” said Mr Jarndyce. “I should thk the worse of h
nly if you wre ever in th least unappy through his means. I
should be more disposed to quarrel with myself, eve th, than
with poor Rik, for I brought you together. But tut, al this i
thing! He has tim before him, and the rac to run.
I think the
wrs of him? Not I, my loving cous! And not you, I swear!”
“No, indeed, cousin Jo,” said Ada, “I am sure I could not—I
am sure I would not—think any il of Richard, if th w wrld
did. I could, and I would, thk better of him th, than at any
other tim!”
So quietly and honetly she said it, with her hands upo his
shoulders—both hands now—and looking up into his face, lke th
picture of Truth!
“I think,” said my Guardian, thoughtfully regardig her, “I
think it must be swhere written that the virtues of the mthers
shall, oasally, be vited o th childre, as we as th sins of
the fathers Good night, my rosebud. Good night, lttle woman
Pleasant slumbers! Happy dream!”
This was the first tim I ever saw him follw Ada with hi eye,
wth something of a shadow on thr bevolent expresion. I we
remember th look with which he had conteplated hr and
Richard, wh she was singig in th firelight; it was but a very
lttle whil s he had watched them pasg down the room in
ich th sun was shining, and away into th shade; but hi
glance was changed, and eve th silent look of confide in me
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wich now followd it once more, was not quite so hopeful and
untroubled as it had origialy been.
da praid Riard more to me, that night, than ever sh had
praised him yet. She went to sleep, with a littl bracelt h had
given hr clasped upo her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of
hi when I kied her cheek after she had sept an hour, and saw
how tranquil and happy she looked.
For I was so littl inclind to sleep, myself, that night, that I sat
up working. It would not be worth mentioning for its on sake,
but I was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I do’t know why. At
last, I don’t think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I do’t
think it matters.
At any rate, I made up my mid to be so dreadfully industrius
that I wuld leave myself not a moment’s leisure to be lowspirited. For I naturaly said, “Esthr! You to be low-spirited.
You!” And it really was time to say so, for I—yes, I really did se
myself in th glass, almost crying. “As if you had anythng to make
you unhappy, intead of everything to make you happy, you
ungrateful heart!” said I.
If I could have made myself go to slp, I wuld have done it
directly; but, nt beg able to do that, I took out of my basket
s ornamtal work for our house (I mean Blak House) that I
was busy with at that tim, and sat do to it with great
determation. It was necesary to count all th stitche in that
wrk, and I reved to go on with it unti I culdn’t keep my eyes
ope, and then to go to bed.
I soo found myself very busy. But I had left som silk
dowstairs in a work-table drawer in th temporary Grolery; and
coming to a stop for want of it, I tok my candle and wnt softly
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down to get it. To my great surpris, on going in, I found my
Guardian still thre, and sitting looking at th ashes. He was lost
in thught, his bok lay unded by his side, his silvered irogrey hair was sattered cofusedly upo his forehead as though
his hand had be wandering amg it while his thughts wre
elsere, and his fac looked worn. At frightened by cg
upo hi so unxpectedly, I stod sti for a momnt; and should
have retired without speakig, had he not, in agai pasg hi
and abstractedly through his hair, see me and started.
“Esthr!”
I tod hi what I had com for.
“At work so late, my dear?”
“I am workig late tonight,” said I, “beaus I culdn’t slp,
and wished to tire myself. But, dear Guardian, you are late to,
and look weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you
waking?”
“None, lttle woman, that you would readily understand,” said
he.
He spoke i a regretful tone so nw to me, that I inwardly
repeated, as if that would help me to hi meanig, “That I culd
readiy understand!”
“Remai a moment, Esther,” said he “You wre in my
thoughts.”
“I hope I was not the troubl, Guardian?”
He slghtly waved his hand, and fel into his usual manner. The
change was so rearkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of
so much self-cmand, that I found myself again inardly
repeating, “No that I could understand!”
“Littl wman,” said my Guardian, “I was thking—that is, I
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have been thinkig since I have been sitting here—that you ought
to know, of your own history, al I know. It is very little. Next to
nthing.”
“Dear Guardian,” I replied, “whn you spoke to me before on
that subjet—”
“But since th,” he gravey interpod, anticipating what I
mant to say, “I have reflted that your having anything to ask
me, and my having anythng to te you, are different
consideration, Esthr. It is perhaps my duty to impart to you th
ttle I know.”
“If you think so, Guardian, it is right.”
“I thk so,” he returned, very getly, and kidly, and very
distictly. “My dear, I thk so now If any real disadvantage can
attach to your position, in th mind of any man or woman worth a
thought, it is right that you, at least, of al the world, should nt
magnify it to yourself, by having vague impresions of its nature.”
I sat down; and said, after a little effort to be as cal as I ought
to be, “On of my earlit rembran, Guardian, is of thes
rds. ‘Your mothr, Esthr, is your disgrace, and you were hers
Th time wi come, and soo enugh, wh you wi understand
this better, and wi feel it to, as no o save a wman can.’“ I had
covered my face with my hands, in repeating th words; but I tok
them away now with a better kind of shame, I hope, and told hi,
that to him I owed the blg that I had from my chdhood to
that hour never, never never felt it. He put up hi hand as if to stop
m I well kn that he was nver to be thanked, and said n
more
“Ni years, my dear,” he said, after thinking for a littl wile,
“have passd since I received a letter fro a lady living in
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seclusion, written with a stern passion and powr that rendered it
unlke all other letters I have ever read. It was written to m (as it
told me in so many words), perhaps, beaus it was th writer’s
idiosynrasy to put that trust in me: perhaps becaus it was mine
to justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl th twve years
d, in some such cruel wrds as th wich live i your
rebrane. It tod m that the writer had bred her i serecy
from her birth, had blotted out al trace of her existence, and that
if th writer were to die before th child became a wman, she
uld be left entirely friendless, nameles, and unknn. It asked
me to consider if I would, in that case, fiish what th writer had
begun?”
I listed in silece, and looked attentivey at hi
“Your early rellection, my dear, wi supply th gly
medium through which all this was see and expred by th
riter, and th distorted religi which clouded her mid with
pres of the need there was for the chd to expiate an
ffence of wich she was quite innocent. I felt concerned for th
ttle creature, in her darked lfe; and repld to the letter.”
I tok his hand and kissed it.
“It laid the injunctio on m that I should never propose to s
the writer, who had log be estranged from all itercourse with
the world, but who would se a cofidetial aget if I would
appot one. I acredited Mr Kenge. The lady said, of her own
accord, and not of his seking, that her name was an assumed on
That she was, if thre wre any ti of bld in such a case, th
child’s aunt. That more than this she would never (and he was we
persuaded of the steadfastne of her resutio), for any human
nsideration, disclose. My dear, I have told you all.”
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I held his hand for a littl wh in mi
“I saw my ward ofter than she saw me,” h added, cherily
makig lght of it, “and I alays knew she was beved, useful, and
happy. Sh repays me twenty-thousand fold, and twenty mre to
that, every hour in every day!”
“And ofter still,” said I, “she blsses th Guardian w is a
Father to her!”
At th word Fathr, I saw his formr troubl come into his face.
He subdued it as before, and it was go i an instant; but, it had
be thre, and it had come so swiftly upo my words that I felt as
if thy had given hm a shok. I again inwardly repeated,
wonderig, “That I could readily understand. None that I could
readiy understand!” No, it was true. I did nt understand it. Not
for many and many a day.
“Take a fathrly god-night, my dear,” said he, kissing me o
the forehead, “and s to rest. Thes are late hours for workig and
thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, littl housekeeper!”
I nther worked nr thought any more that night. I oped my
grateful heart to Heave in thankfulss for its providence to me
and its care of me, and fell asleep.
We had a vitor next day. Mr Allan Woodcourt came. He came
to take leave of us; he had sttled to do s beforehand. He was
going to China, and to India, as a surgen on board ship. He was to
be away a long, long time.
I belve—at least I know—that he was not rich. All hi
dowd mothr could spare had bee spent in qualifying him for
his profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitir, with
very little influen i London; and although he was, night and
day, at th service of numbers of poor people, and did woders of
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gentleness and skill for th, he gaid very littl by it in money.
He was seve years older than I. Not that I ned mention it, for it
hardly sees to belong to anythng.
I think—I mean, he told us—that he had be in practic three
or four years, and that if he could have hoped to cotend through
three or four more he would not have made the voyage on whic
was bound. But he had no fortun or private mans, and so h
was going away. He had be to se us several tim altogether.
We thought it a pity he should go away. Because he was
distiguished in hs art amg th w kn it best, and some
of the greatest me begig to it had a high opi of him
Wh he cam to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with
hi for the first tim Sh was a pretty old lady, with bright black
eyes, but se seed proud. She cam from Wal; and had had, a
lg tim ago, an emt perso for an antor, of the nam of
Morgan ap-Kerrig—of some place that sounded like Git—w
as th most illustrius pers that ever was known, and all of
whose relations were a srt of Royal Famy. He appeared to have
pasd hi lfe i always getting up into mountai, and fighting
somebody; and a Bard wh name sounded like
Crumlinwallinwer had sung hi praises, in a pi which was
calld, as nearly as I could catc it, Menwillinwodd.
Mrs Woodcurt, after expatiatig to us on the fam of her great
kinsan, said that, no doubt, whrever her son Allan went, h
uld remember his pedigre, and would o no account fro an
alliance below it. She told him that thre were many handsome
Englih ladi in India who went out on speulation, and that
there were s to be piked up with property; but, that nether
charms nor walth wuld suffice for th desdant fro such a
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line, wthut birth: wich must ever be th first consideration. She
talked so much about birth that, for a moment, I half fancied, and
wth pain—but, what an idle fany to suppose that she could think
or care what mine was!
Mr Woodcourt sed a lttl distressed by her proixity, but he
as to considerate to let her see it, and contrived delicately to
brig the coversation round to makig his acknowledgmts to
my Guardian for his hospitality, and for th very happy hours—he
aled them the very happy hours—he had pasd with us. Th
reti of them, he said, would go with him wherever he
wnt, and would be always treasured. And so we gave him our
hands, one after another—at least, they did—and I did; and s he
put his lips to Ada’s hand—and to mi; and so he went away
upo his long, long voyage!
I was very busy indeed, all day, and wrote directions ho to
th servants, and wrote notes for my Guardian, and dusted hi
boks and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a god deal,
one way and another. I was sti busy betwee the lghts, sgig
and workig by the window, when who should co in but Caddy,
w I had no expectation of seeng!
“Why, Caddy, my dear,” said I, “what beautiful floers!”
She had such an exquisite littl nosegay in her hand.
“Indeed, I thk so, Esther,” replied Caddy. “Thy are th
vet I ever saw”
“Prince, my dear?” said I, in a whisper.
“No,” anered Caddy, shakig her head, and holdig them to
me to smel “Not Price.”
“Well, to be sure, Caddy!” said I. “You must have tw lovers!”
“What? Do they lok like that sort of thg?” said Caddy.
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“Do they look like that sort of thing?” I repeated, pig her
ceek.
addy only laughd in return; and teing me that she had come
for half-an-hur, at th expiration of which time Price would be
waitig for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the
wdow: every n and then handig m the flowers agai, or
trying how they looked against my hair. At last, when se was
going, she tok me into my ro and put th in my dres.
“For me?” said I, surprised.
“For you,” said Caddy, with a kiss. “Thy were left bed by
Somebody.”
“Left bed?”
“At poor Miss Flite’s,” said Caddy. “Sombody wh has be
very good to her, was hurrying away an hour ago, to join a sp,
and left thes flowers bed. No, no! Do’t take them out. Let the
pretty little things lie here!” said Caddy, adjustig them with a
careful hand, “beaus I was pret myself, and I shouldn’t
wnder if Somebody left th on purpo!”
“Do they look like that sort of thing?” said Ada, cog
laughngly behnd me, and clasping me merrily round th wait.
“O, yes, indeed they do, Dame Durde! They lok very, very like
that sort of thg. O, very like it indeed, my dear!”
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Chapter 18
Lady Dedlock
I
t was not so easy as it had appeared at first, to arrange for
Richard’s making a trial of Mr Kenge’s office. Richard hf
was th chief impediment. As soo as h had it in his powr to
leave Mr Badger at any moment, he began to doubt whthr he
anted to leave him at all. He didn’t know, h said, really. It
wasn’t a bad profession; he couldn’t assert that h disliked it;
perhaps h liked it as we as he liked any othr—suppose he gave
it on more chance! Upon that, he shut himself up, for a fe
ks, with some boks and some bos, and seed to acquire a
considerable fund of information, with great rapidity. Hi fervour,
after lastig about a mth, began to co; and when it was quite
ooled, began to grow warm agai His vacati betwee law
and medi lasted so lg, that Midsummr arrived before he
finally separated fro Mr Badger, and entered on an experimental
urse of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his waywardness, he
took great credit to himf as beg determid to be in earnet
“this time.” Ad h was so god-natured throughut, and in such
hgh spirits, and so fod of Ada, that it was very difficult indeed to
be otherwis than pleasd with him
“As to Mr Jarndyce,” wh I may mention, found th wid much
given, during this perid, to stick in th east; “As to Mr Jarndyce,”
Richard wuld say to me, “he is th fist fe in th world,
Esthr! I must be particularly careful, if it were only for h
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up of this busss now”
The idea of his takig himf wel to task, with that laughing
fac and heedl manr, and with a fany that everythig could
catc and nothing could hod, was ludicrousy anomalus.
However, he told us betwee-whil, that he was dog it to suc
an extent, that he wondered his hair didn’t turn grey. His regular
wnd-up of th busss was (as I have said), that he went to Mr
Kenge’s about Midsummr, to try how he liked it.
l this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described
hm in a formr illustrati: gerous, profus, wldly careless, but
fully persuaded that he was rathr calculatig and prudet. I
happened to say to Ada, in his prece, half jestigly, half
sriously, about the tim of his going to Mr Kege’s, that he
nded to have Fortunatus’s purs, he made so light of moy,
wich he answered in this way:—
“My jel of a dear cous, you hear this old woman! Why doe
she say that? Becaus I gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it
was) for a certain neat waitcat and buttons a fe days ago Now,
if I had stayed at Badger’s, I should have been obliged to sped
twelve pounds at a blow, for so heart-breakig lture-fees. So I
make four pounds—in a lump—by th transaction!”
It was a queti much discussed betw hm and my
Guardian wat arrangets should be made for hs lving i
London, wh he experimented on th law; for, we had long since
gone back to Bleak House, and it was too far off to admt of his
g there oftenr than onc a week. My Guardian told me that
if Richard were to settl dow at Mr Kenge’s he would take some
apartmets or cambers, where we, too, could occasonaly stay
for a fe days at a time; “but littl woan,” he added, rubbing hi
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had very significantly, “he hasn’t settld dow thre yet!” Th
discussions ended in our hiring for him, by th month, a neat lttl
furnished lodgig in a quiet old house near Quen Square. He
immediatey began to spend all th money he had, in buying th
ddest littl ornaments and luxuri for this lodging; and as ofte
as Ada and I dissuaded hm fro making any purcase that h
ad in conteplation which was particularly unnecessary and
expensive, he tok credit for wat it wuld have cost, and made
out that to sped anything le on sothing e was to save the
difference.
While th affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr Boythrn’s
was postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of hi
dgig, there was nothing to prevet our departure. He could
have gone with us at that tim of the year, very wel; but he was i
th full novelty of his new position, and was making most
ergetic attempts to unravel the mysteri of the fatal suit.
quently we went without him; and my darlig was delighted
to praise him for beg so busy.
We made a plasant journey dow into Lincolre by th
ach, and had an entertaining companion in Mr Skimpole. Hi
furnture had be al ceared off, it appeared, by the pers wh
took po of it on his blue-eyed daughter’s birthday; but, he
seemed quite reeved to thk that it was go. Chairs and tabl,
h said, wre warisome objects; thy were monotonous ideas,
thy had no varity of expression, thy looked you out of
countenance, and you looked th out of countenance. Ho
pleasant, th, to be bound to no particular chairs and tabl, but
to sport lke a butterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit
from rosewood to mahogany, and from mahogany to walnut, and
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from this shape to that, as the humour took one!
“Th oddity of th thing is,” said Mr Skimpole, with a
quickend sense of th ludicrous, “that my chairs and tabl wre
not paid for, and yet my landlord walks off wth th as
mposdly as posble. Now, that sees drol! Thre is something
grotesque i it. The chair and table mrchant never engaged to
pay my landlord my rent. Why should my landlord quarrel wth
him? If I have a pimple on my nose which is disagreable to my
landlord’s pecular ideas of beauty, my landlord has no busine to
scratch my chair and tabl mercant’s nose, which has no piple
o it. Hi reasoning ses defective!”
“Well,” said my Guardian, god-humuredly, “it’s pretty clear
that wver became security for th chairs and tabl wi have
to pay for them”
“Exactly!” returned Mr Skipol. “That’s the crog poit of
unreas in th busss! I said to my landlrd, ‘My god man,
you are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce wi have to
pay for those things that you are spig off i that ideate
manner. Have you no consideration for his property?’ He hadn’t
the least.”
“And refused al propoals,” said my Guardian
“Refused al propoals,” returned Mr Skipol. “I made hi
business propoals. I had him into my ro. I said, ‘You are a man
f businss I beeve?’ He replied, ‘I am.’ ‘Very we,’ said I, ‘n
let us be busss-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pen and
paper, hre are wafers. What do you want? I have occupied your
huse for a considerable perid, I believe to our mutual
satisfacti unti this unpleasant misunderstanding aro; let us
be at once friendly and business-like. What do you want?’ In reply
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to this, he made use of the figurative expreon—w has
something Eastern about it—that he had never se th colour of
my moy. ‘My amiable frind,’ said I, ‘I never have any moy. I
nver kn anythg about mony.’ ‘Wel, sir,’ said h, ‘what do
you offer, if I give you tim?’ ‘My good few,’ said I, ‘I have n
idea of time; but, you say you are a man of busss, and watever
you can suggest to be done in a business-like way wth pen, and
ink, and paper—and wafers—I am ready to do. Don’t pay yourself
at another man’s expee (whic is foolih), but be bus-like!’
Howver, he wouldn’t be, and there was an end of it.”
If th wre some of th inconveiences of Mr Skimpole’s
cdhood, it asuredly pod its advantages too. On the
journey he had a very good appetite for suc refreshment as cam
our way (includig a basket of choic hot-house peaches,) but
nver thought of paying for anything. So when the cachman
came round for his fe, he pleasantly asked him what he
dered a very good fee inded, n—a lberal one—and, on
his replying, half-a-cro for a single passenger, said it was littl
ough too, al things codered; and left Mr Jarndyc to give it
hi
It was deghtful weather. The gree crn waved so beautifully,
th larks sang so joyfully, th hedge were so full of wld flrs,
the tree were so thickly out in laf, the bean-fieds, with a light
wd blowig over them, filed the air with suc a deus
fragran! Late in the afternoon we cam to the market-town
where we were to alght from the coach—a dul little town, with a
church-spire, and a market-place, and a market-cross, and o
intey sunny stret, and a pond with an od hrse coing h
legs in it, and a very fe men sleepily lying and standing about i
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narrow little bits of shade After the rustlg of the leave and the
waving of th corn all along th road, it looked as still, as hot, as
tionl a little town as England could produce
t the in, we found Mr Boythorn on horseback, waitig with
an ope carriage to take us to his house, wh was a fe miles off.
He was overjoyed to se us, and diounted with great alacrity.
“By Heave!” said he, after giving us a courteous greetig, “thi
is a most infamous coac It is th most flagrant exampl of an
abomabl publ vee that ever encumbered the fac of th
arth. It is twenty-five miutes after its tim, this afternoon. The
cachman ought to be put to death!”
“Is he after his tim?” said Mr Skipo, to whom he happened
to addre himsef. “You know my infirmity.”
“Twnty-five minutes! Twty-six minutes?” replied Mr
Boythorn, referring to his watch. “With two ladi in the coach,
this scoundre has deliberately delayed his arrival six-and-twty
minutes. Deliberately! It is impossible that it can be accidental!
But his fathr—and his un—wre th most profligate coachm
that ever sat upo his box.”
While he said this in tos of th greatest indignation, h
handed us ito the little phaeton with the utmot gentl, and
was all smil and plasure
“I am sorry, ladies,” he said, standing bare-headed at th
arriage-dor, whe all was ready, “that I am oblged to coduct
you narly two m out of the way. But our direct road li
through Sir Leicester Dedlock’s park; and, in that fe’s
property, I have sorn nver to set foot of mi, or horse’s foot of
m, pedig the pret relatio betwee us, whil I breathe
the breath of life!” Ad here, catcg my Guardian’s eye, he
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broke ito on of his tredous laugh, which seed to shake
even the motionl lttle market-town
“Are the Dedloks dow here, Lawrence?” said my Guardian as
we drove along, and Mr Boythorn trotted on the gree turf by the
roadsde
“Sir Arrogant Numkul is here,” repld Mr Boythorn. “Ha ha
ha! Sir Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has be laid by the
heels here. My Lady,” in namg whom he always made a curtly
gesture as if particularly to exclude her fro any part in th
quarre, “is expeted, I beeve, daiy. I am nt in the least
surprised that she postpones her appearance as long as possibl
Whatever can have induced that transcdent wan to marry
that effigy and figure-head of a baronet, is one of the mot
impenetrable mysteries that ever baffld human inquiry. Ha ha ha
ha!”
“I suppos,” said my Guardian laughg, “ we may st foot in the
park we w are here? The prohibition do nt exted to us,
doe it?”
“I can lay no prohibitio on my guests,” he said, bedig hi
ad to Ada and me, with a smiling politess which sat so
gracfully upo him, “except i the matter of their departure. I am
only sorry that I cant have the happi of beg their ert
about Chesy Wold, which is a very fine place! But, by the light of
this summer day, Jarndyce, if you call upo th owr, while you
stay with me, you are likely to have but a coo reception He
carri hmself like an eght-day clock at all times; like on of a
rac of eght-day clocks i gorgeous cas that nver go and never
went—Ha ha ha!—but he will have so extra stiffn, I can
prom you, for the frieds of hi fried and nghbour
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Boythorn!”
“I shall not put him to th prof,” said my Guardian. “He is as
idifferent to the honour of knowing m, I dare say, as I am to the
honour of knowing him The air of the grounds, and perhaps suc
a vie of the house as any other sightser might get, are quite
enough for me.”
“Well!” said Mr Boythorn, “I am glad of it on the whole. It’s in
better keepig. I am looked upon, about here, as a snd Ajax
defying the lightnig. Ha ha ha ha! Wh I go into our little church
a Sunday, a considerable part of th inconiderable
cgregation expet to see m drop, sorced and wthered, on
the pavemet under the Dedlock diplasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have
n doubt he is surprisd that I do’t. For he i, by Heave! the
most self-satisfied, and th shallowst, and th most coxcical
and utterly brainless ass!”
Our coming to th ridge of a hill we had bee asceding,
eabled our friend to point out Chy Wold itself to us, and
diverted his attention fro its master.
It was a pictureque old house, in a fi park, richly woded.
g the tree, and not far from the resde, he poted out
th spire of th littl church of which he had spoke. O, th
solem wods over which th light and shadow traveled swiftly,
as if Heavely wings were sweping on benignant errands through
the sumr air; the smooth gree slpe, the glittering water, the
garden where the flowers were so symtrialy arranged i
usters of the rict cours, how beautiful they looked! The
house, with gabl and chy, and tower, and turret, and dark
doorway, and broad terrac-walk, twing among the balustrade
of wh, and lyig heaped upo the vas, there was one great
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flus of ros, sed scarcely real in its light soldity, and in th
re and peacful hush that rested all around it. To Ada and to
me, that, above all, appeared th pervading influence. On
everythig, house, garden, terrac, green slpes, water, old oaks,
fern, mos, wds again, and far away across th opegs in th
prospect, to th distance lyig wide before us with a purple bl
upo it, thre seed to be such undisturbed repose
Whe we came into th littl viage, and passed a small i
with the sign of the Dedlock Arm swging over the road i front,
Mr Boythorn interchanged greetigs with a young gentlan
tting on a beh outside the in-door, who had s fisgtackle lyig beside him.
“That’s the housekeeper’s grands, Mr Rouncewe by name,”
said h; “and he is in love with a pretty girl up at th Hous Lady
Dedlock has take a fancy to the pretty girl, and is going to kep
her about her own fair perso—an honour whic my young fried
hielf do nt at al appreciate. However, he can’t marry just
yet, eve if his Rosebud were wiing; so h is fain to make th best
of it. In the meanwhile, he co here pretty often, for a day or
tw at a time, to—fish. Ha ha ha ha!”
“Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr Boythorn?” asked Ada.
“Why, my dear Miss Clare,” he returnd, “I thk thy may
perhaps understand each othr; but you wi see th soo, I dare
say, and I must learn fro you on such a poit—not you fro me.”
Ada blushed; and Mr Boythorn, trotting forward on hi cy
grey horse, diounted at his own door, and stood ready, with
exteded arm and uncvered head, to wee us when w
arrived.
He lived in a pretty house, formerly the Parsonage-house, wth
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a law in frot, a bright flr-garden at th side, and a wstoked orchard and kitcn-garde in th rear, end with a
verabl wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But, ideed,
everythig about the place wore an aspet of maturity and
abundan The old l-tree walk was like green cters, th
very sadows of the cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with
fruit, the gooseberry-bushes were so lade that their branc
arced and reted on the earth, the strawberri and raspberri
gre in like profusion, and th peaches basked by th hundred on
the wal Tumbld about among the spread nets and the glas
frames sparklg and wnking in th sun, thre were such heaps of
droping pods, and marro, and cucumbers, that every fot of
ground appeared a vegetable treasury, whe the smell of sweet
herbs and al kinds of wholese growth (to say nothing of the
nghbouring madows where the hay was carrying) made the
w air a great nosegay. Such stis and copoure reignd
wth the orderly precits of the old red wal, that even th
feathers hung in garlands to scare the birds hardly stirred; and the
wal had suc a ripeg influene that where, here and there high
up, a disused nail and scrap of list still clung to it, it was easier to
fany that they had meowed with the canging sasons, than that
thy had rusted and decayed according to th com fate
The house, though a little dirderly in copari with the
garde, was a real od house, with settle in the chy of the
brick-floored kitcn, and great beams acro th ceilings. On on
side of it was th terribl piece of ground in dispute, whre Mr
Boythrn maintained a sentry in a sk-frok, day and night,
w duty was supposed to be, in case of aggression, immediatey
to rig a large be hung up there for the purpose, to uncai a
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great buldog etablhed i a kenne as his ally, and genrally to
deal detructin on the eny. Not ctet with thes
precautions, Mr Boythorn had himelf coposed and poted
thre, on painted boards to which his name was attached in large
letters, th followng solem warnings: “Beare of th Buldog. He
is most ferocious. Lawrece Boythrn.”
“Th blunderbuss is loaded with slugs. Lawrence Boythrn”
“Mulldogs and spring-guns are set here at all times of th day
and night. Lawren Boythorn.”
“Take notice. That any pers or perss audaciously
preumg to trespass on this property, wll be punished wth th
utmost severity of private chastiment, and prouted with th
utmot rigour of the law. Lawrenc Boythorn.” These he showed
us, from the drawg-room window, while his bird was hoppig
about hi head; and he laughed, “Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!” to
that extent as he poted them out, that I really thought he would
have hurt himelf.
“But this is taking a god deal of troubl,” said Mr Skimpole i
light way, “when you are nt in earnet after all?”
“Not in earnet!” returned Mr Boythorn, with unspeakabl
warmth. “Not in earnet! If I could have hoped to trai him, I
would have bought a Lion itead of that dog, and would have
turned hi loose upo the first intolerable robber who should
dare to make an encroachment on my rights. Let Sir Leicester
Dedlock cot to co out and dede this question by sgl
mbat, and I w meet him with any weapon known to mankind
in any age or country. I am that much in earnt. Not more!”
We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On th Sunday morning
we all set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Entering
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th park, almost immediatey by th disputed ground, we pursued
a plasant footpath windig among the verdant turf and the
beautiful tree, until it brought us to the church porch.
The cogregation was extremy small and quite a rusti one,
wth the excepti of a large muster of servants from the House,
s of whom were already in their seats, whil others were yet
dropping in. Thre were some statey fotmen; and thre was a
perfet picture of an od coacan, wh looked as if he were th
fficial repretative of all th pomps and vaniti that had ever
be put into hi coac Thre was a very pretty sho of young
wmen; and above th, th handsome old face and fi
responsible portly figure of th housekeeper, tored preet. The pretty girl, of whom Mr Boythorn had told us, was
cose by her. She was s very pretty, that I might have known her
by her beauty, even if I had not se how blushigly conscus s
as of th eye of th young fisherman, w I discovered not far
off. One face, and not an agreabl on, thugh it was handsome,
sed maliciously watcful of this pretty girl, and indeed of
everyo and everythig there. It was a Frencan’s
the be was yet ringig and the great peopl were nt yet
come, I had leisure to glance over th church, which smelt as
earthy as a grave, and to thk what a shady, ancient, solemn littl
church it was. Th widos, heaviy shaded by tre, admitted a
subdued lght that made th faces around me pale, and darked
th old brasses in th pavement, and th time and damp-wrn
umts, and redered the sun in the little porch, where
a motonous ringer was workig at the be, intimably bright.
But a stir in that direction, a gathring of reverential awe in th
rustic faces, and a blandly-ferocious assumpti on th part of Mr
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Boythrn of beg resolutely unnscious of somebody’s exitence,
forewarned me that the great peopl were co, and that the
srvic was going to begin.
“‘Enter not into judgmt with thy servant, O Lord, for i thy
sight—’”
Shal I ever forget the rapid beatig of my heart, occasd by
the look I mt, as I stood up! Shal I ever forget the maner in
whic those hands proud eyes seemed to sprig out of their
languor, and to hod mine! It was only a moment before I cast
mine dow—reased again, if I may say so—on my book; but, I
kn the beautiful fac quite well, in that short space of tim
And, very strangey, thre was something quickened with me,
asated with the loy days at my godmther’s; ye, away even
to th days wh I had stod on tipto to dres myself at my littl
glas, after dreg my do Ad this, although I had never s
this lady’s face before in all my life—I was quite sure of it—
absolutely certain.
It was easy to know that the ceremous, gouty, grey-haired
gentleman, th only othr occupant of th great pew, was Sir
Leicester Dedlock; and that th lady was Lady Dedlock. But why
hr face should be, in a confusd way, like a broke glass to me, in
whic I saw scraps of old rembran; and why I should be s
fluttered and troubld (for I was still), by having casually met hr
eyes; I could not thk.
I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me, and I tried to
overc it by attendig to the words I heard. Then, very
strangely, I seemed to hear them, not in the reader’s vo, but i
th well-remembered voice of my godmthr. This made me think.
Did Lady Dedlock’s face accidentally reble my godmothr’s? It
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mght be that it did, a little; but, the expren was so different,
and th stern decision which had worn into my godmothr’s face,
like wathr into rocks, was so completely wanting in th face
before me, that it could not be that remblance which had struck
me. Neithr did I kn th loftines and haughtiness of Lady
Dedlock’s face, at all, in any o And yet
I—I, little Esther
Summers, th chid wh lived a life apart, and on wh
birthday thre was no rejocing—sed to arise before my ow
ye, evoked out of th past by some powr i this fashionabl
lady, wh I not only entertained no fancy that I had ever se,
but whom I perfectly well kn I had never se until that hour.
It made m trembl s, to be thrown into this unacuntable
agitation, that I was conscious of being distressed eve by th
bservation of th Frech maid, thugh I knew she had be
ookig watchfully here, and there, and everywhere, from the
mt of her cog ito the church By degree, though very
slowly, I at last overcame my strange emtion. After a long time, I
looked towards Lady Dedlock again It was whil they were
preparig to sig, before the sermon. She took no heed of m, and
the beatig at my heart was gon Nether did it revive for more
than a fe moments, wh she once or twice afterwards glanced
at Ada or at me through her glass.
Th service beg conluded, Sir Leicester gave his arm wth
uc state and gallantry to Lady Dedlock—though he was obliged
to walk by the help of a thick stik—and esrted her out of
church to th pony carriage in which thy had come. Th servants
th dispersed, and so did th congregati: w Sir Leicester
had coteplated al alg (Mr Skipo said to Mr Boythorn’s
infinite delight), as if he were a considerable landed propritor in
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Heaven.
“He beeves he is!” said Mr Boythorn “He firmy beeves it. So
did his father, and hi grandfather, and his great-grandfather!”
“Do you know,” pursued Mr Skipo, very unexpetedly to Mr
Boythrn, “it’s agreeable to me to see a man of that sort.”
“Is it!” said Mr Boythrn.
“Say that he wants to patroni me,” pursued Mr Skipo
“Very well! I don’t object.”
“I do,” said Mr Boythorn, with great vigour.
“Do you realy?” returned Mr Skipo, i his easy light vei
“But, that’s taking trouble, surely. And why should you take
troubl? Here am I, contet to receive things chidishly, as thy
fall out: and I never take troubl! I come dow hre for instance,
and I find a mighty potentate, exacting hoage Very we! I say
‘Mighty potentate, here is my homage! It’s easr to give it, than to
withhold it. Here it i If you have anything of an agreeable nature
to sho me, I shall be happy to see it; if you have anythng of an
agreabl nature to give me, I shall be happy to accept it.’ Mighty
potentate replies i effect, ‘Th is a sensible fe. I find hi
accord with my digestion and my bilious syste. He doe’t
impose upo me th necssity of roing myself up like a hdgeg
with my pots outward. I expand, I ope, I turn my sver lining
outward like Milto’s clud, and it’s more agreable to both of us.’
That’s my vi of such things: speaking as a child!”
“But suppose you went dow somewre el tomorro,” said
Mr Boythorn, “where there was the oppote of that fellw—or of
this fell How then?”
“Ho th?” said Mr Skimpole, with an appearance of th
utmost simplicity and candour. “Just th same, th! I should say,
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‘My esteemed Boythorn’—to make you the personifiati of our
iagiary frid—‘my esteemed Boythorn, you object to th
ghty potentate? Very good. So do I. I take it that my bus i
the soal system i to be agreeable; I take it that everybody’s
business in th social syste is to be agreabl It’s a syste of
harmony, in short. Therefore, if you object, I object. Now,
excellent Boythrn, let us go to dinner!’”
“But, excet Boythorn might say,” returned our host,
swellg and grog very red, “I’ll be—”
“I understand,” said Mr Skimpol. “Very likey he would.”
“—if I will go to dinner!” crid Mr Boythorn, i a violet burst,
and stopping to strike his stick upo th ground. “And h wuld
probably add, ‘Is thre such a thing as priiple, Mr Harold
Skimpole?’”
“To whic Harold Skipo would reply, you know,” he
returnd in his gayest manr, and wth hs most ingenuous sile,
“‘Upo my life I have nt the least idea! I don’t know what it i you
call by that name, or whre it is, or w possesses it. If you possess
it, and find it cofortable, I am quite delighted, and cgratulate
you hartily. But I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am a
mere child, and I lay no claim to it, and I don’t want it!’ So you se,
excellent Boythrn and I would go to dir after all!”
This was one of many little dialogues betwee them, which I
always expected to end, and wich I dare say wuld have eded—
under othr circumstan, in some vit explsion o th part
of our host. But he had so high a se of hi hospitabl and
respobl potion as our entertair, and my Guardian laughed
so sincerey at and with Mr Skimpole, as a child wh bl bubbles
and broke th all day long, that matters never went beyod this
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point. Mr Skimpole, wh alays sed quite unnscius of
having be on deate ground, then betook hif to beginnig
some sketch in th park wh he never fiished, or to playig
fragments of airs on th piano, or to singing scraps of songs, or to
yig down on his back under a tree, and lookig at the sky—
whic he couldn’t help thinkig, he said, was what he was mant
for; it suited him so exactly.
“Enterpri and effort,” he would say to us (on his back), “are
deghtful to m I beve I am truly coopolitan. I have the
deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place lke th, and
think of adventurous spirits going to th North Pole, or
petratig to the heart of the Torrid Zone, with admration.
Merceary creatures ask, ‘What i the use of a man’s going to the
North Po? What good do it do?’ I can’t say; but for anything I
can say, he may go for the purpose—though he do’t know it—of
eploying my thoughts as I l here. Take an extrem cas Take
th case of th Slave on Amrican plantatis. I dare say thy are
worked hard, I dare say they do’t altogether like it, I dare say
theirs is an unplasant experienc on the whole; but, they peopl
the landsape for m, they give it a poetry for me, and perhaps
that i one of the pleasanter objects of their existenc. I am very
sensible of it, if it be, and I shouldn’t wonder if it were!”
I alays wodered on the occasons whether he ever thought
of Mrs Skimpole and th chidre, and in what point of vi thy
preted thlve to hi cospoitan mind. So far as I could
understand, they rarey presented themsves at al
The week had gone round to the Saturday following that
beatig of my heart in th church; and every day had bee so
bright and blue, that to rambl i the woods, and to s the light
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striking dow amg th transparet leave, and sparkling in th
beautiful iterlacgs of the shadows of the tree, whil the birds
poured out their sogs, and the air was drowsy with the hum of
insects, had be most delightful. We had on favourite spot, deep
i m, and last year’s leaves, where there were so felld trees
fro which th bark was al stripped off. Seated among th, w
looked through a gre vista supported by thusands of natural
lums, th whited stes of tre, upo a distict prospect
made so radiant by its contrast with th shade in wich w sat,
and made so precious by th arched perspective through wich w
saw it, that it was like a glpse of th better land. Upo th
Saturday we sat here, Mr Jarndyc, Ada, and I, until we heard
thunder muttering in th distance, and felt th large raindrops
rattle through the leave
The wather had been al the week extremey sultry; but, th
storm broke so suddeny—upo us, at least, in that shetered
spot—that before we reached the outskirts of the wood, the
thunder and lightnig were frequent, and the rai cam plunging
through the laves, as if every drop were a great leade bead. As it
was nt a tim for standig among tree, we ran out of the wood,
and up and dow th moss-gron steps wich crossed th
plantatio-fen lke two broad-staved ladders placd back to
back, and made for a keeper’s lodge wh was cose at hand. We
had often nticd the dark beauty of this lodge standig i a dep
twilght of trees, and how the ivy clustered over it, and how there
was a steep holl near, where we had onc seen the keeper’s dog
dive dow into the fern, as if it were water.
Th lodge was so dark within, now th sky was overcast, that
we only carly saw the man who cam to the door when we took
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ster there, and put two chairs for Ada and me The latticwindows were all thrown ope and we sat, just within the
doorway, watchig the storm. It was grand to se how the wind
awoke, and bet the trees, and drove the rai before it like a cloud
of smoke; and to hear the so thunder, and to s the
lghtnig; and whil thinkig with aw of the tremdous powers
by which our littl lives are empasd, to consider h
beneficent thy are, and ho upo th smallest flr and leaf
thre was already a fress poured fro al this seg rage,
w seemed to make creati n agai
“Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?”
“O no, Esther dear!” said Ada, quietly.
Ada said it to me; but, I had not spoken.
Th beating at my heart came back again. I had never heard th
voice, as I had never see th face, but it affected me in th same
strange way. Again, in a moment, thre aro before my mind
innumerabl picture of myself.
Lady Dedlock had take ster in the lodge, before our arrival
there, and had c out of the gloom within She stood behind my
cair, with her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to my
shoulder, when I turnd my head.
“I have frighted you?” she said.
“No. It was nt fright. Why should I be frightened!”
“I beeve,” said Lady Dedlk to my Guardian, “I have th
pleasure of speaking to Mr Jarndyce.”
“Your remembrance doe me more hour than I had
supposed it would, Lady Dedlk,” he returnd.
“I regnised you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any
local disputes of Sir Leicester’s—thy are not of his sekig,
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however, I beeve—should reder it a matter of s absurd
diffiulty to show you any attenti here.”
“I am aware of th circumstances,” returnd my Guardian with
a smile, “and am sufficiently obliged.”
She had given him her hand, in an indifferent way that seemed
habitual to her, and spoke in a crrespodigly idifferent
manner, thugh in a very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as
she was beautiful; perfetly self-possed; and had th air, I
thought, of beg abl to attract and iterest any one, if s had
thought it worth her while. The keeper had brought her a chair, on
ich she sat, in th middle of th porc betw us
“Is the young gentlan dipod of, whom you wrote to Sir
Leicester about, and w wishe Sir Leicester was sorry not to
ave it in his powr to advance in any way?” she said, over her
shoulder, to my Guardian
“I hope so,” said he
She sed to respect him, and eve to wish to coniate him.
Thre was something very winning in her haughty manner; and it
became more famliar—I was going to say more easy, but that
culd hardly be—as she spoke to him over her shoulder.
“I preum th is your othr ward, Miss Clare?”
He presented Ada, i form
“You will lose th disintereted part of your Don Quixote
aracter,” said Lady Dedlock to Mr Jarndyc, over her shoulder
again, “if you only redress th wrogs of beauty like this. But
present m,” and se turned ful upon m, “to th young lady
too!”
“Miss Summers really is my ward,” said Mr Jarndyce. “I am
responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case”
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“Has Miss Summers lost both her parents?” said my Lady.
“Yes.”
“She is very fortunate in her Guardian.”
Lady Dedlock looked at me, and I looked at her, and said I was
indeed. All at once she turnd fro me with a hasty air, almost
expressive of displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her
shoulder again.
“Age have pased se we were in the habit of meetig, Mr
Jarndyc”
“A long time. At least I thught it was a long time, until I saw
you last Sunday,” he returned.
“What! Eve you are a courtir, or think it necesary to beme
o to me!” she said, with some disdain. “I have achived that
reputati, I suppose”
“You have aceved s muc, Lady Dedlock,” said my
Guardian, “that you pay s lttle penalty, I dare say. But no
to me.”
“So much!” she repeated, slightly laughng. “Ye!”
With her air of superirity, and powr, and fascination, and I
know not what, she sed to regard Ada and me as littl more
than chidre So, as she slightly laughd, and afterwards sat
lookig at the rai, she was as sef-possed, and as free to
occupy herself with her own thoughts, as if she had been alone.
“I think you kn my siter, when we were abroad together,
better than you knew me?” she said, looking at him again.
“Yes, we happened to meet ofter,” he returned.
“We wt our several ways,” said Lady Dedlok, “and had littl
c eve before we agred to differ. It is to be regretted, I
suppose, but it could not be heped.”
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Lady Dedlock agai sat lookig at the rai The storm soon
began to pas upo its way. The shower greatly abated, the
lghtnig ceased, the thunder rolled amg the ditant hi, and
the sun began to gliten on the wet leave and the fallg rai As
we sat there, sitly, we saw a little poy phaeton cog towards
us at a merry pace.
“Th messenger is coming back, my lady,” said th keeper,
“with th carriage”
As it drove up, we saw that thre were tw people inside. Thre
alighted fro it, with some claks and wrappers, first th
Frechwan wh I had se in church, and secodly th
pretty girl; the Frewoman with a defiant cofide; the pretty
girl confusd and hesitatig.
“What no?” said Lady Dedlk. “Tw!”
“I am your maid, my Lady, at th pret,” said th
Frewoman “The meage was for the attendant.”
“I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady,” said th pretty
girl.
“I did mean you, chid,” replied hr mistress, calmly. “Put that
shaw on me.”
She slightly stoped her shoulders to receive it, and th pretty
girl lightly dropped it in its place. Th Frechwman stod
unnticd, lokig on with her lips very tightly set.
“I am sorry,” said Lady Dedlok to Mr Jarndyce, “that w are
not likely to re our formr acquaintance. You will allow me to
d the carriage back for your two wards It shal be here
directly.”
But as h wuld on no account accept this offer, she tok a
graceful leave of Ada—n of m—and put her hand upon hi
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proffered arm, and got ito the carriage; which was a little, low,
park carriage, with a hood.
“Co, chid!” she said to th pretty girl, “I shall want you. Go
on!”
The carriage rolld away; and the Frewoman, with the
wrappers se had brought hangig over her arm, remaied
standig where she had alghted.
I suppose thre is nothg Pride can so littl bear with, as Pride
itself, and that she was punished for her imperius manner. Her
retaliation was th most singular I could have imagid. She
remaid perfectly sti until the carriage had turned ito the
drive, and then, without the least dipoure of countenance,
spped off her shoes, left them on the ground, and walked
deberately in the sam directi, through the wettet of the wet
grass.
“Is that young woman mad?” said my Guardian.
“O no, sir!” said th keeper, wh, with his wfe, was lookig
after her. “Hortense is nt one of that sort. She has as good a
had-piece as th best. But she’s mortal hgh and passionate—
powrful high and passionate; and what wth having notice to
ave, and having others put above her, she do’t take kidly to it.”
“But why should she walk shoele, through all that water?”
said my Guardian.
“Why, indeed, sir, un it is to coo her dow!” said the man
“Or unless she fancies it’s bld,” said th woman. “She’d as
oon walk through that as anything els, I think, when her own’s
up!”
We pasd not far from the House, a few mutes afterwards
Peacful as it had looked when we first saw it, it loked even mre
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s now, with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light wind
blowg, th birds no longer hushed but singig strongly,
everythig refreshed by the late rai, and the lttle carriage
shining at th doorway like a fairy carriage made of silver. Still,
very steadfastly and quietly walking toards it, a peacful figure
to in th landscape, went Mademoile Horte, sholess,
through the wet gras
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Chapter 19
Moving On
I
t i the lg vacation in the regions of Chancry Lan The
god ships Law and Equity, th teak-buit, copperbottomd, iro-fastend, braze-faced, and not by any man
fast-sailing Cppers, are laid up in ordinary. Th Flying
Dutchman, with a crew of ghostly clts imploring al whom they
may enunter to peruse thr papers, has drifted, for th time
beg, Heaven knows where. The Courts are al shut up; the publ
ffices li in a hot slp; Westmter Hal itself is a shady solitude
where nghtingal mght sg, and a tenderer clas of suitors than
i usualy found there, walk.
Th Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants’ Inn, and Li’s In
even unto the Fids, are lke tidal harbours at lo water; were
stranded prodings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on
lopsided stos that wi not rever thr perpedicular until th
urrent of Term sts i, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the log
vacati Outer doors of chambers are shut up by th score,
mages and parc are to be lft at the Porter’s Lodge by th
bushe. A crop of grass would gro in th chiks of th sto
pavement outside Lincoln’s Inn Hall, but that th ticket-porters,
who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the sade there, with
their wte apro over their heads to kep the fli off, grub it up
and eat it thoughtfully.
Thre is only o Judge in to Eve he only comes twice awk to sit in chambers If th country folks of th assize to
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o his crcuit could see him now! No ful-bottomed wig, no red
petticoats, no fur, no javen-men, no white wands. Merely a cshaved gentleman i wite trousers and a white hat, with seabroze on th judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peed by
th solar rays fro th judicial nose, wh cals in at th shell-fish
shop as he c along, and driks icd ginger-beer!
The bar of England is scattered over the fac of the earth. How
England can get on through four log sumr moths without its
bar—wich is its acknowledged refuge in adversity, and its only
lgitimate triumph in prosperity—i bede the question; assuredly
that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in pret wear. Th
learned gentleman wh is alays so tredously indignant at th
unprecedeted outrage cotted on the feeligs of his ct by
th opposite party, that he never sees likely to rever it, is doig
ifintely better than mght be expeted, in Swtzerland. The
learned gentleman w doe th withring busines, and wh
blights all opponents wth hs gly sarcasm, is as merry as a
grig at a Frech watering-place. Th learned gentleman w
ps by th pint on th smallest provoation, has not shed a tear
the six weeks The very learnd getlan who has coed th
natural heat of his gingery complexi in poos and fountains of
law, until he has be great in knotty argumets for Term-tim,
w he poses th drosy Be with legal “chaff,” ixplicable
to the unitiated and to mt of the intiated too, is roamig, with
a characteristic delght in aridity and dust, about Cnstantiple.
Othr dispersd fragments of th same great Paladium are to be
found on th canal of Venice, at th secod cataract on th Nile, in
th baths of Germany, and sprikled on th sea-sand all over th
Engl coast. Scarcely on is to be euntered i th deserted
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regi of Chancery Lane If such a lonely member of th bar do flit
across th waste, and come upo a proling suitor wh is unable
to leave off haunting th scenes of his anxity, thy frighte o
anothr, and retreat into opposite shades
It is th httest long vacati knn for many years All th
young crks are madly in lve, and, acrdig to their various
degre, pine for bliss wth th beloved object, at Margate,
Ramgate, or Graved. All the middl-aged clrks think their
fam too large. All the unowned dogs who stray into the In of
Court, and pant about staircas and other dry plac, seekig
water, give short howls of aggravati All the bld me’s dogs i
th strets draw thr masters against pumps, or trip th over
buckets. A shop with a sun-bld, and a watered pavement, and a
bowl of gold and siver fis in the window, is a sanctuary. Templ
Bar gets so hot, that it is, to the adjact Strand and Flet Street,
wat a heater is in an urn, and keeps th simmering all night.
There are offic about the Inn of Court in wh a man might
be coo, if any coo were wrth purcasing at such a price in
dul; but, the lttle thoroughfares imdiatey outside those
retirements see to blaze. In Mr Krok’s court, it is so ht that th
people turn thr houses inside out, and sit in chairs upo th
pavement—Mr Krok included, wh thre pursues hs studies,
wth his cat (w never is to hot) by his side. Th Sol’s Arms has
discontinued th harmic meetings for th season, and Littl
Sw is engaged at the Pastoral Garde do the river, where
comes out in quite an innocent manr, and sings comic ditti
f a juvenile complexi, calulated (as th bill says) not to wound
th feings of th most fastidious mid.
Over al the legal neighbourhood, there hangs, like s great
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veil of rust, or gigantic cobwb, th idleness and pensives of
th long vacati. Mr Snagsby, law-stationer of Crok’s Court,
Cursitor Stret, is seble of th influence; not only in his mid as
a sympathtic and conteplative man, but also in hi busss as a
law-stationer aforeaid. He has more leisure for musing in Staple
Inn, and in th Rolls Yard, during th long vacati, than at othr
seasons; and he says to th tw ’prentices, what a thing it i i
such ht wathr to think that you live in an island, with th sea a
rollg and a bowling—right round you.
Guster is busy in th littl drawing-ro, o this pret
afternoon i the lg vacatio, when Mr and Mrs Snagsby have it
in conteplation to receive company. Th expected guets are
rather set than numrous, beg Mr and Mrs Cadband, and no
more. Fro Mr Chadband’s beig much given to desribe himself,
both verbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is ocasionally
mtake by strangers for a gentlan cnneted with navigation;
but, h is, as he expresses it, “in th ministry.” Mr Chadband is
attached to no particular denomati; and is considered by hi
perseutors to have nthing s very remarkabl to say on the
greatest of subjets as to render his volunterig, on hi own
account, at all incumbet on his conscien; but, h has h
follwers and Mrs Snagsby i of the number. Mrs Snagsby has but
recently taken a passage upward by th vessel, Cadband; and hr
attenti was attracted to that Bark A 1, when s was sthing
flushed by the hot weather.
“My lttle woman,” says Mr Snagsby to the sparrows in Stapl
Inn, “likes to have her regi rather sharp, you see!”
So, Guster, much impressed by regardig hersf for th time as
the handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with
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the gift of holdig forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the
littl drawing-ro for tea. All th furniture is shake and dusted,
the portraits of Mr and Mrs Snagsby are touched up with a wet
cloth, th best tea-service is set forth, and thre is excelt
provision made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, coo fre
butter, thin slices of ham, tongue and German sausage, and
delicate littl ro of anchovies nestling in parsley; not to mention
w-laid eggs, to be brought up warm in a napki, and hot
buttered toast. For, Chadband is rather a coumig ves—the
persutors say a gorging vessel; and can wid such weapons of
the flesh as a knfe and fork, rearkably we
Mr Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all th preparation
thy are completed, and coughng his cough of deference
bend hi hand, says to Mrs Snagsby, “At what tim did you
expet Mr and Mrs Chadband, my love?”
“At six,” says Mrs Snagsby.
Mr Snagsby observe in a mid and casual way, that “it’s go
that.”
“Perhaps you’d lke to begin without them,” i Mrs Snagsby’s
reproacful remark.
Mr Snagsby doe look as if he would like it very much, but he
says, with his cough of mildnss, “No, my dear, no. I merey
named th time.”
“What’s time,” says Mrs Snagsby, “to eternty?”
“Very true, my dear,” says Mr Snagsby. “Ony when a pers
lays in victuals for tea, a pers doe it wth a vi—perhaps—
more to time. And wh a time is named for having tea, it’s better
to come up to it.”
“To come up to it!” Mrs Snagsby repeats with severity. “Up to
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it! As if Mr Chadband was a fighter!”
“Not at al, my dear,” says Mr Snagsby.
Here, Guster, who had be lookig out of the bedroom
wndow, comes rustling and scratching dow th littl staircase
lke a popular ghost, and, fallg flushed ito the drawg-room,
announces that Mr and Mrs Chadband have appeared in th court.
The be at the inr door in the pasage imdiately thereafter
tinkling, she is admonished by Mrs Snagsby, on pain of instant
rensignt to her patro saint, not to omit th ceremony of
announcement. Much discposed i her nerve (wich were
previously in th best order) by this threat, she so fearfuly
mutilates that pot of state as to anunc “Mr and Mrs
Cheesemig, least wh, Imeantersay, watsrname!” and retire
nscice-stricken fro th prece.
Mr Cadband is a large yellow man, with a fat smile, and a
general appearan of having a good deal of train oil i hi system.
Mrs Chadband is a stern, severe-lkig, silent woman. Mr
Cadband moves softly and cumbrously, not unke a bear w
as be taught to walk upright. He is very much embarrassed
about th arms, as if thy were inconveient to him, and he
wanted to grovel; is very muc i a perspiration about the head;
and nver speaks without first putting up his great hand, as
devering a toke to his hearers that he is going to edify them
“My friends,” says Mr Chadband. “Peace be on this house! On
the master thereof, on the mitre thereof, on the young maidens,
and on th young me! My frids, why do I wi for peac? What
is peace? Is it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and
beautiful, and pleasant, and sere, and joyful? O yes! Threfore,
my friends, I wish for peace, upo you and upo yours.”
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In conseque of Mrs Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr
Snagsby thks it expedient on th wh to say Ame, w is
wll received.
“Now, my friends,” prods Mr Chadband, “since I am upo
this them—”
Guster prets hersf. Mrs Snagsby, i a spetral bass voice,
and without removing her eyes from Chadband, says, with dread
distictness, “Go away!”
“Now, my friends,” says Chadband, “since I am upo this
th, and in my lowy path improving it—”
Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur “one thusing seve
undred and eghty-tw.” Th spectral voice repeats more
solemnly, “Go away!”
“Now, my friends,” says Mr Chadband, “we will inquire in a
spirit of love—“
Still Guster reiterate “one thusing seven hundred and eghtytwo.”
Mr Cadband, pausig with the resgnati of a man
accustod to be persuted, and languidly folding up his chi
into his fat smil, says, “Let us hear th maiden! Speak, maiden!”
“One thusing seve hundred and eighty-tw, if you please, sir.
Which h wish to kn what th shilling ware for,” says Guster,
breathles
“For?” returns Mrs Chadband. “For his fare!”
Guster replied that “he insiste on on and eghtpece, or o
umzzig the party.” Mrs Snagsby and Mrs Chadband are
proceedig to grow shri in indignati, when Mr Chadband
quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand.
“My friends,” says he, “I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday.
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It is right that I should be chastend i s penalty. I ought nt
to murmur. Rac, pay the eightpe!”
Wh Mrs Snagsby, drawg her breath, loks hard at Mr
Snagsby, as who should say, “you hear this apostle!” and while Mr
Cadband glows with humity and train oil, Mrs Chadband pays
the moy. It is Mr Chadband’s habit—it is the head and front of
his prete indeed—to keep this sort of debtor and creditor
account in th sallest ites, and to post it publicly on th most
trival occasions.
“My friends,” says Cadband, “eightpen is not much; it might
justly have been one and fourpe: it might justly have been halfa-cron. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!”
With which remark, which appears fro its sound to be an
xtract in verse, Mr Chadband stalks to the tabl, and before
taking a chair, lifts up his admonitory hand.
“My friends,” says he, “what is this which we now beld as
beg spread before us? Refreshmet. Do we need refreshment
th, my friends? We do. And why do w ned refret, my
frids? Because we are but mortal, beause we are but siful,
beause w are but of the earth, beause we are nt of the air. Can
fly, my friends? We cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?”
Mr Snagsby, preuming o th succes of his last poit,
vetures to obsrve in a ceerful and rather knowig to, “No
gs.” But, is immediately frod dow by Mrs Snagsby.
“I say, my friends,” pursues Mr Cadband, utterly rejecting and
obliterating Mr Snagsby’s suggestion, “Why can we not fly? Is it
beause we are calulated to walk? It is Could w walk, my
friends, withut strength? We could not. What should we do
without strength, my frieds? Our legs would refuse to bear us,
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our knee would double up, our ankles would turn over, and w
hould co to the ground. Then from when, my frieds, i a
human point of vi, do we derive th strength that is necessary
to our limbs? Is it,” says Chadband, glancing over th tabl, “fro
bread in varius forms, fro butter which is churned fro th
k wh is yielded untoe us by the co, from the eggs wh are
aid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from
such like? It is. Th let us partake of th god things which are
t before us!”
Th persutors denied that thre was any particular gift in Mr
Chadband’s pig verbose flights of stairs, oe upo another, after
this fashion. But this can only be received as a prof of thr
determation to persute, since it must be within everybody’s
experienc, that the Chadband style of oratory is widey reved
and much admired.
Mr Chadband, however, havig couded for the present, sts
dow at Mrs Snagsby’s tabl, and lays about hm prodigiously.
Th conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of th quality
already mentioned, appears to be a pro so inseparabl fro
the cotitution of this exeplary ves, that i beging to eat
and drik, h may be described as always becong a kind of
cderabl Oi Mil, or other large factory for the production of
that artie on a wholese scale. On the present evenig of th
g vacation, i Cook’s Court, Curstor Street, he do suc a
powrful stroke of busine, that th wareuse appears to be
quite full when the works cease.
At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has nver
revered hr first failure, but has neglted no possibl or
imposble means of bringing th establishment and hrsf ito
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contept—among which may be briefly eumrated hr
unxpectedly performing clashing military music on Mr
Cadband’s head with plate, and afterwards croning that
gentlan with muffin—at whic period of the etertainmet,
Guster whispers Mr Snagsby that he is wanted.
“And beg wanted i the—nt to put too fin a pot upo it—
in th shop!” says Mr Snagsby rising, “perhaps this god company
wll excuse me for half a minute”
Mr Snagsby desds, and finds th tw ’prentices intently
cteplatig a po cotabl, who holds a ragged boy by the
arm.
“Why, blss my heart,” says Mr Snagsby, “what’s the matter!”
“Thi boy,” says the constable, “although he’s repeatedly told
to, won’t move on—”
“I’m always a-moving o, sir,” cries th boy, wiping away hi
grimy tears with his arm “I’ve alays be a moving and a
mvig on, ever sie I was born Where can I pobl move to,
sir, more nor I do move!”
“He won’t move on,” says th constable, calmly, wth a sight
professional hitc of his neck involvig its better settlt in h
stiff stok, “althugh he has be repeatedly cautioned, and
therefore I am obliged to take hi into custody. He’s as obstiate a
young goph as I kn. He Won’t move on.”
“O my eye! Where can I move to!” cri the boy, clutcg quite
desperately at his hair, and beating hi bare fet upo th flr of
Mr Snagsby’s passage
“Don’t you c n of that, or I shal make bld short
wrk of you!” says th constabl, giving him a passionles shake.
“My itructi are, that you are to move on. I have told you so
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five hundred times.”
“But whre?” cries th boy.
“Well! Realy, cotable, you kn,” says Mr Snagsby wistfuly,
and coughng bed his hand his cough of great perplexity and
doubt; “realy that do seem a questi. Where, you know?”
“My instructions don’t go to that,” replies th contabl “My
instruction are that this boy is to move on.”
Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one e, that the
great lights of the parliamtary sky have faid for s few
years, in th business, to set you th example of moving on. Th
grand recipe remains for you—th profound philosphical
prescription—th be-all and th end-all of your strange existece
upon earth. Move on! You are by n mean to move off, Jo, for the
great lights can’t at al agree about that. Move on!
Mr Snagsby says nothing to this effect; says nothing at all,
indeed; but cough his forlrnest cough, expressive of no
thoroughfare in any directi By this tim, Mr and Mrs
Cadband, and Mrs Snagsby, hearig th altercation, have
appeared upo the stairs Guster havig never left the end of th
pasage, the whole household are asbld.
“Th simpl queti is, sir,” says th constabl, “whthr you
know this boy. He says you do”
Mrs Snagsby, fro her elvation, instantly cries out, “No he
don’t!”
“My lit-tle woman!” says Mr Snagsby, lookig up the staircas
“My love, permit me! Pray have a moment’s patice, my dear. I
do know something of this lad, and in what I kn of hm, I can’t
say that thre’s any harm; perhaps on th contrary, cotabl.” To
th law-stationer reates his Joful and wful experice,
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suppreng th half-cro fact.
“Well!” says th cotabl, “s far, it sees, he had grounds for
what he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said
you knew hi Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said
h was acquainted with you, and you were a respectable
husekeeper, and if I’d call and make th inquiry h’d appear. Th
young man do’t seem ied to keep hi wrd, but—oh! Here
is
the young man!”
Enter Mr Guppy, wh nods to Mr Snagsby, and toucs his hat
with the chvalry of clrksp to the ladi on the stairs.
“I was strog away fro th office just now, w I found this
ro going on,” says Mr Guppy to th law-stationr; “and as your
nam was mtid, I thought it was right the thing should be
ooked into.”
“It was very good-natured of you, sir,” says Mr Snagsby, “and I
am obliged to you.” And Mr Snagsby again relates hs experice,
again suppressing th half-cro fact.
“No, I kn where you live,” says the contabl, then, to Jo
“You live dow in Tom-all-Alone’s That’s a nice innocent place to
live in, ain’t it?”
“I can’t go and lve in no ncer place, sir,” replies Jo. “Thy
wouldn’t have nthink to say to me if I was to go to a nic int
plac fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodgig to such
a reg’lar on as me!”
“You are very poor, ai’t you?” says the contable.
“Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gi’ral,” replies Jo
“I lave you to judge nw! I shook these two half-crowns out of
hi,” says the cnstable, producig them to the cpany, “i oy
puttig my hand upo him!”
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“Thy’re wt’s lft, Mr Snagsby,” said Jo, “out of a sov’rig as
s give me by a lady in a wale as said she wos a servant and as
me to my cron on night and asked to be shod this ’ere ouse
and the ouse wot him as you giv the writi to did at, and the
berrin ground wt he’s berrid in. She ses to me she ses ‘are you
th boy at th Inkwhich?’ she ses. I ses ‘ye’ I ses She ses to me
she ses ‘can you sho me all th places?’ I ses ‘ye I can’ I ses.
And she ses to me ‘do it’ and I dun it and she giv me a sov’ring and
hooked it. Ad I an’t had muc of the sov’ring nther,” says Jo,
with dirty tears, “fur I had to pay five bob, down in Tom-allA’s, afore they’d square it fur to give me change, and then a
young man he thieved another five while I was aseep and another
boy he thieved ninepence and th landlord he stod drains round
with a lot more on it.”
“You do’t expet anybody to believe this, about the lady and
the soveregn, do you?” says the ctable, eyeing hi asde wth
ffabl disdai
“I don’t know as I do, sir,” replies Jo. “I don’t expect nothk at
al, sir, much, but that’s the true hist’ry on it.”
“You see what he is!” the cotable obsrves to the audi
“We, Mr Snagsby, if I do’t lk hi up this tim, will you egage
for his moving on?”
“No!” cries Mrs Snagsby fro the stairs
“My little woman!” pleads her husband. “Constabl, I have n
doubt h’ll move o You know you really must do it,” says Mr
Snagsby.
“I’m everyways agreeable, sr,” says the hapl Jo
“Do it, then,” observes the cotable. “You kn wat you have
got to do Do it! And rect you won’t get off s easy nxt tim
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Catch hold of your my. Now, the sooner you’re five miles off,
the better for al partie”
With this farewell hint, and poting genrally to the stting
sun, as a likely place to move on to, th constable bids hs auditors
good afternoon; and make the echoes of Cook’s Court perform
slow music for him as he walks away on th shady side, carrying
his iro-bound hat in his hand for a littl ventilation.
Now, Jo’s improbable story concernng th lady and th
sovereign has awakened more or les th curiity of all th
mpany. Mr Guppy, wh has an inquiring mind i matters of
evidence, and w has be suffering severely fro th lassitude
of the log vacatio, take that interest in the cas, that he eters
o a regular cross-examation of th witns, wh is found so
iterestig by the ladi that Mrs Snagsby potely invites him to
step upstairs, and drik a cup of tea, if he will excuse th
diarranged state of the tea-tabl, coequent on their previus
exertis. Mr Guppy yiding his assent to this propoal, Jo is
requested to follw into the drawg-room doorway, where Mr
Guppy takes hi in hand as a witns, patting him into this shape,
that shape, and th othr shape, lke a butterman dealg wth so
muc butter, and worrying him acrdig to the bet mde Nor
is th examination unke many such model displays, both in
respect of its eicitig nothg, and of its being lengthy; for, Mr
Guppy is seble of his talent, and Mrs Snagsby fe, not only
that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition, but that it lifts hr
husband’s establishment highr up in th law. During th progress
of this kee enunter, th vessel Chadband, beg merely
egaged in the oil trade, gets aground, and waits to be floated off.
“Well!” says Mr Guppy, “eithr this boy sticks to it like
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cbblr’s wax, or there is sothing out of the c here that
beats anythng that ever came into my way at Kenge and
Carboy’s.”
Mrs Chadband whispers Mrs Snagsby, who excai, “You
don’t say so!”
“For years!” replies Mrs Chadband.
“Has known Kenge and Carboy’s office for years,” Mrs Snagsby
triumphantly explains to Mr Guppy. “Mrs Cadband—th
getlan’s wife—Reverend Mr Chadband.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Mr Guppy.
“Before I married my prest husband,” says Mrs Chadband.
“Was you a party in anythg, ma’am?” says Mr Guppy
transferring his cross-examation.
“No”
“Not a party in anythg, ma’am?” says Mr Guppy.
Mrs Chadband shakes her head.
“Perhaps you were acquaited with sobody who was a party
i sthing, ma’am?” says Mr Guppy, who like nothing better
than to model his conversati on forensic priciples
“Not exactly that, either,” replies Mrs Chadband, humouring
th joke with a hard-favoured smile.
“Not exactly that, either!” repeats Mr Guppy. “Very god. Pray,
ma’am, was it a lady of your acquaintance w had some
transactions (w will not at pret say what transaction) with
Kenge and Carboy’s offic, or was it a gentleman of your
acquaintance? Take time, ma’am We shall come to it pretly.
Man or wman, ma’am?”
“Neither,” says Mrs Chadband, as before
“Oh! A cd!” says Mr Guppy, throwing on the admring Mrs
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Snagsby th regular acute professional eye which is thro on
British jurymen. “Now, ma’am, perhaps you’ll have th kindness
to tel us what chid.”
“You have got it at last, sir,” says Mrs Chadband, wth anthr
hard-favoured sm “We, sir, it was before your tim, mt
likely, judgig fro your appearance. I was left in charge of a chid
named Esthr Summers, w was put out in life by Mers
Kenge and Carboy.”
“Miss Summers, ma’am!” cries Mr Guppy, excited.
“I cal her Esther Sumrson,” says Mrs Chadband, wth
austerity. “Thre was no Mi-ig of th girl in my ti It was
Esthr. ‘Esthr, do this! Esthr, do that!’ and she was made to do
it.”
“My dear ma’am,” returns Mr Guppy, movig acro the smal
apartmet, “the humbl individual who nw addres you
received that young lady in London, wh she first came here
from the establt to whic you have aluded. Alw m to
have the pleasure of takig you by the hand.”
Mr Cadband, at last seeng his opportunity, makes hi
accustod signal, and rises with a smkig head, which h dabs
th his pocket-handkerchif. Mrs Snagsby whispers “Hus!”
“My frids,” says Cadband, “w have partaken, in
moderati” (wich was certainly not th case so far as h was
ncerned), “of th comforts which have be provided for us
May this huse live upo th fatns of th land; may corn and
win be pltiful there; may it grow, may it thrive, may it
prosper, may it advance, may it prod, may it press forward!
But, my frieds, have we partaken of anything els? We have. My
friends, of what el have we partake? Of spiritual profit? Yes.
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Fro whce have we derived that spiritual profit? My young
friend, stand forth!”
Jo, thus apostrophid, gives a souch backward, and another
slouch forward, and anthr slouch to each side, and confronts th
eloquent Chadband, with evident doubts of his iteti
“My dear friend,” says Chadband, “you are to us a pearl, you
are to us a diamd, you are to us a gem, you are to us a je
d why, my young frid?”
“I don’t kn,” replies Jo. “I don’t kn nothk.”
“My young frid,” says Chadband, “it is beaus you know
nthing that you are to us a gem and jewel For what are you, my
young fried? Are you a beast of the fied? No A bird of the air?
No. A fish of th sea or river? No. You are a human boy, my young
friend. A human boy. O glrious to be a human boy! And why
glrious, my young friend? Becaus you are capabl of receiving
th lesson of wisdom, becaus you are capabl of profiting by this
discourse which I now deliver for your god, becaus you are not a
stick, or a staff, or a stok, or a sto, or a post, or a pillar.
O runing stream of sparklg joy
To be a soaring human boy!
And do you coo yourself in that stream now, my young friend?
No. Why do you not coo yourself in that stream no? Because you
are in a state of darkne, becaus you are in a state of obsurity,
becaus you are in a state of sinfulss, becaus you are in a state
f bondage My young friend, what is bodage? Let us, i a spirit
of love, inquire”
At th threatenig stage of the diourse, Jo, who seems to
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have be gradually going out of his mid, smars his right arm
ver his face, and gives a terribl yaw. Mrs Snagsby indignantly
expresses her belief that he is a lib of th archfid.
“My friends,” says Mr Chadband, with hi persuted chi
folding itself into its fat smile again, as he looks round, “it is right
that I should be humbld, it is right that I should be tired, it is
right that I should be mortifid, it i right that I should be
rrected. I stumbld, on Sabbath last, wh I thught with pride
of my thre hours’ improving. Th account is now favourably
balanced: my creditor has accepted a composition. O let us be
joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!”
Great senation on th part of Mrs Snagsby.
“My friends,” says Chadband, looking round hm in conclus,
“I w not prod with my young friend now Wi you come
tomorrow, my young fried, and inquire of this good lady where I
am to be found to deliver a discurs unto you, and wll you come
lke the thirsty swalw upon the nxt day, and upo the day after
that, and upon the day after that, and upo many plasant days, to
har discurs?” (This, with a co-like lightn)
Jo, whose idiate object se to be to get away on any
terms, gives a shufflg nod. Mr Guppy th thro hm a penny,
and Mr Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of th huse
But, before he goes downstairs, Mr Snagsby lads hi with s
broken mats from the table, wh he carri away, huggig in
is arm
So, Mr Chadband—of wh th persutors say that it is no
wonder he should go on for any lgth of tim uttering suc
abomabl n, but that the wonder rather is that he should
ever leave off, having once the audacty to begin—retires ito
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private life until he invests a littl capital of supper i th ol-trade.
Jo mves on, through the log vacation, down to Blackfriars
Bridge, were he finds a bakig stony corner, wherein to settle to
is repast.
d there he sits, mung and gnawg, and lookig up at
the great Cross on the sumt of St. Paul’s Cathedral, glittering
above a red and vioet-tinted cloud of soke. From the boy’s fac
one might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, th
croning confusion of th great, confusd city; so gode, so high
up, so far out of his reac Thre he sits, th sun going dow, th
river runng fast, the crowd flowing by him in two stream—
everythig mvig on to so purpoe and to one end—unti he is
stirred up, and tod to “move on” to
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Chapter 20
A New Lodger
T
he log vacation saunters on towards term-tim, like an
idle river very leisurely strolling dow a flat country to th
a. Mr Guppy saunters alg with it congealy. He has
blunted th blade of his penknfe, and broke th point off, by
sticking that instrument into his desk in every direction. Not that
h bears th desk any ill wi, but he must do something, and it
must be something of an excitig nature, wich wll lay neithr h
physical nor his intellectual ergi under to heavy
ctribution. He finds that nothing agree with him so well, as to
make lttle gyratio on one lg of his stool, and stab hi dek, and
gape
Kenge and Carboy are out of to, and the artied cerk has
take out a shooting lice, and gone down to his father’s, and Mr
Guppy’s tw fellow stipendiari are away on leave Mr Guppy,
and Mr Riard Carstone, divide the dignity of the offic But Mr
Carstone is for the tim beg establihed i Kege’s room,
wereat Mr Guppy chafes. So exceedigly, that he with bitter
sarcasm informs his mothr, in th confidential moments wh he
ups with her off a lbster and lettuce, i the Old Street Road, that
h is afraid th office is hardly god enugh for swels, and that if
he had known there was a swell cog, he would have got it
painted.
Mr Guppy suspects everybody wh enters on th occupati of
a stool in Kenge and Carboy’s offic, of entertaining, as a matter of
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course, sinister design upo him. He is clear that every such
person wants to depo him If he be ever asked how, why, when,
or werefore, he shuts up one eye and sakes his head. On th
trength of these profound views, he in the mot ingenious
manr take infinte pai to counterplt, when there is n plot;
and plays th deepet games of ches withut any adversary.
It is a source of much gratifiation to Mr Guppy, threfore, to
find th ner constantly poring over th papers i Jarndyce
and Jarndyce; for he well knows that nothing but confusion and
failure can come of that. His satisfacti counate itself to a
third saunterer through the log vacation in Kege and Carboy’s
offic; to wit, Young Smald.
Whether Young Smaleed (metaphorialy caled Smal and
eke Chick Wed, as it were jocularly to expres a fledglg,) was
ver a boy, is much doubted in Lincoln’s Inn. He i now something
under fifte, and an old limb of th law He is facetiusly
understod to entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar shop, in th
ghbourhood of Chanry Lan, and for her sake to have broke
off a cotract with another lady, to whom he had been egaged
some years. He is a to-made arti, of sal statute and waze
features; but may be perceived from a cderabl ditan by
means of hi very tall hat. To beme a Guppy is th object of h
ambition. He dres at that gentlan (by whom he i
patroised), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on
m. He is houred with Mr Guppy’s particular confidece, and
occasially advises hm, fro th deep wes of his experice, on
difficult points in private life
Mr Guppy has be log out of window all the mornig, after
trying al the stools i sucon and findig more of them easy,
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and after several times putting his head into th iro safe wth a
noti of cooing it. Mr Smallwed has be twice despatched for
effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed th in th tw official
tumblrs and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr Guppy
propounds, for Mr Smallwed’s consideration, th paradox that
th more you drink th thirstier you are; and re his had
upon the window-si i a state of hopeles languor.
Wh thus lookig out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln’s
Inn, surveying th intolerabl briks and mortar, Mr Guppy
bemes conscious of a manly whisker emrging fro th
cloistered walk below, and turng itself up in th direction of h
face. At th same time, a low whistl is wafted through th Inn,
and a suppred voice cries, “Hip! Gup-py!”
“Why, you don’t mean it?” says Mr Guppy, aroused. “Small!
Here’s Joblg!” Smal’s head looks out of window too, and nods to
Joblg.
“Where have you sprung up from?” inquire Mr Guppy.
“From th market-garden dow by Deptford. I can’t stand it
any longer. I must enlist. I say! I wish you’d lend me half-a-cro
Upon my soul I’m hungry.”
Joblg looks hungry, and al has the appearan of having
run to seed in the market-garde do by Deptford.
“I say! Just throw out half-a-crown, if you have got one to spare.
I want to get so dinner.”
“Will you come and di with me?” says Mr Guppy, throng
out th coin, which Mr Joblg catcs neatly.
“How log should I have to hold out?” says Joblg.
“Not half an hour. I am ony waitig here till the eney goes,”
returns Mr Guppy, butting inward with his head.
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“What eny?”
“A ne one. Going to be artied. Wil you wait?”
“Can you give a few anything to read in the mantim?” says
Mr Joblg.
Smallwed suggests th Law List. But Mr Joblg decare,
wth much earntness, that he “can’t stand it.”
“You shall have th paper,” says Mr Guppy. “He shall brig it
down. But you had better not be se about here. Sit on our
staircas and read. It’s a quiet place.”
Joblg nods inteigece and acquiesce. Th sagacious
Smallwed supplie him with th nespaper, and occasionally
drops his eye upo him fro th landing as a preauti against
his becoming disgusted with waitig, and makes an untimely
departure. At last the enemy retreats, and th Smaleed fetches
Mr Joblg up.
“Well, and h are you?” says Mr Guppy, shaking hands with
“So, so. How are you?”
Mr Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr Joblg
vetures on the question, “How is she?” This Mr Guppy rents as
a liberty; retorting, “Joblg, there are chords in the human
nd—” Jobling begs pardo
“Ay subjet but that!” says Mr Guppy, with a gloomy
enjoyment of his ijury. “For there a re chords, Joblg—” Mr
Jobling begs pardo agai
During this short coquy, the active Smallweed, who i of the
dinnr party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,
“Return imdiatey.” This notificatio to al whom it may
crn, he inrts in the letter-box; and then putting on the tall
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hat, at th angl of inclination at wich Mr Guppy wars his,
informs his patro that thy may now make thlve scarce.
Accordingly thy betake thlve to a neighbouring dininghuse, of th class knn among its frequenters by th
denation Slap-Bang, where the waitres, a bouncig young
female of forty, is supposed to have made some impresion o th
susceptible Smallwed; of wh it may be rearked that he is a
weird changelg, to whom years are nthing. He stands
preciously possesd of centuries of owish wido. If he ever
lay in a cradle, it ses as if he must have lain thre in a tai-cat.
He has an old, old eye, has Smallwed; and h drinks, and ske,
in a monkeyish way; and his nek is stiff in his colar; and he is
ver to be taken in; and he kns all about it, whatever it is. In
short, in his briging up, he has be so nursd by Law and
Equity that he has beme a kind of fossil Imp, to account for
w terrestrial existece it is reported at th publ offices that
hi father was John Doe, and his mther the only femal meber
of th Roe family: also that his first long-cloth were made fro a
blue bag.
Into the Ding House, unaffected by the sductive show i th
ndow, of artifially wited cauliflowrs and poultry, verdant
baskets of peas, coolly bling cucumbers, and joints ready for
th spit, Mr Smallwed leads th way. Thy know hi thre, and
defer to him. He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all th papers,
he i down upon bald patriarch, who kep them more than ten
minutes afterwards. It is of no us trying him with anythng less
than a full-sized “bread,” or propoing to hi any jot i cut,
unl it i in the very bet cut. In the matter of gravy he is
adamant.
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Cnscious of his elfin powr, and submitting to his dread
experice, Mr Guppy consults him in th choce of that day’s
banquet; turning an appealing look toards hi as th waitress
repeats the catalogue of viands, and saying “What do you take,
Chik?” Chick, out of the profundity of his artfuln, preferring
“veal and ham and Fre beans—And do’t you forget the
tuffing, Polly,” (wth an unearthly cok of his verable eye); Mr
Guppy and Mr Joblig give the like order. Three pit pots of halfand-half are superadded. Quickly th waitress returns, bearig
wat is apparently a model of th tor of Babel, but what is
really a pile of plate and flat tin dish-cvers. Mr Smallwed,
approving of what is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity
into his ancient eye, and wiks upo her. Th, amid a constant
cg i, and going out, and runnig about, and a catter of
crokery, and a rumbling up and dow of th machi wich
brigs the n cuts from the kitchen, and a srill crying for more
nice cuts dow th speaking-pipe, and a shri reckong of th
st of nice cuts that have be dispod of, and a geral flus
and steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a coiderably hated
atmphere in wh the soed knves and tableclth seem to
break out spontanously into eruptions of greas and blotch of
ber, the legal triumvirate appeas their appetites
Mr Joblg is buttoned up closer than mere adornmet might
require His hat prets at th ri a peculiar appearance of a
glisteing nature, as if it had be a favourite snail proade
Th same phe is vibl o some parts of hi coat, and
particularly at th seams. He has th faded appearance of a
gentleman in embarrasd circumstances; eve his light wiskers
droop with sothing of a sabby air.
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His appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests spare lving for some
lttle ti back. He make suc a speedy end of hi plate of veal
and ham, briging it to a c wile hs companions are yet
mdway i theirs, that Mr Guppy proposes another. “Thank you,
Guppy,” says Mr Jobling, “I really don’t know but what I will take
another.”
Ather beg brought, he fall to with great good will
Mr Guppy takes silent notice of hi at intervals, until he is half
way through this send plate and stops to take an enjoying pul at
hi pit pot of half-and-half (alo renewed), and stretches out hi
gs and rubs his hands Beholdig him in whic glow of
contetmt, Mr Guppy says:
“You are a man again, Tony!” “Well, not quite, yet,” says Mr
Joblg. “Say, just born”
“Wi you take any other vegetabl? Gras? Peas? Sumr
cabbage?”
“Thank you, Guppy,” says Mr Jobling. “I really don’t kn but
what I will take sumr cabbage”
Order given; with the sarcastic additio (from Mr Smald) of
“Withut slugs, Polly!” And cabbage producd.
“I am groing up, Guppy,” says Mr Joblg, plying his knife
and fork with a reishig steadiss.
“Glad to hear it.”
“In fact, I have just turned into my teens,” says Mr Joblg.
He says no more until he has performed his task, which he
aceves as Mers. Guppy and Smaleed fin theirs; thus
getting over the ground in exct style, and beatig those two
gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a cabbage
“No Smal,” says Mr Guppy, “what would you reend
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about pastry?”
“Marro puddings,” says Mr Smaleed, instantly.
“Ay, ay!” cries Mr Joblg, with an arch lk. “You’re there, are
you? Thank you, Guppy, I do’t know but what I will take a
marro pudding.”
Thre marro puddings being producd, Mr Joblg adds, in a
pleasant humour, that he is coming of age fast. To th succeed,
by coand of Mr Smaleed, “three Cheshire;” and to those,
“three smal rum.” Th apex of the entertait happiy
reached, Mr Joblg puts up his legs on the carpeted sat (havig
hi own side of the box to himf), lans agait the wall, and says,
“I am gro up, no, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity.”
“What do you thk, now,” says Mr Guppy, “about—you don’t
mind Smallwed?”
“Not the least i the world. I have the plasure of drikig his
good health.”
“Sir, to you!” says Mr Smaleed.
“I was saying, what do you think now,” pursues Mr Guppy, “of
enlisting?”
“Why, what I may think after dinner,” returns Mr Joblig, “i
thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may thk before dinner is
another thing. Sti, eve after dinner, I ask mysf the question,
What am I to do? How am I to live? Il fo manger, you know,” says
Mr Jobling, prouncing that word as if h meant a necesary
fixture in an Engl stabl. “Ill fo manger. That’s the French
saying, and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a
Frechman. Or more so.”
Mr Smallwed is decidedly of opinion “muc more so.”
“If any man had told me,” pursues Joblg, “even so lately as
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w you and I had th frisk dow in Linshire, Guppy, and
drove over to see that house at Castl Wod—”
Mr Smaleed correts hi—Chesny Wod.
“Chesney Wod. (I thank my honourable fried for that ceer.)
If any man had told me, th, that I should be as hard up at th
present tim as I literally find mysf, I should have—well, I should
have pitcd ito him,” says Mr Joblg, takig a little rum-andwater with an air of deperate resgnation; “I should have lt fly at
his head.”
“Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the pot then,”
remtrate Mr Guppy. “You were talkig about nthing e i
the gig.”
“Guppy,” says Mr Jobling, “I wi not deny it. I was o th
wrong side of the pot. But I trusted to things cog round.”
That very popular trust in flat things cog round! Not i
their beg beate round, or worked round, but in their “cg”
round! A though a lunatic should trust in the world’s “cg”
triangular!
“I had confidet expectation that things wuld come round
and be al square,” says Mr Joblg, with so vaguen of
expression, and perhaps of meang, to “But I was disappointed.
Thy never did. And wh it cam to creditors makig ro at th
offic, and to peopl that the offic dealt with makig cplaits
about dirty trifles of borrod money, why thre was an end of
that connection. And of any new profesional conti, to; for
if I was to give a refere tomorro, it would be mentioned, and
would sw m up. Then, what’s a few to do? I have be
keepig out of the way, and lvig cheap, do about the marketgardens; but what’s the use of lvig ceap wen you have got n
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money? You might as well live dear.”
“Better,” Mr Smaleed thks
“Certainly. It’s th fashionabl way; and fashion and whiskers
ave been my weaknes, and I don’t care wh kns it,” says Mr
Joblg. “They are great weakn—Damm, sir, they are great.
We!” proceds Mr Joblg, after a defiant vist to his rum-andwater, “wat can a fellow do, I ask you, but enlt?”
Mr Guppy comes more fuly into th conversati, to state
at, in hi opiion, a fellow can do. His manr is th gravey
impresive manr of a man wh has not coitted hf in
life, othrwise than as he has beme th victim of a tender sorro
of the heart.
“Joblg,” says Mr Guppy, “myself and our mutual friend
Smallwed—”
(Mr Smallweed mdetly obsrves “Getle both!” and
drinks.)
“Have had a little cversation on this matter more than on,
since you—”
“Say, got th sack!” cries Mr Joblg, bitterly. “Say it, Guppy.
You mean it.”
“N-o-o! Left the Inn,” Mr Smaleed delatey suggests.
“Since you left th Inn, Joblg,” says Mr Guppy; “and I have
mentioned, to our mutual friend Smallwed, a plan I have lately
thought of proposig. You know Snagsby the statir?”
“I know thre is such a stationer,” returns Mr Joblg. “He was
t ours, and I am nt acquainted with him”
“He is ours, Joblg, and I am acquainted with him,” Mr Guppy
retorts. “We, sir! I have lately be better acquainted with
hm, through some accidental circumstances that have made me a
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visitor of his in private life. Th circumstances it is not necessary
to offer in argumet. They may—or they may not—have so
reference to a subjet, which may—or may not—have cast its
shadow on my existece.”
As it i Mr Guppy’s perplexing way, with boastful misery to
tempt hi particular friends into this subjet, and the mot they
touch it, to turn on them with that trenant sverity about the
chords in th human mind; both Mr Jobling and Mr Smallwed
de the pitfal, by remaig sit.
“Suc things may be,” repeats Mr Guppy, “or thy may not be
They are no part of the cas It is enough to meti, that both Mr
and Mrs Snagsby are very wiing to oblige me; and that Snagsby
has, in busy tim, a good deal of copyig work to give out. He has
all Tulkinghrn’s, and an excelt busine besides. I believe, if
our mutual friend Smalld were put into the box, he could
prove this?”
Mr Smallwed nods, and appears gredy to be sworn.
“No, getlmen of the jury,” says Mr Guppy, “—I mean, n
Joblg—you may say this is a poor propect of a living. Granted.
But it’s better than nothing, and better than entmt. You want
tim There must be tim for thes late affairs to blow over. You
mght live through it on muc worse terms than by writig for
Snagsby.”
Mr Joblg is about to interrupt, when the sagacius Smald
cheks hm wth a dry cough, and th words, “He!
Shakespeare!”
“There are two bran to this subjet, Joblg,” says Mr
Guppy. “That is th first. I come to th second. You kn Krok,
th Chancellor, across th lane. Come, Joblg,” says Mr Guppy, in
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his enuraging cros-examination-to, “I thk you kn Krok,
the Chanr, acro the lan?”
“I kn him by sight,” says Mr Joblg.
“You know him by sight. Very well And you know little Flite?”
“Everybody kns her,” says Mr Joblg.
“Everybody knows her. Very we. No it has been one of my
duti of late, to pay Flite a certain wekly allowance, deductig
from it the amount of her weekly rent; whic I have paid (in
nseque of instructions I have received) to Krok himself,
regularly, in her prece. This has brought me into
unation with Krook, and into a knowledge of his house and
hi habits. I know he has a room to lt. You may lve there, at a
very low charge, under any nam you like; as quitly as if you were
a hundred miles off. He’ll ask no quetis; and would accept you
as a tenant, at a word fro me—before th clock strikes, if you
cho And I’l te you anothr thing, Jobling,” says Mr Guppy,
w has suddenly lowred his voice, and beme familiar again,
“h’s an extraordiary old chap—always rumagig amg a
litter of papers, and grubbing away at teacng himself to read and
write; without getting on a bit, as it s to m He i a mot
extraordiary old chap, sir. I do’t know but what it might be
worth a few’s whil to lok him up a bit.”
“You do’t mean —?” Mr Joblg begin
“I mean,” returns Mr Guppy, shrugging hs shoulders wth
beg mdety, “that I can’t make hi out. I appeal to our
mutual fried Smaleed whether he has or has not heard me
remark, that I can’t make him out.”
Mr Smallwed bears th concise testiy, “A fe!”
“I have see somethg of th profesion, and something of life,
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Tony,” says Mr Guppy, “and it’s seldom I can’t make a man out,
more or less. But such an old card as this; so deep, so sy, and
sret (though I do’t beeve he is ever sober), I nver cam
across. Now, he must be preious old, you know, and h has not a
soul about hm, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and
wthr h is a smugglr, or a receiver, or an unicensed
pawnbroker, or a my-lender—al of which I have thought likey
at different tim—it mght pay you to knock up a sort of
knowledge of him I do’t see why you shouldn’t go in for it, when
everythng el suits.”
Mr Joblg, Mr Guppy, and Mr Smald, al lan their ebows
on the table, and their ch upon their hands, and look at the
cg. After a tim, they all drik, sowly lan back, put their
hands in their pokets, and look at one another.
“If I had th enrgy I once possesd, Tony!” says Mr Guppy,
wth a sigh. “But there are chords in the human mid—”
Expresg the reaider of the deate setient i rum-andwater, Mr Guppy concludes by resigning th adventure to Tony
Joblg, and informig him that during the vacation and whil
thgs are slack, hi purse, “as far as three or four or even five
pound go,” w be at his dispoal. “For never shall it be said,”
Mr Guppy adds with emphasis, “that Willam Guppy turnd h
back upo his friend!”
Th latter part of th propoal is so directly to th purpo, that
Mr Jobling says with emtion, “Guppy, my trump, your fist!” Mr
Guppy prets it, saying, “Joblng, my boy, thre it is!” Mr
Joblg returns, “Guppy, we have be pal now for some years!”
Mr Guppy replies, “Jobling, we have.”
Thy th shake hands, and Mr Joblg adds in a feing
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manner, “Thank you, Guppy, I don’t know but wat I wll take
anothr glass, for old acquaintance sake.”
“Krok’s last lodger died thre,” observe Mr Guppy, in an
incidental way.
“Did he, thugh!” says Mr Joblg.
“Thre was a verdict. Accidental death You don’t mid that?”
“No,” says Mr Joblg, “I don’t mid it; but he mght as well
have died sere els. It’s devi odd that he need go and
die at my plac!” Mr Joblig quite rests this liberty; sveral
tim returnig to it with suc remarks as, “There are place
enough to die in, I should thk!” or, “He wuldn’t have liked my
dying at hi plac, I dare say!”
However, the copact beg virtually made, Mr Guppy
propose to depatc the trusty Smald to asrtain if Mr
Krok is at h, as in that case thy may complete th
gotiati without delay. Mr Joblg approving, Smalld puts
hif under the tall hat and coveys it out of the dig-rooms i
th Guppy manner. He soo return with th inteigece that Mr
Krook is at home, and that he has se him through the shopdoor, sitting in his back pre, sleeping, “like on o’ck.”
“Th I’ll pay,” says Mr Guppy; “and we’ll go and see hi
Smal, what wi it be!”
Mr Smallwed, compeling th attendance of th waitress wth
one hitch of his eyelash, itantly repl as follws: “Four veal
and ham is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one
summer cabbage is thre and six, and thre marro is four and
sx, and sx breads is five, and three Cheshire i five and three,
and four pints of half-and-half is six and thre, and four small
rums is eight and three, and three Poys i eght and six. Eight
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and six is half a sovereign, Polly, and eighte-pece out!”
Not at al excited by the stupendous calulati, Smaleed
dismisse hi friends with a co nod, and remains bed to take a
littl admring notice of Poy, as opportunity may serve, and to
read the daiy papers: which are so very large in proportion to
hielf, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up
The Tim to run
hi eye over the coum, he se to have retired for the nght,
and to have disappeared under th bed-cloths.
Mr Guppy and Mr Joblg repair to the rag and bottle shop,
were they find Krook sti sleepig lke oe o’clock; that is to say,
breathing stertorously with his chi upo his breast, and quite
bl to any external sunds, or eve to gentl shakig. On
the table bede him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gi
bottle and a glass The unwhole air is so staind with this
quor, that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they
ope and shut and glimmer on th visitors, look drunk.
“Hold up here!” says Mr Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the
old man another shake “Mr Krook! Halloa, sr!”
But it would seem as easy to wake a bundl of old cothes, with
a spirituous heat smoulderig in it. “Did you ever see such a
stupor as he falls into, betw drink and sleep?” says Mr Guppy.
“If this is his regular sleep,” returns Joblg, rathr alarmed,
“it’ll last a long time on of th days, I am thinking.”
“It’s alays more like a fit than a nap,” says Mr Guppy, shakig
hm again. “Halloa, your lordship! Why he might be robbed, fifty
ti over! Ope your eyes!”
After muc ado, he ope them, but without appearig to s
is visitors, or any othr objects. Thugh h crosses o leg o
another, and folds his hands, and several tim cose and opens
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his parcd lips, he sees to all intents and purpo as insible
as before
“He is alive, at any rate,” says Mr Guppy. “Ho are you, my
Lord Chancellor? I have brought a friend of mine, sir, o a littl
atter of bus”
Th old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips, wthut th
least consciousss. After some minutes, h makes an attempt to
ris They help him up, and he staggers agait the wall, and
stare at th
“Ho do you do, Mr Krok?” says Mr Guppy, in some
discomfiture “Ho do you do, sir? You are lookig charmng, Mr
Krook. I hope you are pretty well?”
Th od man, in aiming a purposs bl at Mr Guppy, or at
nothing, febly swigs hif round, and comes with his face
agait the wall So he remai for a miute or two, heaped up
agait it; and then staggers do the shop to the front door. The
air, the mvemt i the court, the laps of tim, or the
combination of th things, revers him. He comes back pretty
steadily, adjusting hs fur-cap on his head, and lookig keenly at
them
“Your servant, gentlemen; I’ve bee dozing. Hi! I am hard to
ake, odd times.”
“Rathr so, indeed, sir,” responds Mr Guppy.
“What? You’ve be a-trying to do it, have you?” says the
suspicious Krok.
“Ony a lttle,” Mr Guppy explai
The old man’s eye retig o the empty bottle, he take it up,
examin it, and slowly tilts it upsde dow
“I say!” he cri, lke the hobgobl in the story. “Sombody’s
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been makig free here!”
“I assure you we found it so,” says Mr Guppy. “Would you allow
to get it fild for you?”
“Yes, certaiy I would!” cries Krok, in high glee. “Certaiy I
wuld! Don’t mention it! Get it fid next door—So’s Arm—th
Lord Chanr’s fourteenpey. Bles you, they know
me!”
He so presses th empty bottl upo Mr Guppy, that that
gentleman, wth a nod to his friend, accepts th trust, and hurri
out and hurrie in agai with the bottle fild. The old man
receive it in his arms like a beloved grandchild, and pats it
tenderly.
“But, I say!” he whispers, with his eye sred up, after
tasting it, “ths ain’t th Lord Chancelr’s fourtepenny. This is
eighteenpey!”
“I thought you might like that better,” says Mr Guppy.
“You’re a noblan, sir,” returns Krok, with anthr taste—
and his hot breath see to come toards th like a flam
“You’re a baro of the land.”
Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr Guppy
prets his friend under th improptu name of Mr Weevle, and
state th object of thr visit. Krok with his bottl under his arm
(he nver gets beyond a crtai pot of either drunkenne or
sobriety), takes time to survey his propod lodger, and sees to
approve of him “You’d like to see the room, young man?” he says.
“Ah! It’s a good room! Been whitewashed. Been cland do
th soft soap and soda. Hi! It’s worth twice th rent; letting alon
my company wh you want it, and such a cat to keep th mice
away.”
Cdig the room after this manner, the old man take
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them upstairs, were ided they do find it cleanr than it used to
be, and also containing some old articles of furniture which he has
dug up from his iexhaustible stores. The term are easy
concluded—for th Lord Chancelr cant be hard on Mr Guppy,
assocated as h is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and
Jarndyc, and other famus clai on his professonal
nsideration—and it is agred that Mr Weevle shall take
possession o th morro Mr Weevle and Mr Guppy th repair
to Cook’s Court, Curstor Street, where the personal itroduction
of the former to Mr Snagsby i effected, and (more iportant) th
vote and interest of Mrs Snagsby are sured. They then report
progress to th et Smallwed, waiting at th office in his tal
at for that purpo, and separate; Mr Guppy explaining that he
would termiate hi lttle entertainmet by standig treat at the
play, but that there are chords i the human mind whic would
render it a hollow mockery.
On the morro, in the dusk of evenig, Mr Weevl modetly
appears at Krok’s, by no means ided wth luggage, and
establ hielf i hi ne ldgig; where the two eyes in th
shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they were ful of wder. On
the follwing day Mr Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing
kind of young fellow, borrows a needl and thread of Mis Flite,
and a hammer of his landlord, and go to work devising apolgies
for wndow-curtains, and knocking up apogies for sheves, and
hangig up his tw teacups, milkpot, and crokery sundri on a
penny-worth of little hooks, like a spwrecked saior makig the
best of it.
But wat Mr Weevle prizes most, of all his fe pos
(nxt after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that
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only whiskers can awaken in th breast of man), is a choice
collection of copper-plate impressions fro that truly natial
wrk, th Diviniti of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty,
representig ladi of title and fas in every variety of srk
that art, combined with capital, is capabl of producg. With
th magnificent portraits, unrthly confined in a band-box
during his seusion amg th market-garden, he decorates hi
apartmt; and as th Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears
every variety of fany dres, plays every variety of musal
trumt, fondl every variety of dog, ogl every variety of
prospect, and is backed up by every varity of flrpot and
balustrade, th result is very imposing.
But fashion i Mr Weevle’s, as it was Tony Jobling’s weakness.
To borro yesterday’s paper fro th Sol’s Arms of an eveg,
and read about the briliant and ditiguished meteors that are
hooting across the fasnable sky in every directi, is
unspeakable consolation to hm. To kn what member of what
brilliant and distinguished circ accomplished th brilliant and
distiguished feat of joining it yesterday, or conteplate th no
less brilliant and distinguid feat of leavig it tomorro, give
a thrill of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Galry of
British Beauty is about, and means to be about, and what Galaxy
marriage are on th tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are i
circulati, is to beme acquainted with th most glrious
destinies of mankind. Mr Weevle reverts fro this inteigece, to
th Galaxy portraits implicated; and se to know th originals,
and to be known of th
For th rest he is a quiet lodger, ful of handy shifts and devices
as before mentioned, able to cook and clan for hif, as well as
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to carpeter, and developing social inations after th shade of
evenig have falen on the court. At those ti, wen he i nt
visited by Mr Guppy, or by a small light in his likess queched
i a dark hat, he co out of hi dull room—where he has
herited the deal wildern of dek bepattered with a rai of
ink—and talks to Krok, or is “very fre,” as thy call it in th
urt, commendingly, with any on disposd for conversati
Wherefore, Mrs Piper, w leads th court, is impelled to offer tw
remarks to Mrs Perkins: Firstly, that if her Johnny was to have
wiskers, she could wish ’em to be idetically lke that young
man’s; and secondly, Mark my words, Mrs Perkin, ma’am, don’t
you be surprised Lord bls you, if that young man comes in at last
for old Krook’s my!
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Chapter 21
The Smallweed Famly
I
n a rather il-favoured and i-savoured neghbourhood,
thugh on of its rising grounds bears th name of Mount
Pleasant, the Elfin Smaleed, chritened Bartholomew, and
known o th domestic hearth as Bart, passes that limited portion
f his time on which th office and its contingencies have no claim.
He dwell in a lttle narro street, alays sotary, shady, and sad,
closy bricked in on al sides like a tob, but wre thre yet
lgers the stump of an old forest tree, whose flavour i about as
fre and natural as th Smallwed smack of youth
There has be only one chd i the Smaleed famy for
sveral genrations Little old m and wome there have be,
but no chid, until Mrs Smallwed’s grandmothr, now living,
beam weak in her intelt, and fel (for the first tim) into a
childish state With such infanti graces as a total want of
observation, memory, understanding and interest, and an eternal
disposition to fal asleep over th fire and into it, Mr Smallwed’s
grandmothr has undoubtedly brighted th family.
Mr Smald’s grandfather i likewis of the party. He i in a
hlpless condition as to his lowr, and nearly so as to hi upper
limbs; but his mind is unimpaired. It hods, as we as it ever hld,
th first four rules of arithtic, and a certain small collection of
the hardest facts In repect of idealty, reveree, woder, and
othr such phrenological attribute, it is no wors off than it usd
to be. Everythig that Mr Smaleed’s grandfather ever put away
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in hi mind was a grub at first, and i a grub at last. In all his life
has never bred a single butterfly.
The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neghbourhood of
Mount Plasant, was a horny-skinned, tw-legged, money-getting
species of spider, wh spun webs to catc unary flies, and retired
ito hole until they were entrapped. The nam of this old pagan’s
God was Compound Interest. He lived for it, marrid it, died of it.
Meetig with a heavy lo i an honet lttle enterpris in whic al
the lo was itended to have be on the other sde, he broke
something—something necesary to his existence; threfore it
culdn’t have be his heart—and made an end of his career. A
is character was not god, and h had bee bred at a Carity
School, i a coplte course, acrdig to question and aner, of
those ant peopl the Amorite and Hittites, he was frequently
quoted as an example of the faiure of educati
His spirit sho through his son, to wh he had always
preaced of “going out” early i life, and whom he made a cerk i
a sharp scriver’s office at twve years old. Thre, th young
gentleman improved his mid, which was of a lean and anxius
character; and, developing th family gifts, gradually elvated
hmself into th discounting profe. Goig out early in life and
marrying late, as his father had do before him, he too begat a
lan and anxious-mded s; who, in hi turn, going out early in
fe and marrying late, beam the father of Bartholom and
Judith Smald, twin During the whole tim consumed i the
sow growth of this famy tree, the house of Smallweed, always
early to go out and late to marry, has strengthend itsf i its
practial
character,
has
discarded
all
amusts,
discountenanced all storyboks, fairy-tales, fiction, and fabl,
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and baned al lviti whatsever. Henc the gratifyig fact,
that it has had no chd born to it, and that the cplte little m
and wome whom it has produced, have be observed to bear a
lke to old mnkeys with sothing depreg on their
minds.
At the pret tim, in the dark little parlour certain feet be
the level of the street—a grim, hard, uncuth parlour, only
ornamented with th coarsest of baize tabl-covers, and th
ardet of shet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative
character no bad algorical repretati of Grandfathr
Smallwed’s mind—sated in tw black horseair porter’s chairs,
one on eac side of the fireplac, the superanuated Mr and Mrs
Smaleed w away the roy hours. On the stove are a coupl of
trivets for th pots and kettl which it is Grandfathr
Smald’s usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the
chimney-piece betw th is a sort of brass gals for roasting,
wich he also superinteds wh it i i acti. Under th
verabl Mr Smallweds seat, and guarded by his spindle legs, is
a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous
amount. Beside him is a spare cushion, with which he is always
provided, in order that he may have sothing to throw at the
verable partnr of his repeted age wenever se make an
allusion to money—a subjet on which he is particularly sensitive
“And where’s Bart?” Grandfather Smaleed inquires of Judy,
Bart’s twin-sister.
“He an’t come in yet,” says Judy.
“It’s his tea time, isn’t it?”
“No”
“How much do you mean to say it wants th?”
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“Ten minutes.”
“Hey?”
“Ten minutes.”—(Loud on the part of Judy.)
“Ho!” says Grandfathr Smaleed. “Ten minute”
Grandmothr Smallwed, wh has bee mumbling and shaking
hr head at th trivets, hearing figures mentioned, cots th
with my, and sreeches, lke a horrible old parrot without any
plumage, “Te ten-pound notes!”
Grandfathr Smallwed immediatey thro th cushion at her.
“Drat you, be quite!” says the god old man
The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It nt only double
up Mrs Smald’s head agait the side of her porter’s cair,
and caus her to pret, when extricated by her grand-daughter,
a highly unbeng state of cap, but th necessary exerti
reils o Mr Smallwed hmself, wh it thro back into
his
porter’s chair, lke a broke puppet. Th excellent old gentleman
beg, at thes tim, a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on
th top of it, doe not pret a very animated appearance, unti
he has undergone the two operati at the hands of his granddaughter, of beg shake up like a great bottle, and poked and
punhed like a great bolster. So idiation of a nk beg
developed in him by th means, he and th sharer of hs lfe’s
evenig agai st fronting one another in their two porter’s chairs,
like a couple of senti long forgotten on thr post by th Black
Serjeant, Death
Judy th twin is worthy company for th associate. She is so
idubitably siter to Mr Smallweed the younger, that the two
kneaded into on would hardly make a young pers of average
proportis; while she so happily exeplifies th beforeCharles Dicke
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mtid famy lke to the mokey tribe, that, attired in a
spangld robe and cap, sh mght walk about the tabl—land on
the top of a barrel-organ without exctig muc remark as an
unusual speen. Under existig circumtan, however, she is
dred in a plain, spare go of bron stuff.
Judy never owd a dol, never hard of Cderela, never
played at any game. She oce or twice fe into chidre’s company
when sh was about ten years old, but the chdre couldn’t get on
with Judy, and Judy culdn’t get on with them Sh sed lke
an animal of anothr spec, and thre was instictive
repugnance o both sides. It is very doubtful whthr Judy know
how to laugh. Sh has so rarely s the thing do, that the
probabilities are strong th othr way. Of anythng like a youthful
laugh, she certaiy can have no conpti. If she were to try on,
se would find her teeth in her way; modeg that actio of her
face, as she has unsciously modelled all its othr expressions,
on her pattern of sordid age. Suc is Judy.
d her twin brother couldn’t wind up a top for his lfe. He
knows n mre of Jack the Giant Kilr, or of Sinbad the Saior,
than he kns of th people in th stars. He could as soo play at
leapfrog, or at criket, as change into a cricket or a frog himself.
But, he is so much th better off than his sister, that on his narro
rld of fact an opeg has dawnd, into such broader regis as
lie wth th ken of Mr Guppy. He, hi admirati and
eulation of that shig enchanter.
Judy, with a gong-like cash and catter, sets one of the shtiro tea-trays on th tabl, and arrange cups and saucrs. Th
bread s puts on in an iron basket; and the butter (and nt muc
f it) in a small pewter plate Grandfathr Smallwed looks hard
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after the tea as it is served out, and asks Judy where the girl is?
“Charley, do you mean?” says Judy.
“Hey?” fro Grandfathr Smallwed.
“Charley do you mean?”
This toucs a spring in Grandmothr Smallwed, wh,
chuckling, as usual, at th trivets, cries—“Over th water! Charley
over the water, Charly over the water, over the water to Charly,
Charly over the water, over the water to Charly!” and be
quite enrgetic about it. Grandfathr looks at th cushion, but has
not sufficiently revered his late exerti
“Ha!” he says, when there is silence—“if that’s her name. She
ats a deal It would be better to alw her for her kep.”
Judy, with her brother’s wink, shakes her head, and purses up
her mouth into No, without saying it.
“No?” returns the old man “Why not?”
“She’d want sixpen a-day, and we can do it for less,” says
Judy.
“Sure?”
Judy answers with a nod of deepet meang, and calls, as she
rape the butter on the loaf with every preaution agait waste,
and cuts it into slices, “You Charley, whre are you?” Timidly
obedient to th summons, a lttl girl i a rough apron and a large
bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water, and a
scrubbing brus in on of th, appears, and curtseys
“What work are you about now?” says Judy, making an anct
snap at her, like a very sharp old beldam
“I’m a-cleang the upstairs back ro, miss,” replies Charly.
“Mind you do it throughly, and don’t loiter. Shirking won’t do
for me. Make haste! Go alg!” cries Judy, with a stamp upo th
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ground. “You girls are more trouble than you’re worth, by half.”
On this severe matro, as she returns to her task of scraping th
butter and cutting the bread, fall the shadow of her brother,
lookig i at the window. For whom, knfe and loaf in hand, s
opens the street door.
“Ay, ay, Bart!” says Grandfathr Smallwed. “Here you are,
hey?”
“Here I am,” says Bart.
“Been al with your friend agai, Bart?”
Small nods
“Dining at his expense, Bart?”
Small nods again.
“That’s right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take
warning by his foish exampl That’s th us of such a friend.
The only use you can put him to,” says the venrable sage.
His grandson, withut receiving this god coun as dutifuly
as he might, hours it wth all such acceptance as may l i a
slight wik and a nod, and takes a chair at th tea-table. Th four
od faces th hover over teacups, like a company of ghastly
cherubim; Mrs Smallwed perpetualy twitching hr had and
cattering at the trivets, and Mr Smald requirig to be
repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught.
“Ye, yes,” says the good old gentlan, reverting to his le
f wisdom. “That’s such advice as your fathr would have give
you, Bart. You never saw your father. More’s the pity. He was my
true son.” Whethr it is intended to be conveyed that he was
particularly plasant to look at, on that account, doe not appear.
“He was my true son,” repeats th old gentleman, folding h
bread and butter on his knee; “a good acuntant, and died fifteen
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years ago”
Mrs Smaleed, following her usual intit, breaks out with
“Fifte hundred pound. Fifte hundred pound in a black box,
fifteen hundred pound loked up, fifteen hundred pound put away
and hid!” Her worthy husband, setting asde his bread and butter,
immediatey discharges th cushion at her, cruss her agait th
side of her chair, and fals back in his own, overpowred. Hi
appearance, after visiting Mrs Smallwed with o of th
admonitis, is particularly impreve and not wlly
prepossg: firstly, becaus the exertion genrally twists his
black skull cap over on eye and gives him an air of gobl
rakishness; sendly, becaus he mutters vit impreation
agait Mrs Smaleed; and thrdly, beause the cotrast between
th powrful expression and his powrlss figure is suggestive
of a balful old malgnant, who would be very wicked if he culd.
l this, hover, is so common in th Smallwed famly crcle,
that it produc no impression. Th old gentleman is merely
shaken, and has his internal feathrs beate up; th cushion i
restored to its usual place beside him; and th old lady, perhaps
wth hr cap adjusted, and perhaps not, is planted in her chair
again, ready to be bowd dow like a nipin.
Some time elapses, in th pret instance, before th od
gentleman is sufficiently coo to resum his discurs; and eve
th he mixes it up with several edifying expletive addressed to
th unnscious partner of his bosom, wh hods communicati
with nothing on earth but trivets As thus:—
“If your father, Bart, had lived loger, he might have be
rth a great deal of money—you brimsto chatterer!—but just
as he was beging to buid up the house that he had be
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making th foundatis for, through many a year—you jade of a
magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean!—h tok ill
and died of a low fever, always beig a sparing and a spare man,
full of business care—I should like to thro a cat at you instead of
a cushion, and I wi to if you make such a confounded fo of
yourself!—and your mothr, wh was a prudet woan as dry as a
chip, just dwidld away like toucd after you and Judy wre
born—You are an old pig. You are a bristo pig. You’re a had
of swine!”
Judy, not interested in what sh has often heard, begins to
collect in a basn varius tributary streams of tea fro th bottoms
of cups and saucrs and from the bottom of the teapot, for the lttle
arwoman’s eveg mal. In like manr s gets together, in
the iron bread-basket, as many outsde fragmts and wrn-down
heels of loaves as the rigid ecoy of the house has left i
xistece.
“But your father and me were partners, Bart,” says the old
gentleman; “and wh I am go, you and Judy will have all thre
It’s rare for you both, that you went out early in life—Judy to
the flower bus, and you to the law. You won’t want to sped
it. You’l get your living without it, and put more to it. Wh I am
go, Judy will go back to th flr bus, and you’ll stick to
the law.”
One might infer, fro Judy’s appearance, that hr busine
rather lay with the thorns than the flowers; but, s has, in her
tim, be appreticd to the art and mystery of artifical flowermaking. A cl observer might perhaps detect both in her eye
and her brother’s, when their venrabl grandsre anticpates hi
beg gone, so little impatie to know when he may be going,
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and some rentful opinion that it is time that he went.
“No, if everybody has don,” says Judy, compltig her
preparati, “I’l have that girl in to her tea. Sh would nver
leave off, if she tok it by hersf in th kitcn.”
Carley is accordingly introducd, and, under a heavy fire of
eye, sits dow to hr basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and
butter. In the active superintede of this young person, Judy
Smald appears to attai a perfectly geological age, and to date
fro th remotest perids. Her systeatic manner of flying at hr
and pouncig on her, with or without pretenc, whether or n, i
nderful; evincing an accomplishment in th art of girl-driving,
seldom reached by th oldest practitirs.
“Now, do’t stare about you all the afternoon,” crid Judy,
sakig her head and stampig her foot as se happens to catch
th glance wich has be previously sounding th basin of tea,
“but take your victual and get back to your work.”
“Ye, miss,” says Charley.
“Do’t say yes,” returns Mi Smallwed, “for I kn what you
girls are Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to belve
you.”
Carly swallws a great gulp of tea i toke of submon, and
so disperses th Druidical ruis that Mi Smallwed charges her
nt to gormandise, which, “in you girls,” she observes, is
disgusting. Charley might find some more difficulty i meetig hr
vie on the genral subjet of girls, but for a knock at the door.
“See wh it is, and don’t che wh you ope it!” cries Judy.
The object of her attenti withdrawg for the purpose, Mis
Smallwed takes that opportunity of jumbling th remainder of
the bread and butter together, and launchg two or three dirty
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teacups ito the ebb-tide of the bas of tea; as a hint that sh
nsiders th eating and drinking termated.
“Now! Who is it, and what’s wanted?” says th snappish Judy.
It is on “Mr George,” it appears. Withut othr announcement
or ceremony, Mr George walks in
“Whe!” says Mr George. “You are hot here. Alays a fire, eh?
We! Perhaps you do right to get used to one” Mr George make
the latter remark to himf, as he nods to Grandfather
Smallwed.
“Ho! It’s you!” cries the old getlan “How de do? How de
do?”
“Middlg,” replies Mr George, taking a chair. “Your granddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before: my srvic to
you, miss.”
“This is my grands,” says Grandfathr Smallwed. “You
ha’n’t seen him before. He is in the law, and nt much at hoe.”
“My service to him, to! He is like his sister. He is very like hi
sister. He is devilish like his sister,” says Mr George, laying a great
and not altogethr complimentary stress on his last adjective
“And how do the world use you, Mr George?” Grandfather
Smallwed inquire, slly rubbing his legs
“Pretty much as usual Like a footbal.”
He is a swarthy brod man of fifty; well made, and godlookig; with crisp dark hair, bright eye, and a broad chet. Hi
sinewy and powrful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have
vidently be usd to a pretty rough life. What is curius about
hm is, that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, fro long
habit, alwing spac for so dres or acutremets that he has
altogethr laid aside. His step to is measured and heavy, and
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would go wel with a weighty clash and jigl of spurs. He i coseshaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had be for
years famliar with a great moustache; and his manner of
occasonaly laying the open pal of his broad brown hand upo
t, i to the sam effect. Atogether, one might gues Mr George to
have been a trooper onc upon a tim
A special contrast Mr George makes to th Smalld family.
Trooper was never yet bieted upo a household mre unlike hi
It is a broadsrd to an oyster knife His developed figure, and
their stunted forms; his large manr, fig any amount of room,
and thr littl narro pinched ways; his sounding voice, and thr
sarp spare to; are in the strogest and the strangest
opposition A h sits in th middle of th grim parlur, leang a
littl forward, with his hands upo his thigh, and hi elbo
quared, he loks as though, if remaid there lg, he would
absrb into himf the whole famy and the whole four-roomed
huse, extra littl back-kitche and all.
“Do you rub your legs to rub lfe ito ’e?” he asks of
Grandfather Swaleed, after lookig round the room.
“Why, it’s partly a habit, Mr George, and—yes—it partly heps
th circulati,” he replies
“Th cir-cu-la-tion!” repeats Mr George, folding his arms upo
is chet, and seeing to beme tw sizes larger. “Not much of
that, I should think.”
“Truly I’m old, Mr George,” says Grandfathr Smallwed. “But
I can carry my years. I’m older than her,” ndding at his wfe, “and
se what she is!—You’re a bristo chatterer!” wth a sudden
revival of his late hostility.
“Unlucky old soul!” says Mr George, turnig his head in that
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directi “Don’t scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her
poor cap half off her head, and her poor chair al i a muddl
Hold up, ma’am That’s better. There we are! Think of your
mothr, Mr Smallwed,” says Mr George, coming back to his seat
fro asisting her, “if your wife an’t enugh.”
“I suppos you were an excellent son, Mr George,” th old man
nts, with a leer.
Th colour of Mr George’s face rathr deepes, as he replies;
“Why no. I wasn’t.”
“I am astoished at it.”
“So am I. I ought to have been a good s, and I think I mant
to have be on But I was’t. I was a thunderig bad s, that’s
th long and th short of it, and never was a credit to anybody.”
“Surprising!” cries th old man.
“Hover,” Mr George resumes, “th less said about it th
better no Come! You know the agreement. Alays a pipe out of
the two moths’ interest! (Bosh! It’s al crrect. You needn’t be
afraid to order the pipe Here’s the nw bi, and here’s the two
month’ iterest-my, and a devil-and-all of a srape it is to get
it together in my bus).”
Mr George sits, with his arm foded, consumg th family and
th parlur, while Grandfathr Smallwed is assisted by Judy to
two black leathern cas out of a loked bureau; i one of whic he
secures th documnt he has just received, and fro th othr
takes anothr similar document which he hands to Mr George,
w twists it up for a pipe-light. As th old man inspects, through
is glasses, every up-stroke and dowstroke of both documents,
before he releas them from their leathern prion; and as he
cunts the moy three ti over, and requires Judy to say every
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word sh utters at least twic, and i as tremulously sow of spe
and acti as it is posble to be; this business is a long time in
progress. Whe it is quite concluded, and not before, h
disengage his ravenous eye and fingers fro it, and answers Mr
George’s last remark by saying, “Afraid to order th pipe? We are
not so mercary as that, sir. Judy, se directly to th pipe and th
glas of cold brandy and water for Mr George.”
Th sportive twins, wh have be looking straight before th
all this time, except wh thy have be egrossed by th
leathrn cases, retire togethr, gerally disdainful of th visitor,
but lavig hi to the old man, as two young cubs might leave a
traver to the parental bear.
“And there you st, I suppose, al the day lg, eh!” says Mr
George, with folded arm
“Just so, just so,” the old man nds.
“And don’t you occupy yourself at all?”
“I watch the fire—and the bog and the roasting—”
“When there is any,” says Mr George, with great expreon.
“Just so. When there is any.”
“Don’t you read, and get read to?”
Th old man shakes hi head with sharp sy triumph. “No, no.
We have never be readers in our famy. It do’t pay. Stuff.
Idleness. Folly. No, no!”
“There’s nt muc to choose between your two states,” says the
visitor, in a key to low for th old man’s dull hearig, as he looks
fro him to th old woan and back again. “I say!” i a louder
voice.
“I hear you.”
“You’ll se me up at last I suppose, when I am a day in arrear.”
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“My dear friend!” cries Grandfathr Smallwed, stretcng out
both hands to embrace him “Never! Never, my dear frid! But
my fried i the city that I got to led you the moy—
he might!”
“O! you can’t ansr for him?” says Mr George; fing the
inquiry, in his lowr key, with th words “you lying old rascal!”
“My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn’t trust
hm. He wi have his bod, my dear friend.”
“Devi doubt him,” says Mr George. Charly appearig with a
tray, on which are th pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and th
brandy and water, h asks her, “Ho do you come here! you
haven’t got the famy face”
“I goes out to work, sir,” returns Charly.
The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) take her bonnet off,
with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head.
“You give the house alt a wholese look. It wants a bit of
youth as much as it wants fre air.” Th h dismisses hr, lghts
is pipe, and drinks to Mr Smallwed’s friend in th city—th on
solitary flight of that ested old gentleman’s imagination.
“So you think he mght be hard upon m, eh?”
“I think he mght—I am afraid he would. I have known him to
do it,” says Grandfathr Smaleed, inautiousy, “twty times.”
Incautiously, becaus his stricken better-half, w has be
dozing over th fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers
“Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a
mybox, twenty guinas, twenty min twenty per cet,
twty—” and is th cut short by th flying cushion, wich th
visitor, to wh th singular experiment appears to be a novelty,
snatche fro her face as it cruss her in th usual manr.
“You’re a bristo idiot. You’re a scorpion—a bristo
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srpi! You’re a swtering toad. You’re a cattering clattering
broomstik witch, that ought to be burnt!” gasps the old man,
protrate in hi chair. “My dear friend, w you shake me up a
lttle?”
Mr George, who has been lookig first at one of them and then
at the other, as if he were deted, take hi venerable
acquaitanc by the throat on recvig this request, and dragging
hm upright in his chair as easily as if he were a dol, appears i
tw minds whthr or no to shake all future powr of cushioning
out of hm, and shake him into his grave Resisting th temptati,
but agitatig him viotly enough to make h head roll lke a
harlquin’s, h puts him smartly dow in his chair again, and
adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub, that th od man wks both
ye for a minute afterwards.
“O Lord!” gasps Mr Smaleed. That’ll do. Thank you, my dear
friend, that’ll do. O dear me, I’m out of breath. O Lord!” And Mr
Smallwed says it, not withut evident appresions of his dear
fried, who sti stands over him loomig larger than ever.
The alarmg presenc, however, gradualy subsde into its
chair, and fals to smking in long puffs; cong itself with th
philosphcal reflti, “Th name of your friend in th city
begins a D, corade, and you’re about right respetig the bond.”
“Did you speak, Mr George?” inquire th old man.
Th troper shakes his head; and leaning forward wth his right
ebo o his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while
his othr hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left ebo in a
martial manr, continues to smoke Meanile he looks at Mr
Smallwed wth grave attention, and now and th fans th cloud
of smoke away, in order that he may see him the mre clarly.
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“I take it,” he says, making just as much and as lttl change i
is position as wi enable him to reach th glass to his lips, with a
round, full action, “that I am the only man alve (or dead either),
that gets the value of a pipe out of you?”
“We!” returns the old man, “it’s true that I do’t s cpany,
Mr George, and that I do’t treat. I can’t afford to it. But as you, i
your pleasant way, made your pipe a codition—”
“Why, it’s nt for the value of it; that’s no great thing. It was a
fany to get it out of you. To have sothing in for my my.”
“Ha! You’re prudet, prudet, sir!” cries Grandfathr
Smallwed, rubbig his legs
“Very. I alays was.” Puff. “It’s a sure sign of my prudece, that
I ever found the way here.” Puff. “Alo, that I am wat I am” Puff.
“I am well knn to be prudet,” says Mr George, composdly
smokig. “I ro in life, that way.”
“Don’t be dow-hearted, sir. You may rise yet.”
Mr George laughs and driks
“Ha’n’t you no relatis, now,” asks Grandfathr Smallwed,
wth a twinkl in his eye, “wh would pay off this littl principal,
or who would led you a good nam or two that I culd persuade
y fried i the city to make you a further advance upon? Two
god names would be sufficient for my friend i th city. Ha’n’t
you no such relatis, Mr George?”
Mr George, still composdly smking, replies, “If I had, I
shouldn’t troubl them I have be troubl enough to my
belongings in my day. It may be a very good sort of petene in a
vagabond, who has wasted the bet tim of his life, to go back then
to decent people that he never was a credit to, and live upo th;
but it’s nt my srt. The bet kind of ameds then, for having gone
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away, is to keep away, in my opiion.”
“But natural affection, Mr George,” hints Grandfathr
Smallwed.
“For two good nam, hey?” says Mr George, shakig his head,
and still composdly smkig. “No That’s nt my sort, either.”
Grandfathr Smallwed has bee gradually sliding dow in hi
chair since his last adjustment, and is now a bundle of cloths,
wth a voice in it calling for Judy. That Houri appearig, shake
m up i th usual manner, and is charged by th old gentleman
to remain near him. For he sees chary of putting his visitor to
the troubl of repeatig his late attentins.
“Ha!” he observes, when he is in trim agai “If you could have
tracd out the Captai, Mr George, it would have be the makig
of you. If, when you first cam here, in coequence of our
advertisements in th newpapers—whn I say ‘our,’ I’m alluding
to th advertisements of my friend in th city, and on or tw
others who embark their capital in the sam way, and are s
friedly towards me as stim to give m a lft with my little
pittance—if, at that time, you could have helped us, Mr George, it
would have be the makig of you.”
“I was wig enugh to be ‘made,’ as you cal it,” says Mr
George, smokig not quite so placidly as before, for since th
trance of Judy h has be in some measure disturbed by a
fasatio, nt of the admring kind, whic oblges hi to look at
her as se stands by her grandfather’s cair; “but, on the whole, I
am glad I was’t now”
“Why, Mr George? In th name of—of Brimsto, why?” says
Grandfathr Smallwed, with a plain appearance of exasperati
(Brimsto apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs
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Smald in her slumber.) “For two reasons, corade”
“And what two reasons, Mr George? In the nam of the—”
“Of our friend in th city?” suggests Mr George, composdly
drinking.
“Ay, if you like. What tw reass?”
“In the first plac,” returns Mr George; but stil lookig at Judy,
as if, she being so old and so like her grandfathr, it is indifferent
whic of the two he addres; “you gentl took m in You
advertisd that Mr Hawdo (Captai Hawdo, if you hold to the
saying, Once a captain alays a captain) was to hear of something
of his advantage”
“We?” returns the old man, srilly and sharply.
“Well!” says Mr George, smokig on. “It wouldn’t have been
much to his advantage to have be clapped into pri by th
whole bi and judgmt trade of London.”
“How do you know that? So of his ric relatio mght have
paid his debts, or compounded for ’em. Bedes, he had taken us
in. He owd us immense sums, all round. I would soor have
trangld him than had n return. If I sit here thinkig of hi,”
snarls th od man, hding up his impotent ten fingers, “I want to
strangle hm now.” Ad in a sudden acces of fury, he thro th
cushion at th unffending Mrs Smallwed, but it passes
harmly on one sde of her chair.
“I do’t nd to be told,” returns the trooper, takig his pipe
fro his lips for a moment, and carrying his eye back fro
followng th progress of th cushion, to th pipe-bol which is
burnig low, “that he carried on heaviy and went to ruin I have
been at hi right hand many a day, when he was charging upon
ruin ful-gallop. I was with him, wh he was sick and well, rich
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and poor. I laid this hand upon him, after he had run through
everythig and broken do everythig beath hi—wen he
hld a pisto to his head.”
“I wish he had let it off!” says th benevolent od man, “and
bln his head into as many pieces as he owd pounds!”
“That would have be a smash ideed,” returns the trooper
coolly; “any way, he had be young, hopeful, and hands i
the days go by; and I am glad I nver found hi, when he was
thr, to lead to a reult so muc to hi advantage That’s reas
umber one.”
“I hope number two’s as good?” snarls the old man
“Why, no. It’s more of a selfi reas. If I had found hm, I
must have gone to the other world to look. He was there”
“How do you know he was there?”
“He wasn’t here.”
“How do you kn he was’t here?”
“Don’t lse your temper as we as your mony,” says Mr
George, calmly knocking th ashes out of his pipe. “He was
drod long before. I am conviced of it. He went over a ship’s
side. Whethr intentionally or accidentally, I don’t know Perhaps
your fried i the cty do—Do you know what that tune is, Mr
Smallwed?” h adds, after breaking off to whistle on,
accompanied on th tabl with th empty pipe.
“Tune!” replies the old man “No We never have tuns here.”
“That’s th Dead Marc in Saul. Thy bury soldiers to it; so it’s
the natural ed of the subjet. Now, if your pretty granddaughter—excus me, miss—will codescend to take care of this
pipe for tw month, w shall save th cost of on next time. Good
evenig, Mr Smaleed!”
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“My dear friend!” Th old man gives him both his hands.
“So you think your friend in th city will be hard upo me, if I
fai i a paymet?” says the trooper, lookig down upon him like a
giant.
“My dear friend, I am afraid he wi,” returns the old man,
lookig up at him like a pigmy.
Mr George laugh; and with a glance at Mr Smallwed, and a
parting salutatio to the scrnful Judy, stride out of the parlour,
clasng imaginary sabre and othr metallic appurteances as he
goes
“You’re a damned rogue,” says th old gentleman, making a
hideous grimace at the door as shuts it. “But I’l li you, you dog,
I’ll lime you!”
After this amiabl remark, his spirit soars ito th echanting
regis of reflti which its education and pursuits have oped
to it; and again h and Mrs Smallwed wile away th rosy hours,
two unreeved sti forgotte as aforesaid by the Black
Serjeant.
While th twain are faithful to thr post, Mr George strides
through the streets with a masve kid of swagger and a graveeough fac It is eight o’cock nw, and the day is fast drawg i
He stops hard by Waterl Bridge, and reads a play-bill; decides to
go to Astley’s Theatre. Beig there, i muc delighted with the
horse and the feats of strength; loks at the weapons with a
critical eye; disapprove of th combats, as giving evidences of
unskillful swordsmanship; but is toucd ho by th sentiments
In the last sc, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up ito a cart
and codesds to bl the united lvers by hoverig over them
wth th Union Jack, his eyeashes are moited with emtion.
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The theatre over, Mr George co across the water agai, and
make hi way to that curious region lyig about the Haymarket
and Leicester Square, w is a centre of attracti to indifferent
foreign hotel and idifferent foreignrs, racket-courts, fightingmen, swordsmen, fotguards, old china, gaming houses,
exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbi and shrinkig out of
sght. Petrating to the heart of this region, he arrives, by a curt
and a long whiteashed passage, at a great brick building,
cposed of bare wall, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights; on the
frot of which, if it can be said to have any frot, i paited
GEORGE’S SHOOTING GALLERY, etc.
Into George’s Shooting Gallery, etc., he goes; and in it there are
gasghts (partly turned off now), and two whited targets for
rifle-shooting, and arcery acdation, and feng
appliances, and all necessari for th British art of boxing. None
f th sports or exercises are being pursued in George’s
Shooting Galry tonight; whic is so devoid of copany, that a
lttle grotesque man, with a large head, has it all to hif, and
l aseep upo the floor.
The lttle man i dred sthing lke a gunsth, in a gree
baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty wth
gunpowder, and begrimd with the loadig of guns As he lie in
the lght, before a glarig white target, the black upon him s
again. Not far off, is th strong, rough, primitive tabl, with a vice
upo it, at which he has be working. He is a littl man with a
face al crusd togethr, wh appears, fro a certain blue and
speckled appearance that on of his cheks prets, to have be
blown up, in the way of bus, at so odd tim or tim
“Phi!” says the trooper, in a quiet voic
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“All right!” cries Ph, scramblg to his fet.
“Aything be dog!”
“Flat as ever so much swipe,” says Phil. “Five dozen rifl and a
dozen pisto As to aim!” Phil gives a hol at th rellection.
“Shut up shop, Phil!”
As Ph moves about to exeute this order, it appears that he is
lam, though abl to move very quickly. On the spekld sde of
hi fac he has n eyebrow, and on the other side he has a busy
black one, whic want of uniformity gives him a very sigular and
rathr sinister appearance. Everythng sees to have happed to
is hands that could possibly take plac, consistently with th
retention of all th fingers; for thy are notcd, and seamed, and
crumpled al over. He appears to be very strong, and lifts heavy
benches about as if he had no idea what weight was He has a
curious way of lipig round the gallry with his shoulder against
the wal, and tackig off at objects he wants to lay hold of, itead
of going straight to them, whic has lft a smar al round the four
walls, convetially called “Phl’s mark.”
This custodian of George’s Gallery i George’s abse
ncludes his prodings, wh he has locked th great doors,
and turned out all the lghts but one, whic he leave to glir,
by dragging out from a woode cabin in a cornr two mattres
and beddig. Thes beg drawn to oppote ends of the galry,
th troper makes hi own bed, and Phil makes his.
“Phi!” says the master, walkig towards hi without hi cat
and waistcoat, and lookig more soldierly than ever in his brac
“You were found in a doorway, weren’t you?”
“Gutter,” says Phi. “Watchman tumbld over me.”
“Thn, vagabondising came natural to you, fro th
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beginnig.”
“As nat’ral as posble,” says Phil.
“Good-night!”
“Good-night, guv’nr.”
Phil cant eve go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to
houlder round two side of the gallry, and then tack off at his
attres The trooper, after takig a turn or two in the riflditanc, and lookig up at the mo now shg through the
skylights, strides to his ow mattress by a shorter route, and go
to bed too.
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Chapter 22
Mr Bucket
lgory looks pretty cool in Linoln’s In Fids, though
the eveg is hot; for, both Mr Tulkighorn’s windows
are wide ope, and th ro is lofty, gusty, and glmy.
Th may not be desirable characteristics wh Noveber comes
with fog and slt, or January with ic and sow; but they have
their mrits i the sultry log vacation weather. They enabl
legory, thugh it has cheks lke peaches, and kn like
bunches of blsoms, and rosy swelings for calve to its legs and
mus to its arm, to look tolerably co tonight.
Plty of dust comes in at Mr Tulkinghrn’s wdos, and
plenty more has gerated amg his furniture and papers. It l
thk everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lt its
ay, takes fright, and makes a bld hurry to rush out again, it
fligs as muc dust in the eye of Agory as the law—or Mr
Tulkighorn, one of its trustiet repretatives—may satter, on
occason, i the eyes of the laity.
In his lowring magazine of dust, th universal arti into
ich his papers and hif, and al his clients, and al things of
earth, animate and inanate, are resolving, Mr Tulkighrn sits
at one of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of od port. Though a
hard-graied man, cose, dry, and st, he can enjoy old win
th th best. He has a priceles bi of port in some artful cellar
under th Fids, which is on of his many secrets. Whe he di
alone in chambers, as he has did today, and has hi bit of fis
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and his steak or chke brought in from the coffee-house, he
deds with a candl to the echoing regions bew the derted
man, and, heralded by a remte reverberati of thundering
doors, comes gravey back, encircled by an earthy atmosphere,
and carrying a bottl fro which he pours a radiant nectar, tw
score and ten years od, that bluss in th glass to find itself so
famus, and fil the whole room with the fragrane of southern
grape
Mr Tulkighorn, stting i the twilght by the ope window,
ejoys his wi. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence
and seusion, it shuts hm up th clr. More impenetrable than
ever, he sits, and drinks, and mels as it wre in secrey;
ponderig, at that twilight hour, on all th mysteries h kns,
assocated wth darkeg wods in th country, and vast blank
shut-up huses in to; and perhaps sparig a thught or tw for
hmself, and his family history, and his money, and his will—all a
mystery to everyone—and that one bacor friend of hi, a man of
th same mould and a lawyer to, wh lived th same kind of life
until he was seventy-five years old, and th, suddely coving
(as it is supposed) an impresion that it was to monotonous, gave
is gold watc to hi hair-dresser on summer eveing, and
walked leisurely ho to th Temple, and hanged hif.
But, Mr Tulkighorn is not alone tonight, to poder at hi usual
gth. Seated at the sam table, though with his chair modetly
and unmfortably drawn a littl way fro it, sits a bald, mid,
shining man, wh cough respectfuly bend hi hand wh th
lawyer bids him fill his glass.
“Now, Snagsby,” says Mr Tulkighorn, “to go over this odd
story again.”
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“If you please, sir.”
“You tod me wh you were so god as to step round here, last
nght—”
“For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir;
but I rember that you had take a sort of an interest in that
pers, and I thught it possible that you might-just-wish-to-” Mr
Tulkighorn is nt the man to help him to any cncluson, or to
admit anythng as to any posbility concerning hmself. So Mr
Snagsby trails off into saying, wth an awkward cough, “I must ask
you to excuse th liberty, sir, I am sure.”
“Not at all,” says Mr Tulkinghrn. “You told me, Snagsby, that
you put on your hat and came round withut mentioning your
intention to your wife. That was prudet I thk, becaus it’s not a
matter of such importance that it require to be mentioned.”
“We, sir,” returns Mr Snagsby, “you se my lttle woman i—
not to put to fi a point upo it—inquisitive She’s iquisitive
Poor lttle thing, s’s liabl to spas, and it’s good for her to
have her mid employed. In coequence of wh, se eploys
it—I should say upo every individual thing she can lay hd of,
wthr it concerns hr or not—especially not. My littl woan
as a very active mind, sir.”
Mr Snagsby driks, and murmurs, wth an admiring cough
bed his hand. “Dear me, very fine wi indeed!”
“Threfore you kept your visit to yourself, last night?” says Mr
Tulkighorn. “Ad tonght, too?”
“Ye, sir, and tonight, too. My little woman i at pret i—not
to put to fi a poit on it—in a pius state, or in what she
nsiders such, and attends th Eveg Exertis (wich is th
am they go by) of a reverend party of the nam of Cadband. He
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has a great deal of eloquence at his coand undoubtedly, but I
am not quite favourable to his styl myself. That’s neithr hre nor
there. My little woan beg engaged in that way, made it easer
for me to step round in a quiet manner.”
Mr Tulkinghrn assents. “Fill your glass, Snagsby.”
“Thank you, sr, I am sure,” returns the statir, with his
ugh of deferee. “Th is woderfuly fine wi, sir!”
“It is a rare wi now,” says Mr Tulkinghrn. “It is fifty years
old.”
“Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It
mght be—any age alt.” After renderig this genral tribute to
the port, Mr Snagsby in his modety coughs an apoogy bend his
and for drinking anythng so precious
“Will you run over, once again, what th boy said?” asks Mr
Tulkinghrn, putting his hands into th pockets of his rusty smallcloths and leang quietly back in his chair.
“With pleasure, sir.”
Then, with fidelity, though with so prolixity, the lawstationer repeats Jo’s statet made to th assembled guets at
his huse. On coming to th end of his narrative, he gives a great
start, and breaks off wth—“Dear me, sir, I was’t aware thre was
any othr gentleman pret!”
Mr Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face
between hielf and the lawyer, at a little ditan from the table,
a pers with a hat and stick in his hand wh was not thre w
he hielf cam in, and has not sie entered by the door or by
either of the widows There is a pres in the room, but its higes
ave not creaked, nor has a step bee audibl upo th flr. Yet
this third pers stands thre, with his attentive face, and hi hat
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and stick in his hands, and hi hands bend hi, a copod and
quiet lister. He is a stoutly-built, steady-lking, sharp-eyed
man i black, of about the middl-age. Except that he looks at Mr
Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, thre is nothing
remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manr of
appearing.
“Do’t mind this gentleman,” says Mr Tulkighrn, in his quiet
way. “This is only Mr Bucket.”
“Oh indeed, sir?” returns th stationer, expresing by a cough
that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr Bucket may be
“I wanted hm to hear this story,” says the lawyer, “because I
have half a md (for a reas) to know more of it, and he is very
itellget in suc things. What do you say to this, Bucket?”
“It’s very plain, sir. Si our people have moved this boy o,
and he’s nt to be found on his old lay, if Mr Snagsby do’t object
to go down with me to Tom-al-Alone’s and pot him out, we can
have him here in le than a cupl of hours’ tim I can do it
wthut Mr Snagsby, of course; but this is th shortest way.”
“Mr Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby,” says th lawyer in
xplanation.
“Is h ideed, sir?” says Mr Snagsby, with a strong tedecy in
his clump of hair to stand on end.
“And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr Bucket to
the plac i question,” pursues the lawyer, “I shall fee obliged to
you if you wil do so”
In a mt’s hetati on th part of Mr Snagsby, Bucket
dips dow to th bottom of his mind.
“Don’t you be afraid of hurting the boy,” h says. “You w’t do
that. It’s all right as far as th boy’s concerned. We shal only bring
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hi here to ask hi a question or s I want to put to him, and he’l
be paid for his trouble, and sent away again. It’ll be a god job for
hm. I proise you, as man, that you shall see th boy sent away
al right. Do’t you be afraid of hurting hi; you an’t going to do
that.”
“Very well, Mr Tulkinghrn!” cries Mr Snagsby cherfully, and
reassured, “sce that’s th case—”
“Ye! and looke here, Mr Snagsby,” resumes Bucket, taking
hm aside by th arm, tapping him familiarly on th breast, and
speakig in a confidential to “You’re a man of th wrld, you
know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. “That’s what
you are”
“I am sure I am much obliged to you for your god opinion,”
returns th stationer, with his cough of modesty, “but—”
“That’s what you are, you kn,” says Bucket. “No, it an’t
nary to say to a man like you, engaged in your bus,
wich is a busss of trust and require a pers to be wide
awake and have his se about him, and his head screwed on
tight (I had an un in your busine oce)—it an’t necessary to
say to a man like you, that it’s the best and wisest way to keep littl
atters like this quiet. Do’t you se? Quit!”
“Certainly, certainly,” returns th stationer.
“I do’t mid tellg
you,” says Bucket, with an engaging
appearance of franknss, “that, as far as I can understand it, thre
to be a doubt whether this dead perso was’t entitld to a
lttle property, and whether th femal has’t been up to s
gam respeting that property, do’t you se!”
“O!” says Mr Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distictly.
“No, what you want,” pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr
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Snagsby on the breast in a cofortable and soothing maner, “i,
that every person should have their rights acrdig to justi
That’s what you want.”
“To be sure,” returns Mr Snagsby with a nd.
“On acunt of whic, and at the sam tim to oblge a—do you
call it, in your busss, custor or client? I forget ho my uncle
usd to call it.”
“Why, I gerally say custor myself,” replies Mr Snagsby.
“You’re right!” returns Mr Bucket, shakig hands with hi
quite affectionately,—“on account of which, and at th same time
to oblge a real good customr, you mean to go down with m, i
fide, to Tom-al-A’s, and to kep the whole thing quiet
ever afterwards and never mention it to any on That’s about
your intentions if I understand you.”
“You are right, sir. You are right,” says Mr Snagsby.
“Th here’s your hat,” returns his n friend, quite as
tiate with it as if he had made it; “and if you’re ready, I am.”
They leave Mr Tulkighorn, without a ruffle o the surfac of
hi unfathomabl depths, drikig his old win, and go do into
the streets
“You do’t happen to know a very good sort of person of the
name of Gridley, do you?” says Bucket, in a friendly converse as
thy descend th stairs
“No,” says Mr Snagsby, considerig, “I don’t know anybody of
that name. Why?”
“Nothng particular,” says Bucket; “only, having allowd h
temper to get a little the better of him, and having be
threateing some respectable people, he is keepig out of th way
of a warrant I have got against him—w it’s a pity that a man of
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sense should do.”
As thy walk alg, Mr Snagsby observe, as a novelty, that,
hver quick thr pace may be, hs companion still see i
undefinable maner to lurk and lounge; al, that wenever
he is going to turn to the right or left, he preteds to have a fixed
purpose in his md of going straight ahead, and wheel off,
sharply, at th very last moment. Now and th, wh thy pass a
police cotabl o his beat, Mr Snagsby notices that both th
nstabl and his guide fal into a deep abstraction as thy come
towards eac other, and appear entirely to overlook eac other
and to gaze into space. In a fe instances, Mr Bucket, cong
bed some undersized young man with a shig hat on, and hi
sleek hair twisted into on flat curl on each side of his head, almost
without glang at him touches him with hi stik; upo whic
the young man, lookig round, intantly evaporate For the mt
part Mr Bucket notic things i genral with a face as
uncanging as the great mourning ring on his lttle finger, or the
brooch, copoed of nt muc diamond and a good deal of stting,
wich he wears in his shirt.
Whe thy came at last to Tom-all-A’s, Mr Bucket stops for
a moment at th cornr, and takes a lighted bul’s-eye fro th
nstabl on duty thre, wh th accompanies hi with his o
particular bull’s-eye at his wait. Betw his tw conductors Mr
Snagsby passes alg th middle of a vianus stret, undrained,
unventiated, dep i black mud and corrupt water—though the
roads are dry elre—and reking with such smel and sights
that he, who has lived i London al his life, can scarc beeve his
nses. Branchig fro this stret and its heap of ruis, are othr
strets and courts so infamous that Mr Snagsby sicken in body
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and mind, and fes as if he were going, every moment deeper
down, into the infernal gulf.
“Draw off a bit hre, Mr Snagsby,” says Bucket, as a kind of
shabby palanquin is born toards th, surrounded by a noisy
crowd. “Here’s the fever cog up the street!”
A the unseen wretc go by, the crowd, leavig that object of
attracti, hvers round th thre visitors, like a dream of horribl
faces, and fades away up alleys and into ruins, and bend wals;
and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning,
thenforth flits about them until they leave the plac
“Are those the fever-house, Darby?” Mr Bucket coolly asks, as
turns his bul’s-eye on a li of stikig ruis.
Darby repl that “all them are,” and further that in al, for
month and month, th people “have bee dow by dozen,” and
have been carrid out, dead and dyig “lke sheep with the rot.”
Bucket obsrving to Mr Snagsby as they go on agai, that he loks
a littl poorly, Mr Snagsby answers that he fes as if h couldn’t
breathe the dreadful air.
Thre is inquiry made at varius houses, for a boy named Jo. A
fe people are known in Tom-all-A’s by any Cristian sign,
thre is much reference to Snagsby whthr he means Carrots, or
the Colo, or Galows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky,
or the Brik. Mr Snagsby deribes over and over agai There are
nflicting opinions respectig th original of hi picture Some
think it must be Carrots; some say th Brick. Th Colonel is
produced, but is nt at all near the thing. Whver Mr Snagsby
and his conductors are stationary, th crod fls round, and
fro its squalid depth obsequious advice heave up to Mr Bucket.
Whenever they move, and the angry bul’s eyes glare, it fade
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away, and flts about them up the allys, and in the ruin, and
bend the wall, as before.
t last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough
Subjet lays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough
Subject may be Jo. Compari of note between Mr Snagsby and
th propritress of th house—a drunken face tid up in a black
bundl, and flarig out of a heap of rags on the floor of a doghutc which is her private apartmt—leads to th etablt
of this cous Toughy has gone to the Dotor’s to get a bottle
f stuff for a sick woman, but will be here an
“And who have we got here tonight?” says Mr Bucket, opeg
another door and glarig in with his bull’s-eye. “Two drunke
men, e? And tw women? Th men are sound enugh,” turning
back eac sleeper’s arm from his fac to look at him “Are these
your god men, my dears?”
“Yes, sir,” returns one of the women “Thy are our husbands.”
“Brickmakers, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you dog here? You do’t beg to Londo?”
“No, sir. We beg to Hertfordshire.”
“Whereabouts i Hertfordsre?”
“Sait Alban.”
“Come up on the tramp?”
“We walked up yeterday. There’s n work do with us at
pret, but w have done no god by coming here, and shall do
none, I expect.”
“That’s nt the way to do muc good,” says Mr Bucket, turnig
his head in th direction of th uncious figures on th ground.
“It an’t indeed,” replies the woman with a sgh. “Jenny and me
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knows it full we.”
The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so
w that the head of the talt of the vistors would touch the
blackened ceig if he stod upright. It is offensive to every sense;
even the gross candl burn pal and sikly in the pouted air.
There are a coupl of behes, and a higher beh by way of table.
The me lie asp where they stumbld do, but the w sit
by the candl. Lyig in the arm of the woan who has spoken, i
a very young chd.
“Why, what age do you cal that lttle creature?” says Bucket.
“It looks as if it was born yesterday.” He is not at all rough about
it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr Snagsby is
strangey reminded of anthr infant, encircd with light, that he
as see in picture
“He is nt three weeks old yet, sir,” says the woan
“Is he your child?”
“Mine.”
The other woman, who was bedig over it when they cam i,
stops dow again, and kisses it as it li asleep.
“You seem as fond of it as if you wre the mther yoursf,”
says Mr Bucket.
“I was the mother of one lke it, master, and it died.”
“Ah Jenny, Jenny!” says the other woman to her; “better s
Much better to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better.”
“Why, you an’t such an unatural woman, I hope,” return
Bucket, sterny, “as to wish your own child dead?”
“God knows you are right, master,” s returns “I am not. I’d
stand betw it and death, with my own life if I could, as true as
any pretty lady.”
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“Then do’t talk in that wrong manr,” says Mr Bucket,
mollified again. “Why do you do it?”
“It’s brought ito my head, master,” returns the woman, her
eye fiing with tears, “whn I look dow at th chid lying so. If it
was never to wake no more, you’d thk me mad, I should take on
I know that very wel I was with Jenny when s lot hers—
warn’t I, Jenny?—and I know how she grieved. But look around
you, at th place. Look at them;” glang at the sleepers on th
ground. “Look at the boy you’re waitig for, who’s gone out to do
a good turn. Think of the chdre that your bus lays with
often and often, and that you see grow up!”
“We, well!” says Mr Bucket, “you trai him respetable, and
he’l be a cofort to you, and look after you in your old age, you
know”
“I man to try hard,” se aners, wpig her eyes. “But I have
be a thinkig, beg overtired tonight, and nt wel with the
ague, of all th many things that’ll come in his way. My master wi
be agait it, and he’l be beat, and se me beat, and made to fear
his h, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so
muc and ever so hard, there’s no one to help me; and if he should
be turnd bad, spite of all I could do, and th time should come
w I should sit by him in his slep, made hard and changed, an’t
it lkey I should think of hi as he li in my lap now, and wis he
had did as Jey’s child died!”
“Thre, there!” says Jey. “Liz, you’re tired and il Let me
take hi”
In doig so, she displaces th mothr’s dres, but quickly
readjusts it over th wounded and bruid bosom whre th baby
has be lying.
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“It’s my dead child,” says Jey, walkig up and dow as she
nurs, “that makes me love this child so dear, and it’s my dead
child that makes hr love it so dear to, as eve to thk of its
beig taken away fro her now Whi she thinks that,
I thik
wat fortun wuld I give to have my darling back. But we mean
the sam thing, if we kn how to say it, us two mthers do in
our poor hearts!”
As Mr Snagsby bls his nose, and cough hs cough of
sympathy, a step is heard without. Mr Bucket throws hi lght ito
the doorway, and says to Mr Snagsby, “Now, what do you say to
Toughy? Will he do?”
“That’s Jo,” says Mr Snagsby.
Jo stands amazed in the di of lght, like a ragged figure i a
magic-lanthorn, tremblig to think that he has offended against
the law in not having moved on far enough. Mr Snagsby, however,
giving him th consolatory assurance, “It’s only a job you wll be
paid for, Jo,” he recvers; and, on beg take outside by Mr
Bucket for a little private cofabulati, tel his tale satisfactorily,
though out of breath.
“I have squared it with the lad,” says Mr Bucket, returnig,
“and it’s al right. No, Mr Snagsby, we’re ready for you.”
First, Jo has to coplete his errand of good-nature by handig
over th physic he has be to get, which he delivers with th
laconic verbal direction that “it’s to be tok al d’rectly.” Secondly,
Mr Snagsby has to lay upo the table half-a-crown, his usual
panacea for an immense varity of affliction. Thirdly, Mr Bucket
has to take Jo by the arm a lttle above the elbow and walk h o
before hi: without whic obsrvan, nther the Tough Subject
nr any other subject could be professonaly cnducted to
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Linoln’s In Fieds Thes arrangets cpleted, they give the
wmen god night, and come out once more into black and foul
Tom-all-A’s.
By the no ways through whic they deded into that
pit, they gradually emrge from it; the crowd flitting, and
whistlg, and skulkig about them, until they co to the verge,
were retorati of the bul’s-eyes i made to Darby. Here, th
rowd like a course of imprioned de, turns back, yellig,
and is s n mre. Through the clarer and fresher streets,
nver s car and fresh to Mr Snagsby’s mnd as nw, they walk
and ride, until they co to Mr Tulkighorn’s gate.
they asnd the di stairs (Mr Tulkighorn’s cambers
beg on the first floor), Mr Bucket metins that he has the key of
th outer door in his pocket, and that thre is no need to ring. For
a man so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time to
open the door, and make s ne too. It may be that he
sounds a note of preparation.
Howbeit, they c at last into the hal, where a lamp is
burnig, and s into Mr Tulkighorn’s usual room—the room
where he drank his old win tonight. He is nt there; but his two
od-fashioned candlesticks are; and th ro is tolerably light.
Mr Bucket, sti having his professonal hold of Jo, and
appearing to Mr Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eye,
makes a littl way into this ro, wh Jo starts and stops.
“What’s the matter?” says Bucket in a whisper.
“Thre she is!” cries Jo
“Who!”
“Th lady!”
A femal figure, cloy veiled, stands in the middl of the ro,
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wre th light falls upo it. It is quite still, and silent. Th frot of
the figure is towards them, but it take n ntic of their etranc,
and remains like a statue
“Now, tell m,” says Bucket aloud, “how you know that to be
the lady.”
“I know the wale,” repl Jo, starig, “and the bot, and the
gownd.”
“Be quite sure of what you say, Tough,” returns Bucket,
narrowly obsrvant of him “Look agai”
“I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look,” says Jo, with
tarting eye, “and that there’s the wal, the bonnet, and the
gownd.”
“What about those rings you told m of?” asks Bucket.
“A sparklg al over here,” says Jo, rubbig the fingers of hi
ft hand on the knuckl of his right, without takig his eyes from
the figure.
The figure remves the right hand glove, and shows the hand.
“No, what do you say to that?” asks Bucket. Jo shakes h
ad. “Not rings a bit like th Not a hand like that.”
“What are you talkig of?” says Bucket; evidetly plasd
though, and well pleasd too.
“Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater and a deal smaller,”
returns Jo.
“Why, you’ll te me I’m my own mothr next,” says Mr Bucket.
“Do you rellect th lady’s voice?”
“I thk I does,” says Jo
Th figure speaks. “Was it at all like this. I wi speak as long as
you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at al like this
voic?”
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Jo looks aghast at Mr Bucket. “Not a bit!”
“Then, what,” retorts that worthy, poting to the figure, “did
you say it was th lady for?”
“Cos,” says Jo, with a perplxed stare, but without beg at all
sake i hi crtaity, “Cos that there’s the wal, the bot, and
the gownd. It i her and it an’t her. It an’t her hand, nor yet her
rings, nr yet her woic But that there’s the wal, the bot, and
the gownd, and they’re wore the sam way wot s wore ’e, and
it’s hr hight what she was, and she give me a sov’ring and
hooked it.”
“We!” says Mr Bucket, slghtly, “w haven’t got muc good
out of you. But, hover, here’s five shillgs for you. Take care
you spend it, and don’t get yourself into troubl.” Bucket
stealthiy tells the c from one hand into the other like
unters—which is a way h has, his principal us of th beg
i thes game of ski—and then puts them, in a little pi, ito the
boy’s hand, and take him out to the door; leavig Mr Snagsby, not
by any means comfortabl under th mysterious circumstances,
alone with the veid figure. But, on Mr Tulkighorn’s cg into
the room, the ve is raied, and a sufficently good-lookig Frencwman is revealed, thugh her expresion is something of th
tenset.
“Thank you, Mademoile Horte,” says Mr Tulkinghrn,
with his usual equanty. “I wil give you n further troubl
about this little wager.”
“You wil do m the kindn to rember, sir, that I am nt at
present placed?” says Madeell
“Crtainly, certainly!”
“And to confer upo me th favour of your distinguished
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remmendation?”
“By all means, Mademoisel Horte.”
“A word fro Mr Tulkinghrn is so powrful”—”It shall not be
wanting, Mademoiselle.”—“Receive th assurance of my devoted
gratitude, dear sr.”—“Good night.” Made goes out with
an air of native gentility; and Mr Bucket, to wh it is, on an
rgeny, as natural to be groom of the crem as it i to be
anything el, shows her dotairs, not without galantry.
“Well, Bucket?” quoth Mr Tulkighorn on his return.
“It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. Thre an’t a
doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dre on. The boy
was exact repectig curs and everythig. Mr Snagsby, I
proised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don’t
say it was’t done!”
“You have kept your word, sir,” returns th stationer; “and if I
can be of no furthr us, Mr Tulkinghrn, I think, as my littl
man will be getting anxius—”
“Thank you, Snagsby, n further use,” says Mr Tulkighorn. “I
am quite indebted to you for the troubl you have take already.”
“Not at al, sir. I wish you god night.”
“You s, Mr Snagsby,” says Mr Bucket, acpanying him to
the door and sakig hands with him over and over agai, “what I
lke in you, is, that you’re a man it’s of n use pumpig; that’s wat
you are Wh you know you have do a right thing, you put it
away, and it’s done with and go, and thre’s an ed of it. That’s
wat you do.”
“That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,” returns Mr
Snagsby.
“No, you don’t do yourself justice. It an’t wat you endeavour to
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do,” says Mr Bucket, sakig hands with hi and blesing hi in
the tenderet manr, “it’s what you do That’s what I estimate in
a man in your way of busss.”
Mr Snagsby makes a suitable repo; and go hoard so
cfused by the events of the evenig, that he is doubtful of his
beg awake and out—doubtful of the realty of the streets through
whic he goes—doubtful of the realty of the moon that s
above him He is prestly reasured on the subjects, by th
unchallengeable reality of Mrs Snagsby, sitting up with hr had
in a perfet beive of curl-papers and nightcap: w has
dispatched Guster to th police station with offial inteigece of
her husband’s beg made away with, and who, within the last two
hurs, has passed through every stage of swoing wth th
greatest derum. But, as the little woman feegly says, many
thanks sh gets for it!
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Chapter 23
W
e cam home from Mr Boythorn’s after sx plasant
weeks We were ofte in the park, and i the woods,
and sedom pasd the Lodge where we had take
ter without lookig in to speak to the keper’s wife; but we
saw no more of Lady Dedlk, except at church on Sundays.
There was copany at Chesy Wod; and although several
beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained th same
ifluene on me as at first. I do nt quite know, even no, wether
it was painful or plasurabl; wthr it dre me toards her, or
made me shrink fro her. I thk I admired her with a kind of
fear; and I know that in her prece my thughts always
wandered back, as they had do at first, to that old tim of my
life
I had a fancy, on more than on of th Sundays, that wat
this lady so curiusy was to me, I was to her—I mean that I
disturbed hr thughts as she influed mine, thugh in some
different way. But wh I sto a glance at her, and saw her so
composd and distant and unapproachable, I felt this to be a
fooli weakn Inded, I felt the whole state of my md i
reference to her to be weak and unreasonable; and I remonstrated
wth myself about it as much as I could.
On idet that occurred before we quitted Mr Boythorn’s
use, I had better mention in this plac
I was walkig in the garde with Ada, when I was told that
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s one wied to see m. Gog ito the breakfast-room were
this pers was waitig, I found it to be th Frech maid wh had
cast off her shoes and walked through the wet gras, on the day
w it thundered and lighted.
“Mademoe,” se began, lookig fixedly at me with her tooeager eyes, though otherw presentig an agreeabl appearan,
and speaking neithr with boldne nor serviity, “I have taken a
great liberty in coming hre, but you kn ho to excuse it, beg
so amiabl, mademoisel”
“No excuse is necesary,” I returnd, “if you wish to speak to
me.”
“That is my desire, mademoile. A thusand thanks for th
permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?” she said, in a
quick, natural way.
“Certainy,” said I.
“Mademisel, you are so amiabl! Liste th, if you please. I
have left my Lady. We could not agre My Lady is so hgh; so very
high. Pardon! Made, you are right!” Her quickn
anticpated what I might have said pretly, but as yet had oy
thought. “It is not for me to co here to cplai of my Lady.
But I say she is so high, so very high. I wi say not a word more
l th world kns that.”
“Go on, if you please,” said I.
“Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politess.
Madeell, I have an inexpresble dere to find srvi wth a
young lady who is good, acpld, beautiful. You are good,
accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have th
honour of beg your doti!”
“I am sorry—” I began
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“Do not dismss me so soo, mademoiselle!” she said, with an
involuntary contraction of hr fi black eyebro. “Let me hope
a moment! Mademoisel, I know this service would be more
retired than that whic I have quitted. We! I wis that. I know
this service would be less distiguished than that wich I have
quitted. We! I wis that. I know that I should win le, as to
wages here. Good. I am ctent.”
“I assure you,” said I, quite embarrassed by th mere idea of
having suc an attendant, “that I kep no maid—”
“A, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, w you can have
one so devoted to you! Who would be enanted to serve you; who
wuld be so true, so zealus, and so faithful, every day!
Made, I wis with al my heart to srve you. Do nt speak
of moy at pret. Take me as I am. For nthing!”
She was so singularly earnt that I dre back, almost afraid of
hr. Withut appearig to notice it, in her ardour, she sti pred
hrsf upo me; speaking in a rapid subdued voice, thugh
always with a certain grace and proprity.
“Mademoe, I co from the South country, where w are
quick, and whre we like and diike very strong. My Lady was to
gh for m; I was too high for her. It is done—past—finised!
Receive me as your domestic, and I wll serve you wll. I wll do
mre for you, than you figure to yoursf no Cut!
mademoiselle, I wll—no matter, I wi do my utmost possible, in
all things. If you accept my service, you wi not repent it.
Mademoile, you wi not repent it, and I wi serve you we You
do’t know how well!”
There was a lorig energy in her fac, as se stood lookig at
me while I explained th impossibility of my engaging hr (withut
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thinking it necessary to say ho very littl I desired to do so),
wich sed to bring visibly before me some woman fro th
treets of Paris i the reign of terror. She heard me out without
interruption; and th said, with her pretty accent, and in her
mildet voice:—
“Hey, madeell, I have reved my aner! I am sorry of
it. But I must go elsere, and seek what I have not found here
Will you graciously let me kiss your hand?”
She looked at me more intently as she tok it, and sed to
take nte, with her motary touch, of every vei in it. “I fear I
surprised you, mademoiselle, on th day of th storm?” she said,
wth a parting curtsey.
I confed that she had surprised us all.
“I tok an oath, mademoiselle,” she said smiling, “and I wanted
to stamp it on my mid, so that I might keep it faithfully. Ad I
wll! Adieu, mademoisel!”
So ended our conferece, which I was very glad to brig to a
clos I suppose she wnt away fro th viage, for I saw her no
more; and nothing el occurred to disturb our tranqui sumr
pleasure, unti sx weeks were out, and we returned home as I
began just now by saying.
t that tim, and for a good many weeks after that tim,
Richard was constant in hi visits. Besides coming every Saturday
or Sunday, and remaig with us until Monday mrnig, he
sometimes rode out on horseback unxpectedly, and pasd th
veing wth us, and rode back again early next day. He was as
vivacious as ever, and tod us he was very industrius; but I was
t easy i my mnd about him It appeared to me that his
industry was all misdireted. I could not find that it led to
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anythng, but th formation of delusve hope i connection wth
th suit already th pernicious caus of so much sorro and rui
He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told us; and nthing
could be plair than that th will under which he and Ada wre
to take, I do’t know how many thousands of pounds, must be
finaly establd, if there were any se or justi in the Court
of Chancery—but O what a great if that sounded in my ears—and
that this happy conclusion could not be much longer delayed. He
proved this to hif by all the weary argumets on that side he
had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in th
fatuati He had eve begun to haunt the Court. He told us how
he saw Mis Flite there daiy; how they talked together, and he did
her little kidn; and how, while he laughed at her, he pitid
her from hi heart. But he never thought—nver, my poor dear,
sangui Richard, capabl of so much happiness th, and wth
uc better things before him!—what a fatal lik was riveting
between his fresh youth and her faded age; between h free hopes
and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and her wanderig
mind.
da lved hi too well, to mtrust him muc in anything he
said or did; and my Guardian, thugh he frequently complaid of
the east wind and read more than usual in the Grory,
prerved a strict silence on th subjet. So, I thught, o day
w I went to London to meet Caddy Jellyby, at hr solicitation, I
wuld ask Richard to be in waitig for me at th coach-office, that
we might have a little talk together. I found hi there when I
arrived, and we walked away arm in arm.
“Well, Richard,” said I, as soo as I could begi to be grave wth
, “are you beginnig to fee more settled nw?”
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“O yes, my dear!” returned Richard. “I am al right enough.”
“But settld?” said I.
“How do you man, sttled?” returned Riard, with his gay
laugh
“Settled in the law,” said I.
“O aye,” replied Richard, “I’m al right enough.”
“You said that before, my dear Richard.”
“And you don’t thk it’s an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it’s not.
Settled? You mean, do I fee as if I were settlig down?”
“Yes.”
“Why, n, I can’t say I’m settlg dow,” said Richard, strogly
ephasising ‘down,’ as if that expressed th difficulty; “beause
can’t settl dow while this business remains in such an
unttld state Whe I say this business, of course I mean th—
forbidden subjet.”
“Do you thk it wi ever be in a settld state?” said I.
“Not the least doubt of it,” answered Richard.
We walked a little way without speakig; and pretly Riard
addred me in hi frankest and most feing manner, thus:
“My dear Esthr, I understand you, and I wish to Heave I
wre a more contant sort of fe I don’t mean constant to Ada,
for I love her dearly—better and better every day—but constant to
mysf. (Sohow, I mean sothing that I can’t very wel
xpress, but you’ll make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of
fellw, I should have held on, either to Badger, or to Kenge and
Carboy, lke grim death; and should have begun to be steady and
systeatic by this ti, and shouldn’t be in debt—”
“Are you in debt, Richard?”
“Yes,” said Richard, “I am a little so, my dear. Al I have take
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too rather muc to biards, and that sort of thing. Now the
murder’s out; you despise me, Esther, don’t you?”
“You kn I don’t,” said I.
“You are kider to me than I often am to mysf,” he returned.
“My dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more
sttled, but how can I be mre settled? If you lve i an unfid
huse, you couldn’t settl dow in it; if you wre condemd to
ave everythig you undertook, unfind, you would find it
hard to apply yoursf to anything; and yet that’s my unhappy
case. I was born into this unfiished conteti with all its
chances and changes, and it began to unttl me before I quite
knew th difference betw a suit at law and a suit of cloths; and
it has go on unttling me ever since; and hre I am now,
conscius sometimes that I am but a worthss fe to love my
confiding cousin Ada.”
We were in a solitary place, and he put his hand before his eye
and sobbed as he said th words.
“O Richard!” said I, “do not be so moved. You have a nobl
ature, and Ada’s lve may make you worthier every day.”
“I know, my dear,” he replied pressing my arm, “I know all
that. You mus’t mind my beg a lttle soft nw, for I have had al
this upo my mind for a long time; and have often meant to speak
to you, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and someti
urage I know what the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it
do’t do it. I am too unsttled even for that. I lve her mot
devotedly; and yet I do her wrog, in doig myself wrog, every
day and hour. But it can’t last for ever. We shall come on for a fial
hearig, and get judgmt in our favour; and then you and Ada
shall see what I can really be!”
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It had given me a pang to hear him sob, and see th tears start
out betwee his fingers; but that was infinitely l affectig to m,
than th hopeful anation with which he said th words.
“I have looked we into the papers, Esther—I have be deep
in th for month,” he continued, revering hi cherfulss in
a moment, “and you may rely upo it that we shall come out
triumphant. As to years of delay, thre has bee no want of th,
Heave kns! and thre is th greater probability of our bringing
th matter to a speedy cl; in fact, it’s on th paper now It wi
be all right at last, and th you shall see!”
Recalling h he had just now placed Messrs Kenge and
Carboy i the sam category with Mr Badger, I asked hi when
he intended to be articd i Linoln’s In?
“Thre again! I think not at all, Esthr,” he returnd with an
effort. “I fany I have had enugh of it. Havig worked at Jarndyce
and Jarndyce like a galy slave, I have slaked my thirst for th
law, and satisfied myself that I shouldn’t like it. Besides, I fid it
unsttle m mre and mre to be s constantly upon the sc of
acti. So what,” continued Richard, confident again by this time,
“do I naturally turn my thoughts to?”
“I can’t imagin,” said I.
“Don’t lok so serius,” returned Richard, “beause it’s the best
thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain It’s not as if I wanted
a profession for life. Th prodings wi come to a termation,
and th I am provided for. No. I look upo it as a pursuit wich is
in its nature more or less unttld, and threfore suited to my
temporary condition—I may say, preisely suited. What is it that I
naturally turn my thoughts to?”
I looked at him, and shook my head.
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“What,” said Richard, in a to of perfet conviction, “but th
army!”
“Th army?” said I.
“Th army, of course. What I have to do, is, to get a coission;
and—thre I am, you know!” said Richard.
Ad then he showed m, proved by elaborate calculati in hi
pocket-bok, that supposing he had contracted, say tw hundred
pounds of debt in six month, out of th army; and that h
ntracted no debt at all within a corresponding perid, in th
army—as to which he had quite made up his mind; this step must
involve a saving of four hundred pounds in a year, or tw
thusand pounds in five years—which was a considerable sum.
Ad then he spoke so igeuously and sierely, of the sacrifi
made in wthdrawing himself for a time fro Ada, and of th
arntnss wth which he aspired—as in thught he always did, I
know full well—to repay her love, and to enure her happi,
and to conquer what was amiss in hmself, and to acquire th very
soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keely, sorely. For, I
thught h would this end, ho could this end, w so soo
and so surely all his many qualities were toucd by th fatal
blight that ruined everythng it rested on!
I spoke to Riard with al the earnestne I felt, and al the
hope I could not quite feel then; and implored hi, for Ada’s sake,
nt to put any trust in Chanry. To al I said, Riard readiy
asted; ridig over the Court and everythig els in his easy
way, and drawig th brightet picture of th character h was to
ttl into—alas, wh th grievous suit should loo its hod upo
! We had a log talk, but it alays cam back to that, in
substance.
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At last, we cam to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had
appoted to wait for me, as a quiet place in the neghbourhood of
Nean-street. Caddy was in the garde i the ctre and
hurrid out as soo as I appeared. After a fe cherful wrds,
Riard left us together.
“Prie has a pupi over the way, Esther,” said Caddy, “and got
the key for us. So, if you wil walk round and round here with m,
w can lock oursves i, and I can te you comfortably what I
wanted to see your dear good fac about.”
“Very we, my dear,” said I. “Nothg could be better.” So
Caddy, after affectionately squezing th dear god face as she
alld it, lked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk
round the garde very coy.
“You see, Esther,” said Caddy, who thoroughy enjoyed a lttl
nfidence, “after you spoke to me about its being wrog to marry
wthout Ma’s knowldge, or even to keep Ma log in the dark
respecting our engagement—thugh I don’t believe Ma care
uc for me, I must say—I thought it right to meti your
opinions to Price. In th first place, becaus I want to profit by
everythig you te me; and in the sed place, beause I have n
crets fro Prince.”
“I hope he approved, Caddy?”
“O, my dear! I asure you he would approve of anything you
culd say. You have no idea what an opin he has of you!”
“Indeed?”
“Esther, it’s enough to make anybody but me jealous,” said
Caddy, laughng and shaking her head; “but it only makes me
joyful, for you are the first frid I ever had, and the bet frid I
ever can have, and nobody can respect and love you to much to
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please me.”
“Upon my wrd, Caddy,” said I, “you are in the geral
piracy to kep me in a god humour. Wel, my dear?”
“We! I am going to tel you,” repld Caddy, crossg her
hands confidentially upo my arm. “So we talked a god deal
about it, and so I said to Prince, ‘Prie, as Miss Summers—’”
“I hope you didn’t say ‘Miss Sumerson?’”
“No. I didn’t!” cried Caddy, greatly plased, and with th
brightet of faces. “I said, ‘Esthr.’ I said to Prince, ‘As Esthr is
decidedly of that opiion, Price, and has expred it to me, and
always hints it wh she write th kind notes, wich you are so
fond of hearig me read to you, I am prepared to di the truth
to Ma whenever you thk proper. And I thk, Prince,’ said I, ‘that
Esther thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and mre
hurabl position altogethr, if you did th same to your Papa.’”
“Yes, my dear,” said I. “Esthr certaiy does thk so.”
“So I was right, you see!” exclaid Caddy. “Well! th troubld
Pri a good deal; nt beause he had the least doubt about it,
but h is so considerate of th feings of old Mr Turveydrop; and
he had his apprehens that old Mr Turveydrop mght break h
art, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affectig
manr or other, if he made suc an anunt. He feared old
Mr Turveydrop might coder it undutiful, and mght recve too
great a shock. For, old Mr Turveydrop’s deportmet is very
beautiful you know, Esther,” added Caddy; “and his feeligs are
extremely setive.”
“Are they, my dear?”
“O, extrey sensitive Prince says so. Now, this has causd
my darling child—I didn’t mean to us th expression to you,
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Esther,” Caddy apologied, her fac suffused wth blushes, “but I
geraly call Prince my darlg chid.”
I laughd; and Caddy laughd and blusd, and went on
“This has causd hi, Esthr—”
“Caused wh, my dear?”
“O you tires thing!” said Caddy, laughing, with her pretty
face on fire. “My darlg child, if you isist upo it!—This has,
causd him weks of unasss, and has made him delay, fro
day to day, in a very anxious maner. At last he said to me, ‘Caddy,
if Miss Sumrson, wh is a great favourite with my fathr, could
be prevaid upon to be prest when I broke the subjet, I thk I
could do it.’ So I prod I would ask you. And I made up my
mind, besides,” said Caddy, lookig at me hopefully but tidly,
“that if you coted, I would ask you afterwards to c with
me to Ma. This is what I meant, when I said in my nte that I had a
great favour and a great astan to beg of you. And if you
thought you culd grant it, Esther, we should both be very
grateful.”
“Let me se, Caddy,” said I, preteding to consider. “Realy I
think I culd do a greater thing than that, if the need were
presing. I am at your service and th darling child’s, my dear,
wenever you like.”
Caddy was quite tranported by this reply of m; beg, I
believe, as susceptible to th least kindness or enuraget as
any teder hart that ever beat in this world; and after anthr
turn or two round the garde, during whic sh put on an etirely
ne pair of glve, and made hersf as replendent as posible
that sh might do no avoidable diredit to the Master of
Deportmet, we went to Newman Street direct.
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Prince was teaching, of course. We found hi engaged with a
nt very hopeful pupi—a stubborn little girl with a sulky
foread, a deep voice, and an inanimate dissatisfied mamma—
w case was certainly not rendered more hpeful by th
nfusion into which we thre her preptor. Th lesson at last
came to an end, after proding as discordantly as possible; and
w th littl girl had changed her shos, and had had hr wite
muslin extinguished in shawl, she was taken away. After a fe
rds of preparation, we th went in search of Mr Turveydrop;
whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as a mde of
Deportment, on th sofa in his private apartmt—th oly
cfortabl room in the house He appeared to have dresd at his
leisure, in th itervals of a lght coation; and h dreng-cas,
bruss, and so forth, all of quiet and elgant kind, lay about.
“Father, Mis Sumrso; Mis Jelyby.”
“Charmd! Enchanted!” said Mr Turveydrop, rising with hi
gh-shouldered bo “Permt me!” handig cairs. “Be sated!”
kissing th tips of his left fingers. “Overjoyed!” shutting his eye
and rollg. “My little retreat i made a Paradi” Reposig
hmself on th sofa, like th second gentleman in Europe.
“Agai you fid us, Miss Sumrson,” said he, “using our littl
arts to polish, polish! Again th sex stimulate us, and reards us,
by th condescension of its lovely prece. It i much in th
times (and we have made an awfully degerating busss of it
since th days of His Royal Highss th Price Regent—my
patro, if I may preum to say so) to experice that Deportment
is not whlly trodden under fot by mechanics. That it can yet
bask in th smile of Beauty, my dear madam.”
I said nthing, whic I thought a suitabl reply; and he took a
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pinch of snuff.
“My dear so,” said Mr Turveydrop, “you have four shools this
aftern. I would red a hasty sandwich.”
“Thank you, father,” returned Prin, “I wi be sure to be
puntual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for
what I am going to say?”
“Good Heave!” excaimed th model, pale and aghast, as
Prince and Caddy, hand in hand, bent dow before him.
“What is this? Is this lunacy! Or what is this?”
“Fathr,” returnd Price, with great submission, “I love this
young lady, and we are engaged.”
“Engaged!” crid Mr Turveydrop, recg on the sofa, and
shutting out th sight with his hand. “An arro launched at my
brain, by my own chd!”
“We have been engaged for so ti, father,” faltered Pri;
“and Mis Sumrso, hearig of it, advisd that we should
deare the fact to you, and was s very kind as to attend on the
pret oasion. Miss Jeyby is a young lady wh deeply respects
you, father.”
Mr Turveydrop uttered a groan
“No, pray do’t! Pray do’t, father,” urged his so “Mi
Jellyby is a young lady wh deeply respects you, and our first
desire is to consider your comfort.”
Mr Turveydrop sobbed.
“No, pray don’t, fathr!” cried his son.
“Boy,” said Mr Turveydrop, “it is well that your saited mother
is spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike h, sr,
strike home!”
“Pray, don’t say so, father,” implred Price, in tears. “It go
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to my heart. I do asure you, father, that our first wis and
intention is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not forget
our duty—what i my duty is Carolin’s, as we have often said
together—and, with your approval and conset, father, we wil
devote ourselve to makig your life agreeable.”
“Strike home,” murmured Mr Turveydrop. “Strike hom!”
But he sed to liste, I thought, too.
“My dear father,” returned Price, “we we kn what lttl
forts you are acustomd to, and have a right to; and it wil
always be our study, and our pride, to provide th before
anythng. If you wi bls us with your approval and consent,
father, we shal not think of beg married until it i quite
agreeable to you; and wen w are marrid, we shall always make
you—of course—our first consideration. You must ever be th
Head and Master here, father; and we feel how truly unnatural it
wuld be in us, if we failed to kn it, or if we faid to exert
oursves in every possible way to plase you.”
Mr Turveydrop underwent a severe iternal struggle, and cam
upright on th sofa again, with his cheks puffing over his stiff
cravat: a perfet model of parental deportment.
“My son!” said Mr Turveydrop. “My childre! I cant resist
your prayer. Be happy!”
His benignity, as he raised his future daughter-in-law and
stretcd out his hand to his son (w kissd it wth affectionate
respect and gratitude), was th most confusg sight I ever saw.
“My childre,” said Mr Turveydrop, paternally ecircing
Caddy with his left arm as she sat besde him, and putting hs right
hand gracefully on his hip. “My so and daughter, your happi
al be my care. I will watch over you. You shall always lve with
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me;” meaning, of course, I will always live with you; “this house is
hnceforth as much yours as mine; cosider it your h May
you long live to share it with me!”
Th powr of his Deportment was such, that thy really were as
much overcome with thankfulness as if, instead of quartering
hielf upon them for the rest of his lfe, he were makig so
munificent sacrifice in thr favour.
“For mysef, my chidre,” said Mr Turveydrop, “I am falg
into th sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say ho long
th last feble traces of gentlemanly Deportment may linger in this
waving and spinng age But, so long, I will do my duty to
society, and will sho myself, as usual, about to. My wants are
few and spl My little apartmet here, my few etial for the
toilet, my frugal morng meal, and my littl dinner, wi suffice. I
charge your dutiful affection with th supply of th
requirets, and I charge mysf with all the rest.”
They were overpowered afres by his uncon genrosity.
“My son,” said Mr Turveydrop, “for th littl points in wh
you are deficient—points of Deportment which are born wth a
man—which may be improved by cultivation, but can nver be
riginated—you may still rely on me. I have be faithful to my
post, since th days of His Royal High th Prince Regent; and
I will not desrt it now No, my son. If you have ever conteplated
your fathr’s poor position with a feing of pride, you may rest
assured that h will do nothg to tarnish it. For yourself, Price,
w character is different (w cant be all alke, nor is it
adviabl that we should), work, be industrius, earn money, and
extend th conti as much as possibl”
“That you may depend I wi do, dear fathr, with all my heart,”
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replied Prince.
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr Turveydrop. “Your qualities are
not shining, my dear child, but thy are steady and usful. And to
both of you, my childre, I would merely observe, in th spirit of a
sainted Wooan on wh path I had th happines of castig, I
beeve, some ray of light,—take care of the establit, take
care of my simple wants, and bl you both!”
Old Mr Turveydrop then beam so very gallant, i honour of
the occas, that I told Caddy we must really go to Thavi Inn at
o if w wre to go at al that day. So we tok our departure,
after a very loving farewell betwee Caddy and her betrothed: and
during our walk she was so happy, and so ful of old Mr
Turveydrop’s praises, that I would not have said a word in hi
disparaget for any consideration.
Th huse in Thavies Inn had bis in th widos announcing
that it was to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomir and ghastlier
than ever. The nam of poor Mr Jeyby had appeared in the lit of
Bankrupts, but a day or two before; and he was shut up in the
dining-room with two gentl, and a heap of blue bags,
account-boks, and papers, making th most desperate
deavours to understand his affairs They appeared to m to be
quite beyond his coprehens; for when Caddy took me ito the
dig-ro by mitake, and we cam upo Mr Jeyby i h
spectacles, forlrnly fenced into a cornr by th great dining-table
and the two gentln, he sed to have given up the whole
thing, and to be spees and insensible.
Going upstairs to Mrs Jeyby’s ro (th chidre were all
reamg i the kitchen, and there was n servant to be se), we
found that lady in th midst of a voluminous correspondence,
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opeg, readig, and sorting ltters, with a great acumulation of
torn covers o th flr. She was so preccupied that at first she
did nt know m, though sh sat lokig at me with that curious,
bright-eyed, far-off look of hers.
“Ah! Miss Sumrson?” she said at last. “I was thking of
sthg so differet! I hope you are we. I am happy to see you.
Mr Jarndyc and Mis Clare quite well?”
I hoped in return that Mr Jelyby was quite wel
“Why, not quite, my dear,” said Mrs Jeyby, in the calest
manner. “He has be unfortunate in his affairs, and is a littl out
of spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no
tim to think about it. We have, at the pret mt, o
undred and seventy famili, Miss Sumrson, averaging five
persons i eac, either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger.”
I thought of the one famy so near us, who were nether gone
r going to the lft bank of the Niger, and wondered how sh
uld be so placid.
“You have brought Caddy back, I se,” observed Mrs Jellyby,
with a glanc at her daughter. “It has be quite a novelty to
see her here. She has alt derted her old employmet, and in
fact obliges me to emply a boy.”
“I am sure, Ma,—” began Caddy.
“No you kn, Caddy,” her mother mildly interpoed, “that I
do employ a boy, wh is now at his dinner. What i th us of your
contradicting?”
“I was nt going to cotradit, Ma,” returned Caddy. “I was
only going to say, that surely you wouldn’t have m be a mere
drudge all my life.”
“I believe, my dear,” said Mrs Jeyby, still opeg her letters,
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castig hr bright eye smilingly over th, and sorting th as
she spoke, “that you have a business example before you in your
mothr. Besides A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy wth
th destinies of th human race, it would raise you hgh above any
suc idea. But you have no I have often told you, Caddy, you
have no such sympathy.”
“Not if it’s Afria, Ma, I have not.”
“Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much
egaged, Miss Sumrson,” said Mrs Jeyby, swetly castig her
eyes for a mot on m, and cderig were to put th
particular letter she had just oped, “th would distress and
disappoit me. But I have so much to think of, in conti with
Borriboa-Gha, and it is so necesary I should concentrate
myself, that thre is my remedy, you see”
A Caddy gave m a glanc of entreaty, and as Mrs Jellyby was
ookig far away into Africa straight through my bot and head,
I thught it a god opportunity to come to th subjet of my visit,
and to attract Mrs Jelyby’s attenti
“Perhaps,” I began, “you wil wonder what has brought me
here to interrupt you.”
“I am alays delighted to see Miss Summers,” said Mrs
Jellyby, pursuing her emplyment with a placid sm “Thugh I
wis,” and se shook her head, “she was more interested in the
Borrioboolan project.”
“I have come with Caddy,” said I, “beause Caddy justly thks
she ought not to have a secret fro her mothr; and fancies I shall
encurage and aid her (though I am sure I do’t know how) in
imparting on”
“Caddy,” said Mrs Jellyby, pausing for a moment in hr
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occupati, and th serely pursuing it after shaking her head,
“you are going to tel me so nnse”
Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bot off, and
letting it dangle on th flr by th strings, and crying heartily,
said, “Ma, I am engaged.”
“O, you ridiculus child!” observed Mrs Jeyby, with an
abstracted air, as she looked over th despatch last oped; “what
a go you are!”
“I am engaged, Ma,” sobbed Caddy, “to young Mr Turveydrop,
at the Acadey; and old Mr Turveydrop (who is a very
gentlemany man indeed) has given h cot, and I beg and
pray you’l give us yours, Ma, beause I never could be happy
without it. I never, never could;” sbbed Caddy, quite forgetful of
hr geral complaings, and of everythng but hr natural
affection.
“You see again, Miss Sumrson,” observed Mrs Jellyby,
serely, “what a happiss it is to be so much occupid as I am,
and to have this necessity for self-ccentrati that I have. Here
is Caddy engaged to a dancing-master’s son—mixed up wth
peopl who have n mre sympathy with the deti of the
human rac than she has herself! This, too, when Mr Quale, one of
th first philanthropists of our time, has mentiond to me that he
as really disposed to be interested in her!”
“Ma, I always hated and detested Mr Quale!” sobbed Caddy.
“Caddy, Caddy!” returned Mrs Jellyby, opeg another letter
with the greatest coplacy. “I have no doubt you did. How
could you do othrwise, being totaly destitute of th sympath
th which he overfls! Now, if my public duti wre not a
favourite child to me, if I were not occupied with large measure
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on a vast scal, thes petty detai might grieve me very muc,
Miss Summers. But can I permit th film of a silly proding
o th part of Caddy (from wh I expect nothing e), to
terpose betwee me and the great African ctit? No No,”
repeated Mrs Jeyby, in a calm clear voice, and with an agreabl
smile as she opeed more letters and sorted them. “No, indeed.”
I was so unprepared for th perfet cooss of this reception,
though I mght have expeted it, that I did nt know what to say.
Caddy seemed equaly at a lo. Mrs Jeyby cotiued to ope and
sort letters; and to repeat ocasionally, in quite a charmng to of
voice, and with a smile of perfect composure, “No, indeed.”
“I hope, Ma,” sobbed poor Caddy at last, “you are nt angry?”
“Oh Caddy, you realy are an absurd girl,” returned Mrs
Jellyby, “to ask suc questions, after what I have said of the
preccupati of my mid.”
“Ad I hope, Ma, you give us your cot, and wis us well?”
said Caddy.
“You are a nonsenical chid to have done anythng of this
kid,” said Mrs Jeyby; “and a degerate chd, wh you mght
have devoted yoursef to the great publ measure. But the step is
take, and I have engaged a boy, and there is n mre to be said.
Now, pray, Caddy,” said Mrs Jeyby—for Caddy was kissing hr,
“don’t delay me in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batc
f papers before th aftern post comes in!”
I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was
detaid for a moment by Caddy’s saying—“You won’t object to
my bringing him to see you, Ma?”
“O dear me, Caddy,” cried Mrs Jeyby, wh had reapsd into
that distant conteplation, “have you begun again? Bring
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whom?”
“Him, Ma.”
“Caddy, Caddy!” said Mrs Jeyby, quite weary of such lttl
matters. “Thn you must bring him some eveg which i not a
Parent Soty nght, or a Branc night, or a Ramficatio night.
You must accommodate th visit to th demands upo my time.
My dear Miss Sumrson, it was very kind of you to come here to
lp out this silly chit. Good bye! Whe I tell you that I have fiftyeght new letters from manufacturing familie anxious to
understand the detai of the Native and Coffee Cultivati
question, this mrng, I nd nt apologis for having very little
leisure.”
I was not surprised by Caddy’s beg in low spirits, w w
went downstairs; or by her sobbig afresh on my nek, or by her
sayig se wuld far rather have been sded than treated with
such indiffere, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor
in clths, that ho she was ever to be marrid creditably she
didn’t know. I gradualy cheered her up, by dwellg on the many
thgs se would do for her unfortunate father, and for Peepy,
when she had a home of her own: and finaly we went dotairs
ito the damp dark kitchen, where Peepy and his littl brothers
and sters wre grovellg on the stone floor, and where we had
suc a game of play with them, that to prevet mysf from beg
quite torn to pi I was obliged to fall back on my fairy tal
From tim to tim, I heard loud voic in the parlour overhead,
and occasaly a violet tumbling about of the furniture. The last
effect I am afraid was causd by poor Mr Jellyby’s breaking away
fro th dining-table, and making rushe at th window with th
teti of throg himf into the area, whenever he made any
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nw attempt to understand his affairs
I rode quietly home at nght after the day’s bustl, I thought
a god deal of Caddy’s engagement, and felt confirmed i my
hpe (in spite of th elder Mr Turveydrop), that she would be th
appier and better for it. And if thre seed to be but a slder
can of her and her husband ever findig out what the mde of
Deportmet realy was, why that was al for the bet too, and who
wuld wish th to be wir? I did not wish th to be any wiser,
and indeed was half ashamed of not etirely believing i h
ysf. Ad I looked up at the stars, and thought about travers
in distant countries and th stars they saw, and hoped I might
always be s blet and happy as to be usful to some on in my
small way.
They were so glad to se me when I got home, as they always
wre, that I could have sat dow and cried for joy, if that had not
been a mthod of makig mysf diagreeable. Everybody in th
house, from the lwest to the highest, showed me suc a bright
face of welcom, and spoke so cheriy, and was so happy to do
anythng for me, that I suppose thre never was such a fortunate
ttle creature in the world.
We got into suc a chatty state that night, through Ada and my
Guardian drawg me out to tel them al about Caddy, that I went
on prose, prose, prosig, for a lgth of tim At last I got up to my
own room, quite red to think how I had be holdig forth; and
th I hard a soft tap at my door. So I said, “Co in!” and thre
came in a pretty littl girl, neatly dred in mourning, w
dropped a curtsey.
“If you please, miss,” said th littl girl, in a soft voice, “I am
Charly.”
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“Why, so you are,” said I, stopig dow in astoishment, and
giving her a kiss. “Ho glad am I to see you, Charley!”
“If you please, miss,” pursued Charley, i th same soft voice,
“I’m your maid.”
“Charley?”
“If you please, miss, I’m a pret to you, with Mr Jarndyce’s
love”
I sat down with my hand on Charly’s nk, and looked at
Charly.
“And O, miss,” says Charley, clapping hr hands, wth th tears
tarting down her dipld cheeks, “Tom’s at school, if you pleas,
and learning so god! And littl Emma, she’s with Mrs Blder,
miss, a beg tok such care of! Ad To, he would have be at
shool—and Emma, se would have been left with Mrs Blider—
and me, I should have be here—al a deal sooner, m; oy Mr
Jarndyc thought that Tom and Ema and me had better get a
littl usd to parting first, we was so small. Don’t cry, if you please,
miss!”
“I can’t hep it, Charly.”
“No, miss, nor I can’t help it,” says Charley. “And if you plase,
miss, Mr Jarndyce’s love, and he thks you’l lke to teach me now
and th. And if you please, Tom and Ema and me is to see each
othr oce a month And I’m so happy and so thankful, miss,”
crid Carly with a heavig heart, “and I’ll try to be suc a good
maid!”
“O Charly dear, nver forget wh did al this!”
“No, miss, I never wi. Nor Tom won’t. Nor yet Emma. It was
al you, miss.”
“I have kn nothg of it. It was Mr Jarndyce, Charly.”
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“Ye, miss, but it was all done for th love of you, and that you
might be my mistress. If you please, miss. I am a littl pret wth
is love, and it was all done for th love of you. Me and Tom was to
be sure to remember it.”
Carley dried her eye, and entered on her funtis; going i
her matronly little way about and about the room, and foldig up
everythig she could lay her hands upo. Presently, Charly cam
creping back to my side, and said:
“O don’t cry, if you please, miss.”
And I said again, “I can’t help it, Charley.”
And Charley said again, “No, miss, nor I can’t hlp it.” And so,
after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she
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Chapter 24
A
Charles Dicke
An Appeal Cas soon as Riard and I had held the c
wich I have given an account, Richard communate
th state of his mind to Mr Jarndyce. I doubt if
Guardian were altogethr taken by surpri, wh he received th
repretati; thugh it causd him much unasine and
diappotmet. He and Riard were often coseted together, late
at nght and early in the mornig, and pasd whole days in
London, and had innumerabl appoitmts with Mr Kenge, and
laboured through a quantity of diagreeable bus Wh they
were thus employed, my Guardian, though he underw
considerable innveience fro th state of th wind, and
rubbed his head so constantly that not a single hair upo it ev
rested in its right place, was as genial with Ada and me as at
other tim, but maitaind a steady resrve on thes matters. And
as our utmost endeavours could only elcit fro Richard hf
sweping assurances that everythng was going on capitally, an
that it really was all right at last, our anxity was not mu
reeved by him
We learnt, hover, as th time went on, that a new application
as made to th Lord Chancelr on Richard’s bealf, as an Infant
and a Ward, and I don’t know what; and that thre was a quant
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Classic
of talkig; and that the Lord Chanr
him, in ope
urt, as a vexatius and capricious infant; and that th matter
was adjourned and readjourned, and referred, and reported
Blak House
468
and petitioned about, until Riard began to doubt (as he told us)
whether, if he entered the army at all, it would nt be as a veteran
f seventy or eghty years of age At last an appointmt was made
for him to see the Lord Chanr agai in hi private room, and
there the Lord Chanr very seriously reproved him for triflg
with tim, and nt knowing his md—“a pretty good joke, I
think,” said Richard, “from that quarter!”—and at last it was
ttld that his applation should be granted. His name was
tered at th Hors Guards, as an applicant for an Engn’s
mmission; th purcase-my was deposited at an Aget’s; and
Richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged ito a vit
course of military study, and got up at five o’clock every morng
to practise th broadsword exercise
Thus, vacati succeeded term, and term succeeded vacati
We sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, as beig in th
paper or out of th paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as beg
to be spoken to, and it came on, and it went off. Richard, wh was
now in a Professor’s house in London, was able to be with us les
frequently than before; my Guardian still maintaid th same
rerve; and so time passd unti th commission was obtained,
and Richard received directions with it to join a regiment in
Ireland.
He arrived post-haste with th inteigece on eveg, and
had a lg cference with my Guardian Upwards of an hour
eapsed before my Guardian put his head into th ro whre Ada
and I were sittig, and said, “Com in, my dears!” We wt i, and
found Richard, wh we had last see in high spirits, leaning on
th chimney-piece, looking mortified and angry.
“Rick and I, Ada,” said Mr Jarndyce, “are not quite of on
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mind. Co, come, Rick, put a brighter face upo it!”
“You are very hard with me, sir,” said Richard. “Th harder,
becaus you have be so considerate to me in all othr respects,
and have done me kindnesses that I can never acknledge I
nver could have be set right without you, sir.”
“We, well!” said Mr Jarndyc, “I want to set you more right
wth yourself.”
“I hpe you will excuse my saying, sir,” returnd Richard in a
fiery way, but yet respetfully, “that I think I am the bet judge
about myself.”
“I hpe you wll excuse my saying, my dear Rick,” observed Mr
Jarndyc wth the sweetest cheerfuln and good humour, “that
it’s quite natural in you to think so, but I do’t think s I must do
my duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in coo blood; and I
hope you wil always care for me, cool and hot.”
Ada had turned so pal, that he made her st down i hi
reading-chair, and sat beside her.
“It’s nothing, my dear,” he said, “it’s nthing. Rik and I have
only had a friendly differe, which we must state to you, for you
are the theme. No you are afraid of what’s cog.”
“I am not, indeed, cousin Jo,” replied Ada, wth a smil, “if it
is to come fro you.”
“Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute’s cal
attenti, without lookig at Rik. And, lttle woman, do you
likew. My dear girl,” putting his hand on hers, as it lay on th
side of th easy-cair, “you rellect th talk we had, we four,
when the little woman told me of a little love-affair?”
“It i nt lkey that either Riard or I can ever forget your
kindness, that day, cousin Jo”
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“I can never forget it,” said Richard.
“And I can never forget it,” said Ada.
“So muc the easr wat I have to say, and so muc the easer
for us to agree,” returned my Guardian, his fac irradiated by the
gentl and honour of his heart. “Ada, my bird, you should
know that Rik has nw chosen his professon for the last tim A
that he has of certainty will be expended w h is fuly
equipped. He has exhausted his resources, and is bound
henceforward to the tree he has planted.”
“Quite true that I have exhausted my pret resurce, and I
am quite content to kn it. But what I have of crtaity, sr,” said
Richard, “is not al I have.”
“Rick, Rick!” cried my Guardian, with a sudde terror in hi
manner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if h
uld have stopped his ears, “for th love of God, don’t found a
hope or expetati on the famy curse! Whatever you do on th
de the grave, never give one lgerig glan towards the
horribl phantom that has haunted us s many years Better to
borrow, better to beg, better to di!”
We were al startled by the fervour of th warnig. Riard bit
his lip and hld his breath, and glanced at me, as if he felt, and
knew that I felt too, how muc he needed it.
“Ada, my dear,” said Mr Jarndyce, revering hs cherfulness,
“th are strong wrds of advice; but I live in Blak Hous, and
have seen a sight here. Enough of that. Al Riard had, to start
hm in th race of life, is ventured. I remmend to him and you,
for hi sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the
understandig that there is n sort of ctract betwee you. I
must go further. I wil be plai with you both. You were to cfide
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frey in me, and I w confide frely in you. I ask you whlly to
relquis, for the pret, any tie but your relatiop.”
“Better to say at once, sir,” returned Richard, “that you
renounce all confidence in me, and that you advise Ada to do th
same.”
“Better to say nothing of the sort, Rik, beause I don’t mean
it.”
“You think I have begun ill, sir,” retorted Richard. “I have, I
know”
“How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when
w spoke of th things last,” said Mr Jarndyce, in a cordial and
euragig manner. “You have not made that beging yet; but
thre is a time for all things, and yours is not go by—rathr, it is
just nw fully co Make a car beging altogether. You two
(very young, my dears), are couss. As yet, you are nothing more
What more may come, must come of being wrked out, Rick; and
n sooner.”
“You are very hard with me, sir,” said Richard. “Harder than I
could have supposed you would be.”
“My dear boy,” said Mr Jarndyce, “I am harder with myself
when I do anything that gives you pai You have your remdy in
your own hands Ada, it i better for him that he should be free,
and that there should be no youthful egagemt betwee you.
Rick, it is better for her, much better; you ow it to her. Come!
Each of you will do what is best for th othr, if not wat is best for
yoursve”
“Why is it best, sir?” returnd Richard, hastiy. “It was not,
wen we opened our hearts to you. You did not say so, then.”
“I have had experienc si I do’t blame you, Rik—but I
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have had experice since.”
“You mean of me, sir.”
“Well! Yes, of both of you,” said Mr Jarndyce, kidly. “Th time
is not come for your standing pldged to on anthr. It is not
right, and I must not regnise it. Come, come, my young couss,
begin afresh! Bygos shall be bygos, and a new page turnd for
you to write your lives in”
Richard gave an anxius glance at Ada, but said nothing.
“I have avoided saying one word to either of you, or to Esther,”
said Mr Jarndyc, “unti now, i order that we might be ope as
th day, and all on equal term I now affectionately advise, I now
t earnetly etreat, you two, to part as you cam here. Leave
al el to tim, truth, and steadfastne If you do otherwis, you
wll do wrog; and you wi have made me do wrog, in ever
briging you together.”
A long silen sucded.
“Cousin Richard,” said Ada, th, raising her blue eye tederly
to his face, “after what our cousin Jo has said, I thk no choice
is left us Your mind may be quite at ease about me; for you w
ave me here under his care, and wil be sure that I can have
nothing to wish for; quite sure, if I guide myself by hi advice. I—I
don’t doubt, cous Richard,” said Ada, a lttl confusd, “that you
wre very fod of me, and I—I do’t thk you wi fal in love with
anybody els But I should lke you to coder well about it, too;
as I should lke you to be in all things very happy. You may trust i
, cus Riard. I am nt at all changeabl; but I am nt
unreasabl, and should nver blame you. Even cousi may be
rry to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry, Riard, though I
know it’s for your welfare I shall alays thk of you
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affectinately, and often talk of you with Esther, and—and
perhaps you wi sometimes think a littl of me, cous Richard. So
nw,” said Ada, going up to hi and giving hi her tremblig
hand, “we are only couss again, Richard—for th time perhaps—
and I pray for a blg on my dear cousi whereever he go!”
It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive
my Guardian, for entertaining th very same opiion of him which
h himself had expressed of hif in much stronger terms to me.
But, it was certainly th case. I observed, wth great regret, that
from this hour he never was as free and ope with Mr Jarndyc as
he had be before. He had every reason given h to be s, but
he was not; and, soy on his side, an estrangemt began to ari
between them.
In th busss of preparation and equipment he soo lost
hmself, and eve his grief at partig fro Ada, wh reaind i
Hertfordsre, whil he, Mr Jarndyc, and I went up to London for
a week. He rebered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of
tears; and at such times would confide to me th heaviest selfreproache. But, in a fe minutes h wuld recklessly conjure up
some undefinable means by which thy were both to be made rich
and happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible.
It was a busy tim, and I trotted about with hi all day log,
buying a variety of things, of whic he stood in need. Of the things
he would have bought, if he had be lft to his own ways, I say
nthing. He was perfectly cofidetial with me, and often talked so
nsibly and feingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutis,
and dwelt s muc upo the encurageent he derived from
th conversatis, that I could never have be tired if I had
tried.
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There used, in that week, to co backward and forward to our
ldgig, to fene with Riard, a person who had formerly be a
cavalry soldier; h was a fi bluff-lookig man, of a frank fre
bearig, with wh Richard had practised for some month. I
heard so muc about him, not only from Riard, but from my
Guardian too, that I was purposey i the room, with my work, one
morng after breakfast wh he came.
“Good morning, Mr George,” said my Guardian, who happed
to be al with me “Mr Carstone wil be here directly.
Meanwhile, Miss Sumrson is very happy to see you, I kn. Sit
dow.”
He sat dow, a littl disconcerted by my prece, I thught;
and, without lookig at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across
and acro his upper lip.
“You are as punctual as th sun,” said Mr Jarndyce.
“Military time, sir,” he replied. “Force of habit. A mere habit in
me, sir. I am not at all business-like.”
“Yet you have a large establhmet, too, I am told?” said Mr
Jarndyc
“Not muc of a one, sr. I keep a shooting galry, but nt muc
of a one.”
“Ad what kind of a shot, and wat kind of a swordsman, do
you make of Mr Carsto?” said my Guardian
“Pretty god, sir,” he replied, folding his arm upo his broad
ct, and lookig very large. “If Mr Carstone was to give his ful
mind to it, he would come out very god.”
“But he don’t, I suppose?” said my Guardian.
“He did at first, sir, but nt afterwards Not his full mind.
Perhaps he has sothing else upon it—se young lady,
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perhaps.” His bright dark eye glanced at me for th first time.
“He has nt me upo his mind, I assure you, Mr George,” said I,
laughg, “thugh you seem to suspect me.”
He reddened a littl through his bron, and made me a
trooper’s bo “No offence, I hope, m I am one of the Roughs.”
“Not at al,” said I. “I take it as a complment.”
If he had nt looked at me before, he lked at m now, i three
or four quick successive glances. “I beg your pardo, sir,” h said
to my Guardian, with a many kind of diffiden, “but you did me
the honour to meti the young lady’s nam—”
“Miss Summers.”
“Miss Summers,” h repeated, and looked at me again.
“Do you know the nam?” I asked.
“No, miss. To my knledge, I never heard it. I thught I had
seen you soere.”
“I think not,” I returned, raig my head from my work to look
at him; and thre was somthing so genuine in hs spe and
manner, that I was glad of th opportunity. “I reber faces
very we”
“So do I, m!” he returned, meetig my look wth the fuln
f his dark eye and broad foread. “Humph! What set me off,
now, upo that!”
His once more reddeg through his bron, and beg
disconcerted by his efforts to remember th associati, brought
my Guardian to his relief.
“Have you many pupils, Mr George?”
“Thy vary in their number, sir. Mostly, they’re but a smal lot
to live by.”
“And what classes of chance people come to practi at your
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gallery?”
“A sorts, sir. Natives and foreignrs. From gentlem to
’prentices I have had Frech wmen come, before now, and sho
thlve dabs at pisto-s
hooting. Mad peopl out of number, of
course—but they go everywhere, where the doors stand open.”
“Pepl do’t co with grudges and shem of finisg their
practice with live targets, I hope?” said my Guardian, smilg.
“Not muc of that, sir, though that has happend. Mostly thy
come for skill—or idleness. Six of on, and half a dozen of th
other. I beg your pardon,” said Mr George, stting stiffly upright,
and squarig an elbo on eac knee, “but I beeve you’re a
Cancery suitor, if I have heard correct?”
“I am sorry to say I am.”
“I have had one of your compatrits in my ti, sir.”
“A Chancery suitor?” returned my Guardian “How was that?”
“Why, the man was s badgered, and wrried, and tortured, by
beg knocked about fro post to pillar, and fro pillar to post,”
said Mr George, “that he got out of sorts. I do’t beeve he had
any idea of taking aim at anybody; but he was in that condition of
rentment and vice, that he wuld come and pay for fifty
shots, and fire away til he was red hot. On day I said to him when
thre was nobody by, and he had bee talking to me angrily about
hi wrongs, ‘If this practic i a safety-valve, crade, well and
good; but I don’t altogether like your beg so bet upon it, i your
pret state of mnd; I’d rather you took to sothing el’ I was
o my guard for a bl, he was that passionate; but h received it
i very good part, and left off directly. We shook hands, and struck
up a sort of friendship.”
“What was that man?” asked my Guardian, in a n to of
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interest.
“Why, he began by beig a sall Shropsre farmr, before
they made a baited bul of him,” said Mr George
“Was his name Gridley?”
“It was, sir.”
Mr George directed anthr succession of quik bright glances
at me, as my Guardian and I exchanged a word or tw of surprise
at the cdee; and I therefore explaid to him how we knew
the nam He made m another of his soldirly bows, i
acknledgment of what he cald my condescenion.
“I don’t kn,” h said, as h lked at me, “what it is that sets
me off again—but—bosh, what’s my had runing against!” He
passed on of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair, as if to
p the broke thoughts out of his mid; and sat a little
forward, with one arm akibo and the other restig on his leg,
lookig in a brown study at the ground.
“I am srry to larn that the sam state of mid has got this
Gridley ito ne troubl, and that he is hiding,” said my
guardian.
“So I am tod, sir,” returnd Mr George, still musg and
lookig on the ground. “So I am told.”
“You do’t know where?”
“No, sir,” returned the trooper, liftig up his eyes and cg
out of hi reverie. “I can’t say anything about him He will be worn
out soo, I expect. You may file a strong man’s heart away for a
god many years, but it will tell all of a sudde at last.”
Richard’s entrance stopped th conversati. Mr George ro,
made me anothr of his soldierly bo, wished my Guardian a
good day, and strode heaviy out of the room.
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This was th morning of th day appointed for Richard’s
departure We had no more purcases to make now; I had
cpleted all hi packig early in the afternoon; and our tim was
digaged until nght, when he was to go to Liverpool for
Holyhad. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being again expected to come
on that day, Riard proposed to me that we should go down to
th Court and hear what passed. As it was his last day, and h was
ager to go, and I had nver be there, I gave my ct, and we
walked down to Wetmter, where the Court was then sitting.
We beguild the way with arrangets concerng the letters
that Riard was to write to me, and the ltters that I was to write
to him; and with a great many hopeful projects. My Guardian
knew where we were gog, and therefore was not with us.
When we cam to the Court, there was the Lord Chanr—
th same wh I had see in hs private ro in Lincoln’s Inn—
stting in great state and gravity, on the beh; with the mac and
seals on a red tabl below him, and an immen flat nosegay, like a
lttle garde, wh sted the whole Court. Belo the table,
again, was a long ro of solicitors, with bundles of papers on th
atting at their feet; and then there were the gentln of the bar
in wigs and gos—some awake and some asleep, and o
talkig, and nobody paying muc attentin to what he said. The
Lord Chanr leand back in his very easy chair, with his ebo
th cushioned arm, and his foread resting on his hand; some
of those who were present, dozed; so read the newspapers;
some walked about, or whispered in groups: all seed perfetly
at their eas, by no man in a hurry, very uncrnd, and
extremely cofortable.
To s everything going on so smoothly, and to think of the
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roughnes of the suitors’ live and deaths; to see al that full dres
and cremy, and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared
misery it repreted; to consider that, wh th sickness of hope
deferred was raging in so many hearts, this polite sho wnt
calmly on from day to day, and year to year, in suc good order
and coposure; to behold the Lord Chanor, and the whole
array of practitioners under hi, lookig at one another and at the
spectators, as if nobody had ever hard that all over England th
name in which thy were assembled was a bitter jest: was hld in
universal horror, contept, and indignation; was know for
sthing so flagrant and bad, that little short of a mirac culd
bring any god out of it to any on: this was so curius and selfcontradictory to me, wh had no experice of it, that it was at
first incredible, and I could not comprend it. I sat whre
Richard put me, and tried to liste, and looked about me; but
there seemed to be n realty in the whole scene, except poor lttl
Miss Flite, th mad-wan, standing on a bench, and nodding at
it.
Miss Flite soo epied us, and came to whre we sat. She gave
me a gracious we to her domai, and indicated, with much
gratificati and pride, its pricipal attractis. Mr Kenge also
came to speak to us, and did th hours of th place in much th
same way; with th bland modesty of a propritor. It was not a
very god day for a visit, he said; he would have preferred th first
day of term; but it was imposing, it was imposing.
When we had be there half an hour or so, the cas in
progress—if I may us a phrase so ridiculous in such a
connection—sed to die out of its own vapidity, wthut
coming, or beg by anybody expected to come, to any result. Th
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Lord Chanr then threw down a bundl of papers from his
desk to th gentleman below h, and somebody said
“JARNDYCE AND JARNDYCE.” Upon this thre was a buzz, and
a laugh, and a genral withdrawal of the bystanders, and a
briging in of great heaps, and pi, and bags and bagfulls of
papers
I think it came o “for furthr directions,”—about some bi of
costs, to th best of my understanding, which was confusd
eough. But I counted twenty-three gentl in wigs, who said
they were “i it;” and n of them appeared to understand it
muc better than I. They chatted about it with the Lord
Cancellor, and contradicted and explained among thlve,
and some of th said it was this way, and some of th said it
was that way, and some of th joly propod to read huge
volumes of affidavits, and thre was more buzzing and laughng,
and everybody cernd was in a state of idl entertaient, and
nthing could be made of it by anybody. After an hour or so of this,
and a god many spees being begun and cut short, it was
“referred back for the present,” as Mr Kenge said, and the papers
re bundled up again, before th clerks had fished briging
them in
I gland at Riard, on the termati of the hopeles
proceedigs, and was shocked s see the worn look of his
hands young face “It can’t last for ever, Dam Durde Better
luck next time!” was all he said.
I had see Mr Guppy briging in papers, and arranging th
for Mr Kenge; and he had se me and made me a forlrn bow,
whic rendered m derous to get out of the Court. Riard had
given me his arm and was taking me away, wh Mr Guppy came
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up.
“I beg your pardo, Mr Carsto,” said he in a whisper, “and
Miss Summers’s also; but thre’s a lady here, a friend of mine,
who knows her, and wis to have the pleasure of shakig
hands” A he spoke, I saw before m, as if se had started into
bodily shape fro my remembrance, Mrs Rachael of my
godmther’s house
“How do you do, Esther?” said she. “Do you reect me?”
I gave her my hand, and told her yes, and that she was very
lttle altered.
“I woder you reber those ti, Esther,” she returned
with her old asperity. “They are changed no We! I am glad to
se you, and glad you are not to proud to know me.” But, indeed
she seed disappoited that I was not.
“Proud, Mrs Rachae!” I remontrated.
“I am married, Esther,” sh returned, codly correctig me,
“and am Mrs Cadband. We! I wis you good day, and I hope
you’ll do we”
Mr Guppy, wh had be attentive to this short dialgue,
haved a sigh in my ear, and ebowd hs on and Mrs Rachael’s
ay through th confusd littl crod of people coming in and
going out, whic we were in the midst of, and whic the cange in
the bus had brought togethr. Riard and I were makig
our way through it, and I was yet in the first chl of the late
unxpected regnition, w I saw, coming toards us, but not
seng us, no less a pers than Mr George. He made nothing of
the peopl about him as he tramped on, starig over their heads
to the body of the Court.
“George!” said Richard, as I cald his attention to him.
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“You are we met, sir,” he returned. “Ad you, miss. Could you
pot a person out for me, I want? I do’t understand thes
plac.”
Turning as he spoke, and making an easy way for us, he
stopped wh we were out of th press, i a cornr bed a great
red curtai
“Thre’s a little cracked old woman,” he began, “that—”
I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was cl by me; having kept
beside me all th time, and having cald th attention of several of
hr legal acquaintance to me (as I had overhard to my confusion),
by whispering in thr ears, “Hus! Fitz-Jarndyc on my left!”
“Hem!” said Mr George. “You remember, miss, that w passed
some conversati on a certain man th morning?—Gridley,” in a
low whisper bend his hand.
“Yes,” said I.
“He is hiding at my plac I couldn’t mention it. Hadn’t h
authrity. He is on his last marc, miss, and has a w to se hr.
He says they can feel for one another, and se has been alt as
good as a friend to him here. I cam down to look for her; for when
I sat by Gridly this afternoon, I sd to hear the roll of the
muffld drums.”
“Shal I te her?” said I.
“Would you be so good?” he returned, with a glan of
something like appresion at Miss Flite “It’s a Providence I met
you, miss; I doubt if I should have knn ho to get o wth that
lady.” Ad he put one hand i his breast, and stood upright i a
martial attitude, as I informed little Mis Flite, i her ear, of the
purport of his kid errand.
“My angry friend fro Shropshire! Amost as celebrated as
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myself!” she exclaimed. “No really! My dear, I wll wait upo
with the greatest plasure.”
“He is living concealed at Mr George’s,” said I. “Hus! This is
Mr George.”
“In-deed!” returned Mi Flte. “Very proud to have th
ur! A military man, my dear. You kn, a perfet General!”
she whispered to me.
Por Miss Flite deed it necessary to be so courtly and polite,
as a mark of her respet for the army, and to curtesy s very
often, that it was n easy matter to get her out of the Court. Wh
this was at last done, and addressing Mr George, as “Genral,” she
gave hi her arm to the great entertait of so idlrs who
wre looking on, he was so discompod, and begged me so
respectfully “nt to desert him,” that I could not make up my mind
to do it; especally as Mi Flite was alays tractabl with me, and
as she to said, “Fitz-Jarndyce, my dear, you wll accompany us, of
course.” A Richard sed quite wing, and eve anxius, that
w should se th safely to thr destination, we agred to do so.
d as Mr George informed us that Gridly’s mind had run on Mr
Jarndyc all the afternoon, after hearig of their interview in the
morng, I wrote a hasty note in pencil to my Guardian to say
were we were go, and why. Mr George sealed it at a coffeehuse, that it might lead to no discovery, and we sent it off by a
ticket-porter.
We th tok a hackney coach, and drove away to th
ghbourhood of Leicter Square. We walked through s
narro courts, for which Mr George apolgised, and soo came to
the Shooting Gallery, the door of whic was closed. As he pulled a
be-handle whic hung by a chai to the door-post, a very
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respetabl od gentlan, with grey hair, wearig spetac, and
dred in a black spencer and gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat,
and carrying a large gold-haded cane, addred him.
“I ask your pardo, my god friend,” said he; but is this
George’s Shooting Gallery?”
“It is, sir,” returned Mr George, glang up at the great ltters
in which that inscripti was paited on th whiteashed wal
“Oh! To be sure!” said the old gentlan, following his eye
“Thank you. Have you rung th bell?”
“My name is George, sir, and I have rung th be”
“Oh, indeed?” said th od gentleman. “Your name is George?
Then I am here as soon as you, you see. You cam for m, n
doubt?”
“No, sir. You have the advantage of me.”
“Oh, ideed?” said th od gentleman. “Thn it was your young
man wh came for me. I am a physan, and was requeted—five
minutes ago—to come and visit a sick man, at George’s Shooting
Gallry.”
“Th muffld drums,” said Mr George, turng to Richard and
me, and gravey shaking hs had. “It’s quite correct, sir. Wi you
please to walk in.”
The door beg at that mot oped, by a very sigularlookig lttle man i a green baize cap and apro, whose fac, and
hands, and dre, wre blackened al over, we passed alg a
dreary pasage into a large buidig with bare brik wal; were
there were targets, and guns, and swords, and other things of that
kind. Whe w had all arrived here, th physician stopped, and,
taking off his hat, appeared to vanish by magic, and to leave
anothr and quite a different man in his place.
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“Now look’e here, George,” said the man turning quickly
round upo him, and tappig him on th breast wth a large
forefinger. “You know me, and I know you. You’re a man of the
wrld, and I’m a man of th world. My name’s Bucket, as you are
aware, and I have got a peace-warrant against Gridley. You have
kept hi out of the way a lg tim, and you have been artful in it,
and it doe you credit.”
Mr George, lookig hard at him, bit his lp and shook his head.
“Now, George,” said the other, keepig cose to hi, “you’re a
sensible man, and a we-cducted man; that’s what you are,
beyond a doubt. And mind you, I don’t talk to you as a common
aracter, becaus you have served your country, and you know
that wen duty cal we must obey. Consequently, you’re very far
from wantig to give troubl If I required asstan, you’d ast
me; that’s what you’d do. Phil Squod, don’t you go a-sidling round
the galry like that;” the dirty lttle man was suffling about with
hi shoulder agait the wal, and hi eyes on the intruder, in a
manner that looked threateg; “beause I know you, and I won’t
have it.”
“Phi!” said Mr George
“Yes, Guv’nr.”
“Be quiet.”
Th littl man, with a low grol, stod sti
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr Bucket, “you’ll excuse
anythng that may appear to be disagreable in this, for my name’s
Inspector Bucket of th Detective, and I have a duty to perform.
George, I know where my man i, beause I was on the roof last
nght, and saw him through the skylight, and you along with hi
He is in thre, you know,” pointing; “that’s wre
he is—on a sofy.
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Now I must see my man, and I must te my man to coider
hielf in custody; but, you know me, and you know I do’t want
to take any uncfortable masures. You give me your word, as
from one man to another (and an old sodir, mnd you, likewis!),
that it’s honourable between us two, and I’ll acodate you to
th utmost of my powr.”
“I give it,” was the reply. “But it was’t handsom in you, Mr
Bucket.”
“Gammon, George! Not handsome?” said Mr Bucket, tapping
hi on hi broad breast agai, and shakig hands with him “I
don’t say it was’t handsome in you to keep my man so ce, do I?
Be equally god-tepered to me, old boy! Old Wiam Tell! Old
Shaw, the Life Guardsan! Why, he’s a model of the we British
Army in hf, ladies and gentlemen. I’d give a fifty-pun’ note to
be such a figure of a man.”
The affair beg brought to this head, Mr George, after a little
nsideration, propod to go in first to hs comrade (as h called
hi), takig Mis Flte with him Mr Bucket agreeg, they went
away to the further end of the galry, leavig us stting and
standig by a table covered with guns Mr Bucket took this
pportunity of entering into a light conversati: asking me if I
wre afraid of firearms, as most young ladies wre; asking Richard
if he were a good shot; askig Phil Squod whic he codered the
bet of those rifles, and what it might be worth first-hand; tellig
hi, i return, that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper,
for he was naturally so amabl that he mght have be a young
wman; and making himself gerally agreabl
fter a tim he folwed us to the further ed of the galry, and
Riard and I were going quietly away, when Mr George cam
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after us. He said that if we had no objection to see hs comrade, h
uld take a visit fro us very kindly. Th words had hardly
passed h lips, w th be was rung, and my Guardian
appeared; “on th chance,” he slightly observed, “of beg able to
do any lttle thing for a poor fellow ivolved in the sam
fortune as himf.” We al four went back together, and went
into th place whre Gridley was.
It was a bare ro partitioned off fro th galry wth
unpaited wood. As the screg was not more than eight or ten
feet high, and ony enosed the side, not the top, the rafters of
the high galry roof were overhead, and the skylight, through
whic Mr Bucket had looked down. The sun was lw—nar
stting—and its light cam redly in above, without dedig to
the ground. Upon a plai canvas-covered sofa lay the man from
Shropshire—dressed much as we had se him last, but so
changed, that at first I regnised no like i h colourless face
to what I rellected.
He had be still writing in his hiding-place, and sti dweling
on his grievan, hour after hour. A table and so shelves were
covered with manuscript papers, and with worn pens, and a
mdly of suc tokens. Touchigly and awfully draw together, he
and th littl mad woman were side by side, and, as it wre, alon
She sat on a cair holdig hi hand, and n of us went close to
them
His voice had faded, wth th old expre of his face, with hi
trength, with his anger, with his restanc to the wrongs that had
at last subdued hi The faitest sadow of an object ful of form
and colour, i such a picture of it, as he was of th man fro
Shropshire wh we had spoken with before
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He incld his head to Richard and me, and spoke to my
Guardian.
“Mr Jarndyc, it is very kind of you to co to s m I am not
lg to be s, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sr. You
are a god man, superir to injustice, and God knos I hur
you.”
They shook hands earnetly, and my Guardian said s words
of cofort to him
“It may see strange to you, sir,” returnd Gridley; “I should
nt have lked to s you, if this had be the first tim of our
meeting. But, you know, I made a fight for it, you know I stood up
with my sigle hand agait them all, you know I told them the
truth to the last, and told them what they were, and what they had
done to me; so I don’t mid your seeng me, this wrek.”
“You have been curageous with them, many and many a
tim,” returned my Guardian.
“Sir, I have be;” with a faint smil “I told you what would
c of it, when I cased to be so; and, see here! Look at us!—look
at us!” He drew the hand Mis Flte held, through her arm, and
brought her sothing nearer to him
“This eds it. Of al my old association, of all my old pursuits
and hopes, of al the livig and the dead world, th one poor soul
alone co natural to me, and I am fit for. There i a tie of many
sufferig years, between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had o
earth that Chanry has nt broke”
“Accept my blsing, Gridley,” said Miss Flite, in tears. “Accept
my blssing!”
“I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr
Jarndyce. I was resolved that thy should not. I did believe that I
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culd, and would, charge them with beg the mokery they were,
unti I died of some bodiy disorder. But I am worn out. How lg I
have be wearig out, I do’t know; I sed to break down i
an hour. I hope they may nver co to hear of it. I hope
everybody here wi lead them to beeve that I did defyig them,
consistently and persveringly, as I did through so many years.”
Here Mr Bucket, who was stting in a crner, by the door, goodnaturedly offered such conation as he could administer.
“Ce, co!” he said, from his crner. “Don’t go on i that
way, Mr Gridley. You are only a littl low We are all of us a littl
w, sotim I am Hold up, hold up! You’l l your temper
wth th w round of ’em, again and again; and I shall take you
o a score of warrants yet, if I have luck.”
He only shook his head.
“Don’t shake your had,” said Mr Bucket. “Nod it; that’s wat I
want to se you do Why, Lord ble your sul, what tim we have
had together! Have’t I seen you in the Fleet over and over agai,
for ctept? Haven’t I cam into Court twen-ty afternoons, for
n other purpose than to see you pi the Chanr like a
bulldog? Do’t you rember, when you first began to threate
the lawyers, and the peac was sworn agait you two or three
ti a week? Ak the lttle old lady there; she has be alays
pret. Hod up, Mr Gridley, hold up, sir!”
“What are you going to do about him?” asked George i a l
voice.
“I do’t know yet,” said Bucket in the sam tone Then
resuming his enuraget, he pursued aloud:—
“Worn out, Mr Gridley? After dodgig me for all th wks,
and forcig m to cb the roof here like a Tom Cat, and to co
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to see you as a Doctor? That ain’t like beig worn out. I should
think not! Now I tell you what you want. You want excitet,
you know, to keep you up; that’s what you want. You’re used to it,
and you can’t do withut it. I couldn’t myself. Very w, th;
hre’s this warrant got by Mr Tulkinghrn of Lin’s Inn Fids,
and backed into half-a-dozen cunti sie. What do you say to
g alg with me, upo this warrant, and having a good
angry argumet before the magistrates? It’l do you good; it’l
freshen you up, and get you into traig for another turn at the
Cancellor. Give in? Why I am surprised to hear a man of your
ergy talk of giving in You mustn’t do that. You’re half the fun of
th fair, in th Court of Chancery. George, you lend Mr Gridley a
hand, and lt’s se now whether he won’t be better up than
dow.”
“He is very weak,” said th troper, in a low voice.
“Is he?” returned Bucket, anxiously. “I only want to rouse him
I do’t lke to se an old acquaitan giving i like this It would
cher him up more than anythng if I could make him a littl waxy
with me He’s welcom to drop into m, right and lft, if he like I
shall never take advantage of it.”
Th rof rang wth a scream fro Mi Flite, which still rings in
my ears
“O no, Gridley!” she cried, as he fell heavily and calmly back
fro before her. “Not withut my blsing. After so many years!”
Then the sun was down, the lght had gradually stole from the
roof, and the sadow had crept upward. But, to me, the shadow of
that pair, on living and on dead, fe havier o Richard’s
departure, than the darkn of the darket night. And through
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Richard’s farell words I heard it ecd.
“Of al my old asati, of al my old pursuits and hopes, of
al the livig and the dead world, th one poor soul ale co
atural to m, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many suffering
years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on earth that
Chanry has not broken!”
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Chapter 25
Mrs Snagsby See It Al
T
here i diquietude i Cook’s Court, Curstor Street. Black
suspicion hides in that peaceful regi. Th mass of
Cook’s Courtiers are in their usual state of md, no better
and no wrs; but, Mr Snagsby is changed, and his littl woman
knows it.
For, Tom-all-Alone’s and Lincoln’s Inn Fids persist i
arnng thlve, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to th
chariot of Mr Snagsby’s imagination; and Mr Bucket drive; and
th passengers are Jo and Mr Tulkighrn; and th complete
quipage wirls through th Law Stationery busine at wild
speed, al round the clock. Even in the little front kitchen where
th family meals are taken, it rattl away at a smoking pace fro
the dier table, when Mr Snagsby pauses in carvig the first s
of the leg of mutton baked with potatoes, and stare at the kitchen
all.
Mr Snagsby can not make out wat it is that he has had to do
with. Sothing i wrong, sowhere; but what sothing, what
may c of it, to whom, when, and from whic unthought-of and
unheard-of quarter, i the puzzl of his life. His remte
impresion of th robes and corots, th stars and garters, that
sparkle through th surface-dust of Mr Tulkinghrn’s chambers;
his verati for th mysteries preded over by that best and
cosest of his customers, whom al the Inns of Court, and Chanry
Lan, and al the lgal nghbourhood agree to hold in awe; his
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remembran of Detective Mr Bucket with his forefinger, and hi
fidetial manr impossibl to be evaded or declind;
persuade hm that he is a party to some dangerous secret, withut
knowing what it is. And it is th fearful pecularity of this
condition, that, at any hour of his daily life, at any opeing of th
shop-dor, at any pull of th bel, at any entrance of a mesger,
or any devery of a letter, the seret may take air and fire,
explode, and blow up—Mr Bucket only knows whom.
For w reason, wenever a man unknown co into th
shop (as many men unknown do), and says, “Is Mr Snagsby in?”
or words to that innocent effect, Mr Snagsby’s heart knks hard
at his guilty breast. He undergos so much fro such inquiries,
that wen they are made by boys he reveges hif by flippig
at their ears over the cunter, and askig the young dogs what
they mant by it, and why they can’t speak out at onc? More
impracticabl men and boys persist in walking into Mr Snagsby’s
p, and terrifying him with unaccuntable questions; so that
ofte, wen the ck at the little dairy in Curstor Street breaks
out i hi usual absurd way about the mornig, Mr Snagsby finds
mself in a crisis of nightmare, with his littl woman shaking him,
and saying, “What’s the matter with the man!”
The lttle woman hersef i nt the last ite in his difficulty. To
know that he i always keepig a sret from her; that he has,
under all circumstances, to conceal and hod fast a teder double
tooth, whic her sarpn i ever ready to twist out of his head;
gives Mr Snagsby, i her dentistical prece, much of th air of a
dog who has a reservatin from his master, and will look anywhere
rather than meet his eye.
The various sign and toke, marked by the lttle wan,
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are not lost upo her. Thy impel her to say, “Snagsby has
something on his mind!” And thus suspicion gets ito Ck’s
Curt, Cursitor Stret. Fro suspicion to jealusy, Mrs Snagsby
finds the road as natural and short as from Cook’s Court to
Canry Lane And thus jealousy gets into Cook’s Court, Cursitor
Street. On there (and it was alays lurkig thereabout), it i
very active and nbl in Mrs Snagsby’s breast—prompting her to
nocturnal examations of Mr Snagsby’s pockets; to secret
perusals of Mr Snagsby’s letters; to private rearche in th Day
Book and Ledger, till, cas-box, and iron safe; to watchigs at
wndows, listegs behnd doors, and a geral putting of this
and that together by the wrong end.
Mrs Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert, that the house
be ghostly with creakig boards and rustlg garmts. The
’prentices think somebody may have be murdered thre, in
bygone tim Guster holds certai loose atom of an idea (piked
up at Tooting, where they were found floating amg the
orphans), that thre is burid money undernath th cellar,
guarded by an od man wth a white beard, wh cannt get out for
sve thousand years, beause he said the Lord’s Prayer
backwards.
“Who was Nimrod?” Mrs Snagsby repeatedly inquire of
herself. “Who was that lady—that creature? Ad who i that boy?”
Now, Nimrod being as dead as th mighty hunter wh name Mrs
Snagsby has appropriated, and th lady beg unproducible, she
direts her metal eye, for the present, with redoubld vigiane,
to the boy. “Ad who,” quoth Mrs Snagsby, for the thousand and
first tim, “i that boy? Who is that —!” And there Mrs Snagsby is
ized with an inspiration.
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He has no respect for Mr Chadband. No, to be sure, and h
wouldn’t have, of course Naturaly he wouldn’t under those
ntagious circumstances. He was invited and appoited by Mr
Chadband—why, Mrs Snagsby heard it hersef with her own
ears!—to co back, and be told where he was to go, to be
addred by Mr Chadband; and he never came! Why did h never
c? Because he was told not to co Who told him nt to
c? Who? Ha, ha! Mrs Snagsby sees it al
But happily (and Mrs Snagsby tightly shakes her head and
tightly sm), that boy was mt by Mr Chadband yesterday in the
strets; and that boy, as affordig a subjet which Mr Chadband
desire to iprove for th spiritual delght of a select
cgregation, was sezed by Mr Chadband and threated with
beg delivered over to the po, unle he showed the reverend
gentleman wre h lived, and unless he entered into, and
fulfid, an undertakig to appear in Cook’s Court tomorrow
nght—“to-mor-row-nght,” Mrs Snagsby repeats for mere
ephas, with another tight sm, and another tight shake of her
head; and tomorrow night that boy wil be here, and tomorrow
nght Mrs Snagsby wil have her eye upon hi and upo s one
; and O you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says
Mrs Snagsby, with haughtines and scorn), but you can’t bld
ME!
Mrs Snagsby sounds no timbre in anybody’s ears, but hds
hr purpo quietly, and keeps her counl. Tomorro comes, th
avoury preparati for the Oi Trade co, the evenig co
mes, Mr Snagsby in hs black coat; come, th Cadbands; come
(wn th gorging vessel is replte), th ’prentices and Guster, to
be edified; comes, at last, with his slouching had, and his shuffl
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backward, and hi suffle forward, and hi shuffle to the right, and
his shuffl to th left, and his bit of fur cap i hs muddy hand,
wich h picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caught, and
was pluckig before eating raw, Jo, the very, very tough subjet
Mr Chadband is to improve
Mrs Snagsby screws a watchful glan on Jo, as he is brought
ito the little drawg-room by Guster. He looks at Mr Snagsby the
moment he comes in. Aha! Why doe he look at Mr Snagsby? Mr
Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs
Snagsby see it all? Why e should that look pass betw th,
wy el should Mr Snagsby be confusd, and cough a signal
ugh bed his hand? It is as clar as crystal that Mr Snagsby is
that boy’s father.
“Peace, my friends,” says Chadband, rising and wiping th oily
exudation fro his revered visage “Peace be with us! My
friends, why with us? Becaus,” with his fat smile, “it cant be
against us, beaus it must be for us; becaus it is not hardeg,
becaus it is softeg; becaus it doe not make war like th
hawk, but co home untoe us lke the dove. Therefore, my
friends, peac be with us! My human boy, com forward!”
Stretchig forth his flabby paw, Mr Cadband lays the sam on
Jo’s arm, and considers whre to station him. Jo, very doubtful of
his reverend friend’s intentions, and not at al clear but that
sthing practical and paiful is going to be do to hi,
mutters, “You let me al I nver said nthink to you. You let m
alon”
“No, my young friend,” says Chadband, smoothy, “I wi not lt
you alone. Ad why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, beause I
am a toer and a moer, beause you are devered over untoe m,
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and are beme as a preious instrument in my hands. My friends,
may I so eply this instrument as to us it to your advantage,
toe your profit, toe your gai, toe your welfare, toe your
erichment! My young friend, sit upo th sto.”
Jo, apparently posssed by an impresion that th reverend
gentleman wants to cut hi hair, shields hi head with both arms,
and is got into the required poti with great difficulty, and
every possible manifestation of reluctance.
When he i at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr Chadband,
retirig bed the table, hods up his bear’s-paw, and says, “My
frieds!” This is the signal for a genral settlet of the
audi The ’prenti giggle internally, and nudge eac other.
Guster fals into a staring and vacant state, compounded of a
stunned admirati of Mr Chadband and pity for th friendless
outcast whose coditi touches her narly. Mrs Snagsby sitly
lays trai of gunpowder. Mrs Chadband coposes herself grimy
by the fire, and warms her kn: findig that sati
favourable to th reception of elque
It happens that Mr Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some
mber of his cogregation with hi eye, and fatly arguing hi
pots with that particular person; who is understood to be
xpeted to be mved to an occasal grunt, groan, gasp, or other
audibl expression of inard workig; which expresion of inward
wrking, being ecd by some elderly lady in th next pew, and
so communicated, like a game of forfets, through a circ of th
re fermetabl srs pret, serves the purpose of
parlamentary chering, and gets Mr Chadband’s steam up. Fro
re force of habit, Mr Chadband in saying “my friends!” has
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starred stationr, already sufficiently confusd, th immediate
recipient of his discourse
“We have here amg us, my friends,” says Chadband, “a
Gentile and a Heathn, a dweler in th tents of Tom-all-A’s,
and a mver-on upon the surface of the earth. We have here
among us, my friends,” and Mr Chadband, untwisting th poit
wth his dirty thumbnail, bestos an oily s o Mr Snagsby,
signifyig that he wi thro him an argumentative back—fall
pretly if he be not already dow, “a brothr and a boy. Devoid
of parents, devoid of reatis, devoid of flks and hrds, devoid
of gold and silver, and of precious sto Now, my friends, why do
I say h is devoid of th possessions? Why? Why is he?” Mr
Chadband states the question as if he wre propoundig an
tirely new riddl, of muc igenuity and merit, to Mr Snagsby,
and etreating hi nt to give it up. Mr Snagsby, greatly
perplexed by th mysterious look he received just now fro hi
littl woman—at about th perid wh Mr Cadband mentioned
the word parents—i tempted ito modetly remarkig, “I do’t
know, I’m sure, sir.” On wich interruption, Mrs Cadband glare,
and Mrs Snagsby says, “For shame!”
“I hear a voice,” says Chadband; “is it a still small vo, my
frieds? I fear not, though I fai would hope s—”
(“A-h!” from Mrs Snagsby.)
“Whi says, I do’t know. Then I will tell you why. I say this
brother, present here amg us, is devoid of parents, devoid of
relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of sver, and
of precious sto, becaus he is devoid of th light that shine in
upo some of us What is that light? What is it? I ask you wat is
that light?”
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Mr Chadband draws back his head and paus, but Mr Snagsby
is not to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr Chadband,
lanig forward over the tabl, pirc what he has got to follw,
directly into Mr Snagsby, with the thumbnai already metid.
“It is,” says Chadband, “th ray of rays, the sun of sun, th
oon of mo, the star of stars It is the light of Terewth.”
Mr Chadband draws himsef up again, and looks triumphantly
at Mr Snagsby, as if he would be glad to know how he feels after
that.
“Of Tereth,” says Mr Chadband, hittig him agai “Say not
to me that it is not th lamp of lamps. I say to you, it is. I say to you,
a million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that I will proai it
to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the le you like it, the
mre I will proclai it to you. With a speakig-trumpet! I say to
you that if you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall be
bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be flawed, you shall be
smasd.”
Th pret effect of this flight of oratory—much admired for
its geral powr by Mr Chadband’s fors—being not only to
ake Mr Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent th
t Mr Snagsby in the light of a determid ey to virtue,
wth a foread of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate
tradesan bemes yet more disconcerted; and is in a very
advanced state of low spirits and false position, w Mr
Cadband accidentally fiishe him.
“My friends,” he resumes, after dabbig hs fat had for some
tim—and it ske to suc an extent that he se to light his
pocket-handkerchief at it, which smke, to, after every dab—“to
pursue the subjet we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to
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improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Tereth to
ich I have alluded. For, my young friends,” suddeny
addresing th ’prentices and Guster, to thr consternation, “if I
am tod by th doctor that calomel or castor-oil is god for me, I
may naturaly ask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may
w to be informd of that, before I do mysf with eithr or
with both. Now, my young frieds, what is this Terewth, then?
Firstly (in a spirit of love), what is th common sort of Tereth—
th working cloths—th every-day wear, my young friends? Is it
deception?”
(“A-h!” from Mrs Snagsby.)
“Is it suppression?”
(A shiver in th negative fro Mrs Snagsby.)
“Is it rervation?”
(A shake of the head from Mrs Snagsby—very lg and very
tight.)
“No, my friends, it is neithr of th Neithr of th names
belongs to it. Whe this young Heathn now amg us—wh is
now, my friends, asleep, th seal of indifference and perdition
beg st upon his eyeds; but do nt wake him, for it is right that
I should have to wrestle, and to cobat and to struggle, and to
conquer, for his sake—wn th young harded Heathn told us
a story of a Cock, and of a Bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign,
was that th Tereth? No. Or, if it was partly, was it whlly, and
etirely? No, my friends, no!”
If Mr Snagsby could withstand his littl woman’s look, as it
eters at his eye, th windows of his soul, and searche th w
tenet, he were other than the man he i He cwers and
drops.
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“Or, my juve friends,” says Chadband, descendig to th
level of thr comprension, with a very obtrusive demonstration,
in hi greasily meek smile, of coming a long way dowstairs for th
purpo, “if th master of this house was to go forth into th city
and thre see an ee, and was to come back, and was to call unto
m th mistress of this house, and was to say, ‘Sarah, rejoice wth
me, for I have seen an elephant!’ would that be Tereth?”
Mrs Snagsby in tears.
“Or put it, my juvele friends, that he saw an ephant, and
returning said ‘Lo, th city is barren, I have see but an eel,’ would
that be Tereth?”
Mrs Snagsby sobbing loudly.
“Or put it, my juve friends,” says Chadband, stiulated by
the sound, “that the unnatural parents of this slumbering
Heathn—for parents h had, my juvenile friends, beyod a
doubt—after castig him forth to the wolve and the vultures, and
the wild dogs and the young gaze, and the serpets, went back
to their dwgs and had their pipe, and their pots, and their
flutings and their dangs, and their malt lquors, and their
butcr’s meat and poultry, would that be Tereth!”
Mrs Snagsby replies by delivering hersf a prey to spasms; not
an unresistig prey, but a crying and a tearing on, so that Ck’s
urt re-echos wth hr shriks. Fialy, beming cataleptic, she
as to be carrid up th narro staircase like a grand piano. After
unspeakable suffering, productive of th utmost conternation,
she is prounced, by expresses fro th bedro, fre fro pain,
thugh much exhausted; in which state of affairs Mr Snagsby,
trampld and crushed in the piano-forte reval, and extremely
timd and feebl, ventures to co out from bed the door i the
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drawg-room.
th ti, Jo has been standig on the spot were he wke
up, ever picking hs cap, and putting bits of fur in his mouth He
spits th out with a remorsful air, for he fes that it i i h
nature to be an unimprovable reprobate, and that it’s no god hi
tryig to keep awake, for he won’t never know nothink. Though it
may be, Jo, that thre is a history so interesting and affectig eve
to mds as nar the brutes as thin, recrdig deds do on this
arth for common men, that if th Chadbands, removing thr ow
persons from the lght, would but show it thee in sipl reveren,
wuld but leave it unimproved, would but regard it as beg
eoquent enough without their modet aid—it might hold thee
awake, and thu might learn fro it yet!
Jo never heard of any such bok. Its compilrs, and th
Revered Chadband, are al one to him—excpt that he knows th
Reverend Chadband, and would rathr run away fro hi for an
hour than hear him talk for five mutes. “It an’t no good my
waiting here no lger,” thks Jo. “Mr Snagsby an’t a gog to say
nthink to m tonight.” And downstairs he shuffl
But dowstairs is th charitable Guster, hoding by th handrai of the kitchen stairs, and wardig off a fit, as yet doubtfully,
th same having be induced by Mrs Snagsby’s sreaming. She
has her own supper of bread and ceese to hand to Jo; with whom
s ventures to interchange a word or so, for the first tim
“Here’s somethg to eat, poor boy,” says Guster.
“Thank’ee, mum,” says Jo
“Are you hungry?”
“Jist!” says Jo
“What’s go of your father and your mother, eh?”
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Jo stops in th middle of a bite, and looks petrified. For this
orphan charge of th Christian Saint wh shri was at Toting,
has patted him on the shoulder; and it is the first tim i hi life
that any decent hand has be so laid upo him.
“I never kn’d nothk about ’em,” says Jo
“No more didn’t I of mi,” cries Guster. She is repressig
symptoms favourabl to the fit, when sh se to take alarm at
something, and vanishe dow th stairs
“Jo,” whispers th law-stationer softly, as th boy lingers on th
step.
“Here I am, Mr Snagsby.”
“I didn’t know you were gone—there’s another half-crown, Jo.
It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other
nght when we were out togethr. It would bred troubl You
can’t be too quiet, Jo.”
“I am fly, master!”
Ad so, good nght.
A ghostly sade, frild and nght-capped, follows the lawstatir to the room he cam from, and glides higher up. Ad
henceforth he begins, go where he wil, to be attended by another
shadow than his on, hardly less contant than his own, hardly
less quiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphre of
secrey his own shadow may pass, let al conrned in th secrey
beware! For the watchful Mrs Snagsby is there too—bo of his
bo, flh of his flesh, sadow of his shadow.
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Chapter 26
Sharpshooterstry mornig, lookig with dul eye and s
upon the neghbourhood of Leicter Square, finds its
habitants unwillg to get out of bed. Many of them
are not early risrs at the brightest of tim, beg birds of night
who roost when the sun is high, and are wde awake and keen fo
prey wh th stars shi out. Bed dingy bld and curtain, in
upper story and garret, skulkig more or le under fal nam,
false hair, false titl, fal jellery, and false histories, a colony
of brigands le i their first sleep. Getl of the green baize
road who could diourse, from persoal experie, of foreign
galleys, and h treadmills; spies of strong governments that
eternally quake wth weakne and miserabl fear, broke
traitors, coards, bulies, gamesters, shufflrs, swidlers, and fal
tnsses; some not unmarked by th branding-iron, beneath
their dirty braid; al with more cruelty in them than was i Nero,
and more crie than is i Negate. For, howsever bad the devi
can be in fustian or smock-frok (and he can be very bad in both
h is a more desgng, calus, and intolerable devil wh he
sticks a pin in his shirt-frot, calls himself a gentleman, backs
card or colour, plays a game or so of billiards, and knows a ltt
about bis and prossory notes, than in any othr form he wears.
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shall Classic
fid him, w h w,
pervading th tributary channe of Leicester Square
But th wintry morning wants him not and wakes hm not. It
W
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wake Mr George of the Shooting Gallery, and hi Famar. They
arise, ro up and sto away thr mattresses. Mr George, having
saved hielf before a lookig-glas of miute proportions, then
marcs out, bare-haded and bare-csted, to th Pump, in th
littl yard, and anon comes back shig with yellow soap, friction,
drifting rai, and exceedigly cold water. As he rubs himself upo
a large jack-towel, blowing like a mitary sort of diver just co
up: his crisp hair curlg tighter and tighter o his sunburnt
temples, th more h rubs it, so that it looks as if it never could be
lood by any less corcive instrument than an iro rake or a
curry-cb—as he rubs, and puffs, and polishe, and bls,
turning his head fro side to side, th more conveiently to
xcoriate his throat, and standing with his body well bent forward,
to kep the wet from his martial lgs—Phi, on his kn lighting a
fire, looks round as if it were enugh washing for him to see al
that do, and suffict renvatio, for one day, to take i the
superfluous health his master thro off.
When Mr George i dry, he goes to work to brush his head with
two hard brushes at on, to that unmerciful degree that Ph,
shoulderig hi way round the gallry in the act of swpig it,
wnks wth sympathy. This chafig over, th ornamental part of
Mr George’s toilette is soo performed. He fis his pipe, lights it,
and marcs up and dow smokig, as his custo is, while Ph,
raig a powerful odour of hot roll and cffee, prepares
breakfast. He soke gravely, and marches in slow tim Perhaps
this morng’s pipe is devoted to th memory of Gridley in hi
grave
“And s, Phi,” says George of the Shooting Galry, after
several turns in silece; “you wre dreaming of th country last
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nght?”
Phil, by th bye, said as much i a to of surprise, as he
rambled out of bed.
“Yes, guv’nr.”
“What was it like?”
“I hardly kn what it was lke, guv’nr,” says Phi,
considering.
“Ho did you kn it was th country?”
“On accounts of th grass, I thk. And th swans upo it,” says
Ph, after further coderatin.
“What were the swan dog on the gras?”
“Thy was a eatig of it, I expect,” says Phi
Th master resumes his marc, and th man resumes h
preparation of breakfast. It is not nessarily a lengthd
preparation, being limited to th setting forth of very simple
breakfast requisite for tw, and th broling of a rasher of baco
at th fire in th rusty grate; but as Phil has to sidle round a
cderabl part of the galery for every object he wants, and
never brings tw objects at once, it takes time under th
circumstance At length th breakfast is ready. Ph announcing
it, Mr George knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the hob, stands
is pipe itself in th chimney cornr, and sits dow to th meal.
When he has helped himf, Phil follws suit; stting at the
extreme end of the little oblg table, and takig hi plate on hi
knees. Either in humity, or to hide his blacked hands, or
becaus it is his natural manr of eating.
“Th country,” says Mr George, plyig h knife and fork; “why,
I suppose you never clapped your eye on th country, Phil?”
“I see the marshes onc,” says Phil, cotentedly eatig his
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breakfast.
“What marshes?”
“The marshes, coander,” returns Ph
“Where are they?”
“I do’t know were they are,” says Phi; “but I se ’em,
guv’nr. They was flat. Ad mite”
Governor and Commander are iterchangeable term wth
Phil, expresive of th same respect and deference, and applicable
to nobody but Mr George.
“I was born in the country, Phil.”
“Was you indeed, commander?”
“Yes. And bred there.” Phil elevated his one eyebro, and, after
respectfully staring at hs master to expres interest, swallow a
great gulp of coffe, still staring at him.
“There’s nt a bird’s note that I do’t know,” says Mr George.
“Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn’t name. Not
many a tree that I culdn’t cb yet, if I was put to it. I was a real
cuntry boy onc My good mother lived i the country.”
“She must have been a fin old lady, guv’nr,” Phil observes.
“Ay! and nt so old either, five-and-thirty years ago,” says Mr
George. “But I’l wager that at nity sh would be nar as upright
as me, and near as broad acro th shoulders.”
“Did she die at ninety, guv’ner?” inquire Phil.
“No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bls her!” says th
trooper. “What set me on about country boys, and runaways and
good for nthings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your
eyes upon the country-mars and dream excepted. Eh?”
Phil shake his head.
“Do you want to see it?”
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“N-n, I don’t kn as I do, particular,” says Phi
“Th to’s enough for you, eh?”
“Why you see, commander,” says Phi, “I ai’t acquaited wth
anythink e, and I doubt if I ain’t a getting too old to take to
novelties.”
“How old are you, Phil?” asks th troper, pausing as h
nveys his smkig saucr to his lips
“I’m sthing with a eight in it,” says Ph “It can’t be eighty.
Nor yet eightee It’s betwixt ’e sowhere”
Mr George, slowly putting down hi saucer without tastig the
contets, is laughngly beginning, “Why, what th deuc, Ph”—
w he stops, seeng that Ph is counting on his dirty fingers.
“I was just eight,” says Phil, “agreeable to the pari
alculati, when I went with the tinker. I was st on an errand,
and I see him a sitting under a old buildin with a fire all to hmself
wry cofortabl, and he says, ‘Would you like to co alg a
me, my man?’ I says ‘Ye,’ and hm and me and th fire go h
to Crke together. That was April Fool Day. I was abl to
cunt up to ten; and when April Fool Day co round agai, I says
to myself, ‘No, old chap, you’re one and a eight in it.’ Apri Fo
Day after that, I says, ‘Now, old chap, you’re two and a eight in it.’
In course of tim, I co to ten and a eight in it; two ten and a
eght in it. Wh it got so high, it got the upper hand of m; but
this is ho I alays know thre’s a eight in it.”
“Ah;” says Mr George, resuming his breakfast. “And where’s
the tinker?”
“Drink put him in th hopital, guv’nr, and th hspital put
hm—in a glass case, I have herd,” Ph replies mysteriously.
“By that mean you got promotio? Took the bus, Ph?”
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“Ye, comander, I tok th busine. Such as it was. It wasn’t
much of a beat—round Saffro Hill, Hatton Garde, Clrkenwell,
Smffeld, and there—poor neghbourhood, where they use up the
kettle till they’re past mndig. Most of the trampig tinkers used
to come and lodge at our place; that was th best part of my
master’s earnings. But thy didn’t come to me. I warn’t like him.
He could sing ’em a god song. I couldn’t! He could play ’em a
tune o any sort of pot you please, so as it was iro or blk tin. I
nver culd do nthing with a pot but med it or bi it—nver
had a note of music in me. Bedes, I was to ill-lookig, and thr
wves complaind of me.”
“Thy were mighty particular. You would pas muster in a
crod, Phil!” says th troper, with a pleasant smi
“No, guv’nr,” returns Phil, shakig his head. “No, I shouldn’t.
I was pasabl enough when I went with the tinker, though
nthing to boast of then: but what with blowing the fire with my
mouth w I was young, and spileing my complexi, and
sgeig my hair off, and swalring the smoke; and what with
beg nat’rally unfort’nate in the way of runng agait hot mtal,
and markig myself by sich means; and what with having turn-ups
with the tinker as I got older, almt whenver he was too far gone
drik—whic was alt always—my beauty was queer, wery
queer, eve at that tim A to si; what with a doze years in a
dark forge, where the me was given to larkig; and what with
beig scorcd in a accident at a gasworks; and what with beig
blowed out of winder, cas-filg at the firework bus; I am
ugly enough to be made a show on!”
Resignng himself to which condition with a perfetly satisfied
manr, Phil begs the favour of another cup of cffee. Wh
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drinking it, he says:
“It was after th case-filling bl-up, wh I first see you,
commander. You remember?”
“I remember, Phi. You were walking in the sun”
“Crawg, guv’ner, again a wall—”
“True, Phil—shoulderig your way on—”
“In a nightcap!” exclaid Phil, excited.
“In a nightcap—”
“And hobbling with a couple of sticks!” cries Phil, still more
excited.
“With a couple of stiks. Whe—”
“When you stops, you kn,” cries Ph, putting dow hi cup
and saucr, and hastily removing his plate fro his knees, “and
says to m, ‘What, crade! You have be in the wars!’ I didn’t
say much to you, comander, th, for I was tok by surprise, that
a person s strong and healthy and bold as you was, should stop to
speak to such a limping bag of bos as I was. But you says to me,
says you, delivering it out of your chet as hearty as possible, so
that it was like a glass of something hot, ‘What accident have you
mt with? You have be badly hurt. What’s am, old boy?
Cheer up, and te us about it!’ Cheer up! I was ceered already! I
says as muc to you, you says more to me, I says mre to you, you
says more to me, and here I am, coander! Here I am,
commander!” cries Phil, wh has started fro his chair and
unaccountably begun to sidle away. “If a mark’s wanted, or if it
wil iprove the bus, lt the customrs take ai at me They
can’t spoi my beauty. I’m all right. Co on! If they want a man to
box at, let ’em box at m Let ’em knock me wll about th had.
I
do’t mind! If they want a lght-weight, to be throwed for practic,
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Cornal, Devore, or Lanasre, lt ’em thro me. They
won’t hurt me. I have been throd, al sorts of styles, al my life!”
With th unexpeted speech, eergetialy devered, and
accompanied by acti illustrative of th varius exercises
referred to, Phil Squod shoulders hi way round thre sides of th
gallery, and abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt
at him with his head, inteded to express devoti to hs service.
He then begin to clar away the breakfast.
Mr George, after laughing cheerfully, and cappig him on the
shoulder, assts i thes arrangets, and helps to get the
galry into bus order. That do, he take a turn at the
dumbbells; and afterwards weighng himself, and opig that h
getting “too flehy,” engages with great gravity in sotary
broadsword practice. Meanile, Ph has fallen to work at hi
usual tabl, whre he scres and unre, and clean, and files,
and whistles into smal apertures, and blackens himself more and
more, and sees to do and undo everythng that can be done and
undo about a gun.
Master and man are at length disturbed by fotsteps i th
pasage, where they make an unusual sund, detig the arrival
of unusual copany. The steps, advang narer and narer to
the galry, brig ito it a group, at first sght scarcy recnciabl
with any day in the year but the fifth of November.
It consists of a limp and ugly figure carrid in a chair by tw
bearers, and atteded by a lean feale with a fac like a pinched
mask, wh might be expected immediatey to recite th popular
vers, cemorative of the ti when they did cotrive to blow
Old England up alive, but for kepig her lips tightly and defiantly
closd as th chair is put dow. At which point, th figure in it
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gasping, “O Lord! O dear me! I am shaken!” adds, “How de do, my
dear friend, ho de do?” Mr George th descri, in th
prossion, th verabl Mr Smald out for an airing,
attended by his grand-daughter Judy as bodyguard.
“Mr George, my dear friend,” says Grandfathr Smallwed,
removing his right arm from the nk of one his bearers, whom he
has narly throttled cog along, “how de do? You’re surprisd
to see me, my dear friend.”
“I should hardly have be more surprisd to have s your
fried in the city,” returns Mr George.
“I am very seldo out,” pants Mr Smaleed. “I have’t be
ut for many month It’s inveient—and it comes expensive
But I longed so much to see you, my dear Mr George. Ho de do,
sir?”
“I am we enugh,” says Mr George. “I hope you are the same.”
“You can’t be to w, my dear friend.” Mr Smaleed take
m by both hands. “I have brought my grand-daughter Judy. I
couldn’t keep her away. She lged so much to see you.”
“Humph! She bears it calmly!” mutters Mr George
“So we got a hackny cab, and put a chair in it, and just round
the crner they lfted m out of the cab and ito the chair, and
carrid me here, that I might see my dear friend in his ow
tablishment! This,” says Grandfathr Smallwed, alluding to th
bearer, w has be in danger of strangulation, and wh
thdraws adjustig his wndpipe, “is th driver of th cab. He has
nothing extra. It is by agret inuded in his fare. This
person,” the other bearer, “we egaged i the street outsde for a
pint of ber. Which is twpece. Judy, give th pers twpece. I
was nt sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear
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fried, or we needn’t have employed this person.”
Grandfathr Smallwed refers to Phil, with a glance of
considerable terror, and a half-subdued “O Lord! O dear me!” Nor
is his appresion, o th surface of things, withut some reason;
for Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black velvet
cap before, has stopped short wth a gun in his hand, with much of
th air of a dead shot, intent on picking Mr Smallwed off as an
ugly old bird of the crow spe
“Judy, my child,” says Grandfathr Smaleed, “give th
person his twopenc It’s a great deal for what he has do”
The person, who is one of those extraordiary spe, of
human fungus that sprig up spontaneously in th western strets
f London, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a “Mission” for
hding hrse and calling coacs, receive his twpece with
anything but tranport, toss the moy into the air, catches it
overhanded, and retires.
“My dear Mr George,” says Grandfathr Smaleed, “would
you be so kind as to hep to carry me to th fire? I am accustod
to a fire, and I am an old man, and I soo chil. O dear me!”
His clg exclamation is jerked out of th verabl
gentleman by th suddenss with which Mr Squod, like a genie,
catcs hm up, chair and all, and deposits him on th hearthsto
“O Lord!” says Mr Smallwed, panting. “O dear me! O my
stars! My dear fried, your workman is very strong—and very
propt. O Lord, he is very propt! Judy, draw me back a littl
I’m being scorcd in th legs;” which indeed is testified to th
of al prest by the smell of his worsted stockigs
The gentl Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way
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from the fire, and having saken him up as usual, and having
reasd hi oversadowed eye from its black vevet extiguiser,
Mr Smallwed again says, “O dear me! O Lord!” and looking
about, and mtig Mr George’s glanc, agai stretches out both
hands
“My dear friend! So happy in this meetig! And th is your
etablishment? It’s a delightful place. It’s a picture! You never find
that anythng go off here, accidentally; do you, my dear friend?”
adds Grandfathr Smallwed, very ill at ease
“No, no. No fear of that.”
“And your wrkman. He—O dear me!—h never lets anythng
off withut meaning it; doe he, my dear friend?”
“He has nver hurt anybody but himf,” says Mr George,
siling.
“But he mght, you know. He se to have hurt himf a good
deal, and he might hurt somebody el,” th god od gentleman
returns “He mghtn’t man it—or he eve mght. Mr George, wil
you order him to leave his infernal firearm al, and go away?”
Obedit to a nod from the trooper, Ph retires, empty-handed,
to the other end of the galery. Mr Smaleed, reasured, fal to
rubbing his legs
“And you’re dog wel, Mr George?” he says to the trooper,
squarely standing faced about toards him with his broadsword in
his hand. “You are prospering, plase th Pors?”
Mr George aners with a cool nod, addig, “Go on. You have
nt co to say that, I know.”
“You are so sprightly, Mr George,” returns th verabl
grandfather. “You are suc good copany.”
“Ha ha! Go on!” says Mr George
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“My dear friend!—but that sword looks awful glaming and
sharp. It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr
George—Curse him!” says the exct old gentlan apart to
Judy, as th troper takes a step or tw away to lay it aside “He
me money, and might think of paying off all scre i this
murdering plac I wish your brimsto grandmothr was hre,
and he’d shave her head off.”
Mr George, returnig, folds hi arm, and lookig down at the
od man, sliding every moment lowr and lowr in his chair, says
quietly, “Now for it!”
“Ho!” cries Mr Smallwed, rubbing his hands with an artful
chuckl “Yes. No for it. No for what, my dear friend?”
“For a pipe,” says Mr George; wh with great composure sets
is chair in th chiy-crner, takes his pipe fro th grate, fi
t and lights it, and fall to smokig peacefully.
This tends to th discomfiture of Mr Smallwed, wh finds it so
difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that h bemes
xasperated, and secretly claws th air with an impotent
vinditiven expreve of an inten dere to tear and rend the
visage of Mr George As th excellent old gentleman’s nails are
long and leaden, and hs hands lean and veus, and his eye
gre and watery; and, over and above this, as he cotinues, wile
h claws, to slide dow in his chair and to coapse ito a shapel
bundle; he bemes such a ghastly spectacle, eve in th
accustod eye of Judy, that that young virgin pounces at hi
with sothing more than the ardour of affectin, and so sake
m up, and pats and pokes him in divers parts of his body, but
particularly i that part wich th scien of self-defece would
call h wd, that i his grievous distress he utters enforcd
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sounds like a paviur’s ramr.
When Judy has by the mean set him up agai in his chair,
wth a white face and froty nos (but still clawing), she stretc
out her weazen forefinger, and gives Mr George one poke in the
back. The trooper raig his head, se make another poke at her
eteed grandfather; and, having thus brought them together,
stare rigidly at th fire
“Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U—u—u—ugh!” chatters Grandfathr
Smallwed, swallowng his rage “My dear friend!” (sti clawig).
“I te you what,” says Mr George. “If you want to coverse wth
, you must speak out. I am one of the Roughs, and I can’t go
about and about. I haven’t the art to do it. I am not clver enough.
It don’t suit me. Whe you go winding round and round me,” says
th troper, putting his pipe betw h lips again, “damme, if I
don’t fe as if I was being smthred!”
And he inflate his broad chet to its utmost extent, as if to
asure himelf that he is nt smothered yet.
“If you have come to give me a friendly cal,” continues Mr
George, “I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have co to
see wether there’s any property on the premi, look about you;
you are wel If you want to out with sothing, out with it!”
The bloomig Judy, without remving her gaze from the fire,
gives her grandfather one ghostly poke
“You see! It’s her opi, too. And why the devil that young
wman wo’t sit dow like a Christian,” says Mr George, with h
eyes musingly fixed on Judy, “I can’t compred.”
“She keps at my side to attend to me, sir,” says Grandfather
Smallwed. “I am an old man, my dear Mr George, and I need
some attention. I can carry my years; I am not a Brimsto polCharles Dicke
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parrot;” (snarlg and lookig unnsciusly for th cushion;) “but
I need attention, my dear friend.”
“We!” returns the trooper, wheeg his chair to fac the old
man. “No th?”
“My friend i th city, Mr George, has done a littl business
wth a pupil of yours.”
“Has he?” says Mr George. “I am sorry to hear it.”
“Ye, sir.” Grandfathr Smallwed rubs his legs. “He is a fi
young sodir nw, Mr George, by the nam of Carstone Frinds
came forward, and paid it al up, hourable”
“Did thy?” returns Mr George. “Do you think your friend in
th city would like a piece of advi?”
“I thk he would, my dear friend. Fro you.”
“I advis hi, then, to do n more bus i that quarter.
There’s no more to be got by it. The young gentlan, to my
knowledge, is brought to a dead halt.”
“No, no, my dear friend. No, n, Mr George. No, no, no, sir,”
remonstrate Grandfathr Smallwed, cungly rubbing hi
pare lgs. “Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good frieds,
and he i good for his pay, and he is good for the seg prie of
his comission, and he is god for his chance in a lawuit, and h
good for his chan in a wife, and—oh, do you know, Mr George,
I think my friend would consider th young gentleman god for
something yet?” says Grandfathr Smallwed, turning up hi
velvet cap, and scratching his ear like a monkey.
Mr George, w has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on
chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot, as
if h wre not particularly plased with th turn th conversati
had take
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“But to pass fro on subjet to anothr,” resums Mr
Smaleed. “To promote the coversation, as a joker mght say.
To pass, Mr George, fro th ensign to th captain.”
“What are you up to, now?” asked Mr George, pausg with a
fron in stroking th rellection of his moustache “What
captain?”
“Our captai The captai we kn of. Captai Hawdo.”
“O! that’s it, is it?” says Mr George, with a low whistle, as he
ees both grandfather and grand-daughter lookig hard at him;
you are there! We? what about it? Come, I w’t be sothered
any more. Speak!”
“My dear friend,” returns th old man, “I was applied—Judy,
shake me up a littl!—I was applied to, yesterday, about th
captain; and my opinion stil is, that th captain is not dead.”
“Bosh!” obsrves Mr George.
“What was your remark, my dear friend?” inquire th od man
with his hand to his ear.
“Bosh!”
“Ho!” says Grandfathr Smallwed. “Mr George, of my opinion
you can judge for yourself accordig to quetis asked of me, and
th reasons give for asking ’em. Now, what do you think th
lawyer making th inquiries wants?”
“A job,” says Mr George
“Nothing of the kid!”
“Can’t be a lawyer, then,” says Mr George, folding his arms
wth an air of confirmed resoluti
“My dear friend, h is a lawyer and a famous on He wants to
some fragment in Captain Hawdo’s writing. He don’t want to
keep it. He only wants to see it, and compare it with a writing in
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his possession.”
“Well?”
“Well, Mr George. Happenng to remember th advertisement
concernng Captain Hawdo, and any information that could be
given respectig him, he looked it up and came to me—just as you
did, my dear friend. Will you shake hands? So glad you came, that
day. I should have missd formg such a friendship, if you hadn’t
come!”
“We, Mr Smald?” says Mr George again, after going
through th ceremony with some stiffnss.
“I had n suc thing. I have nthing but his signature. Plague
pestilence and famine, battl murder and sudden death upo
,” says the old man, makig a curse out of one of his few
rebran of a prayer, and squeezig up his vevet cap
betw his angry hands, “I have half a million of hs signatures, I
think! But you,” breathlessly revering his mildness of spe, as
Judy readjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head; “You, my dear
Mr George, are likely to have some letter or paper that wuld suit
th purpo Aythng wuld suit th purpo, written in th
hand.”
“Som writig in that hand,” says the trooper, poderig, “may
be, I have.”
“My dearest friend!”
“May be, I have not.”
“Ho!” says Grandfathr Smallwed, cretfallen.
“But if I had bushes of it, I would not sho as much as would
make a cartridge, withut knowg why.”
“Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr George, I have told you
why.”
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“Not enough,” says the troper, shakig his had. “I must kn
more, and approve it.”
“Thn, wi you come to th lawyer? My dear friend, will you
come and se th gentleman?” urges Grandfathr Smald,
pulg out a lan old siver watch, with hands lke the legs of a
skelto. “I tod hi it was probable I mght call upo h,
betwee ten and eve this foren; and it’s now half after ten
“Will you come and see th gentleman, Mr George?”
“Hum!” says he, gravey. “I do’t mnd that. Though why this
should concern you so much, I don’t know.”
“Everything concerns me, that has a chance in it of bringing
anything to light about him Didn’t he take us al in? Didn’t he owe
us immen sum, all round? Cncern me? Who can anythng
about hm concern, more than me? Not, my dear friend,” says
Grandfathr Smallwed, lowring hi to, “that I want
you to
betray anythng. Far fro it. Are you ready to com, my dear
fried?”
“Ay! I’ll come in a moment. I proise nthg, you kn.”
“No, my dear Mr George; no.”
“And you mean to say you’re going to give me a lift to this plac,
wrever it is, withut charging for it?” Mr George inquire,
getting his hat, and thick wash-leather gloves
This pleasantry so tickles Mr Smald, that he laugh long
and lo, before the fire. But even whe he laughs, he glan over
his paralytic shoulder at Mr George, and eagerly watcs hm as
he unlks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the ditant end of
the galry, looks here and there upon the higher shelve, and
ultimately take sothing out with a rustlg of paper, folds it,
and puts it i hs breast. Th Judy pokes Mr Smallwed once,
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and Mr Smallwed pokes Judy once.
“I am ready,” says the troper, coming back. “Phi, you can
carry this old gentleman to his coac, and make nothing of him.”
“O dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!” says Mr Smallwed.
“He’s so very propt! Are you sure you can do it carefuly, my
worthy man?”
Phil makes no reply; but, seizing th chair and its load, sidl
away, tightly hugged by the nw spe Mr Smallwd, and
bolts along th passage as if he had an acceptable commission to
arry the old gentlan to the naret volcano. His shorter trust,
however, termiatig at the cab, he depots him there; and the
fair Judy takes her place beside hi, and th chair ebes th
roof, and Mr George take the vacant place on the box.
Mr George is quite confounded by th spectacle h beds
from tim to tim as he peps into the cab, through the window
bend him; where the grim Judy is always mtionl, and the old
gentleman wth h cap over on eye is always slidig off th seat
ito the straw, and lookig upward at him, out of his other eye,
wth a helpless expression of being jolted in th back.
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Chapter 27
More Old Soldiers Than One
M
r George has not far to ride with folded arm upon the
box, for th destination is Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Wh
th driver stops his horses, Mr George alights, and
lookig in at the window, says:
“What, Mr Tulkinghrn’s your man, is he?”
“Yes, my dear friend. Do you kn him, Mr George?”
“Why, I have heard of him—s him too, I think. But I do’t
know him, and he do’t know me”
There ensues the carryig of Mr Smaleed upstairs; wh is
do to perfection with the trooper’s help. He is borne into Mr
Tulkighorn’s great room, and depoted on the Turkey rug before
the fire. Mr Tulkighorn is not within at the pret mot, but
wll be back directly. Th occupant of th pew in th hal, having
said thus much, stirs th fire, and leave th triumvirate to warm
themsves
Mr George is mightily curius in respect of th ro. He looks
up at th painted ceiling, looks round at th od law-boks,
conteplate th portraits of th great clients, reads alud th
names on th boxes.
“‘Sir Leicester Dedlok, Barot,’” Mr George reads
thughtfuly. “Ha! ‘Manr of Chesney Wold.’ Humph!” Mr George
stands lookig at th boxes a long while—as if thy were
picture—and comes back to th fire repeating, “Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, and Manr of Chy Wold, hey?”
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“Worth a mint of mony, Mr George!” whispers Grandfathr
Smallwed, rubbig his legs “Porfully rich!”
“Wh do you mean? This old gentleman, or th Barot?”
“This gentleman, this gentleman”
“So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I’ll hold a wager.
Not bad quarters, either,” says Mr George, lookig round again
“See the strog box, yoder!”
This reply is cut short by Mr Tulkinghrn’s arrival. Thre is no
change in him, of course. Rustily dressed, wth his spetacles in
hand, and the very cas worn threadbare. In manr, cose and
dry. In voice, husky and low In face, watcful bed a bld;
habitually not uncensorious and conteptuous perhaps. Th
peerage may have warmr worsippers and faithfuller believers
than Mr Tulkinghrn, after al, if everythng were known.
“Good morning, Mr Smaleed, good morng!” he says as he
c in “You have brought the serjeant, I se Sit do,
serjeant.”
A Mr Tulkighorn take off his gloves and puts them i hi
hat, he looks with half-cld eyes across the room to where the
troper stands, and says within himself percance, “You’ll do, my
fried!”
“Sit dow, serjeant,” he repeats as he comes to his tabl, wh
is set on on side of th fire, and takes his easy chair. “Cod and
raw this mornig, cod and raw!” Mr Tulkighorn warms before
the bars, alternately, the pal and knuckl of hi hands, and
looks (from bed that bld which is always dow) at th trio
sitting in a littl semicirc before him.
“No, I can fe what I am about!” (as perhaps h can i tw
nses) “Mr Smallwed.” Th old gentleman is ny shake up
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by Judy, to bear his part in th conversati. “You have brought
our good frid the serjeant, I see.”
“Ye, sir,” returns Mr Smald, very servil to the lawyer’s
alth and influence.
“And what do the serjeant say about th bus?”
“Mr George,” says Grandfathr Smallwed, with a treulus
ave of his shrivelled hand, “ths is th gentleman, sir.”
Mr George salutes the gentlan; but otherwis sits bot
upright and profoundly silent—very forward in hi chair, as if th
full complement of regulati appedage for a fid day hung
about him
Mr Tulkinghrn prods: “Well, George?—I belve your
name is George?”
“It is so, sir.”
“What do you say, George?”
“I ask your pardo, sir,” returns th troper, “but I should wish
to know what you say?”
“Do you mean in point of reard?”
“I mean in point of everythg, sir.”
This is so very trying to Mr Smald’s temper, that he
suddey breaks out with “You’re a britone beast!” and as
suddenly asks pardo of Mr Tulkinghrn; excusing hif for this
sp of the tongue, by saying to Judy, “I was thinkig of your
grandmothr, my dear.”
“I supposd, serjeant,” Mr Tulkighrn resumes, as he leans on
side of his chair and crosses his legs, “that Mr Smallwed
might have sufficiently explained th matter. It lie in th smallest
compass, hover. You served under Captain Hawdo at o
time, and were hi attedant in illness, and rendered hm many
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littl services, and were rathr in his confidece, I am tod. That i
so, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, that is so,” says Mr George, with military brevity.
“Threfore you may happen to have in your possesion
something—anythng, no matter what—accounts, instructions,
orders, a letter, anythng—in Captain Hawdo’s writing. I wish to
mpare hs writing wth some that I have. If you can give me th
opportunity, you shal be rewarded for your troubl Three, four,
five, guineas, you would consider handsom, I dare say.”
“Noble, my dear friend!” cries Grandfathr Smald,
screing up his eye
“If not, say ho much more, in your conence as a soldier, you
can demand. Thre is no ned for you to part wth th writing
against your inclation—thugh I should prefer to have it.”
Mr George sts squared in exactly the sam attitude, looks at
th ground, looks at th painted ceiling, and says never a wrd.
The irasble Mr Smaleed scratches the air.
“Th queti is,” says Mr Tulkighrn in his methdical,
subdued, uninterestig way, “first, whthr you have any of
Captain Hawdo’s writing?”
“First, whthr I have any of Captain Hawdo’s writing, sir,”
repeats Mr George
“Secdly, what will satisfy you for th troubl of producg it.”
“Secdly, what will satisfy me for th troubl of producg it,
sir,” repeats Mr George
“Thrdly, you can judge for yourself whthr it is at all like
that,” says Mr Tulkinghrn, suddenly handing him some shets of
written paper tied together.
“Whethr it is at all like that, sir. Just so,” repeats Mr George
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All thre repetitis Mr George prounces in a mechanical
manner, lookig straight at Mr Tulkinghrn; nor doe he so much
as glance at th affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has bee
given to him for his inpection (though he sti holds it i hi
hand), but cotiues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubld
meditati
“Well?” says Mr Tulkighrn “What do you say?”
“Well, sir,” replies Mr George, ring eret and looking
immense, “I would rathr, if you’ll excuse me, have nothg to do
with this”
Mr Tulkinghrn, outwardly quite undisturbed, deands “Why
not?”
“Why, sir,” returns the troper. “Except on mtary
compulsion, I am not a man of busss. Among civiians I am
at thy call in Scotland a ne’er-do-w I have no had for
papers, sir. I can stand any fire better than a fire of cro
questions I mtid to Mr Smaleed, only an hour or so ago,
that wh I come into things of this kind I fe as if I was beg
smothred. And th is my sensation,” says Mr George, looking
around upo the copany, “at the pret mot.”
With that, he take three stride forward, to replace the papers
on the lawyer’s table, and three stride backward to reum his
formr station: whre he stands perfetly upright, now looking at
the ground, and now at the paited ceg, with his hands bend
hi as if to prevent himelf from acptig any other doumt
watever.
Under this provoation, Mr Smallwed’s favourite adjective of
diparaget is so close to his tongue, that he begins the word
“my dear friend” with th monosylable “Brim;” thus converting
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th possessive proun into Brimmy, and appearig to have an
impediment in his spee Once past this difficulty, hver, h
xhorts hi dear fried in the tenderet manner not to be rash, but
to do what so emt a gentlan require, and to do it with a
god grace: confidet that it must be unbjectionabl as w as
profitable. Mr Tulkinghrn merely utters an occasial sentece,
as “You are the best judge of your ow interest, serjeant.”
“Take care you do no harm by this.”
“Please yourself, please yourself.”
“If you kn wat you mean, that’s quite enough.” These he
utters with an appearan of perfect indifference, as he looks over
th papers on his tabl, and prepare to write a letter.
Mr George looks distrustfully fro th painted ceig to th
ground, from the ground to Mr Smallweed, from Mr Smalld to
Mr Tulkighorn, and from Mr Tulkighorn to the paited ceg
again; often in hi perplexity changing th leg on which he rests.
“I do assure you, sir,” says Mr George, “nt to say it offensivey,
that betw you and Mr Smallwed here, I really am beig
sothered fifty tim over. I realy am, sir. I am not a match for
you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask, why you want to see th
captain’s hand, in th case that I could fid any specimen of it?”
Mr Tulkinghrn quietly shakes his head. “No If you were a
man of busss, serjeant, you would not need to be informd that
there are cfidetial reasons, very harm in themsves, for
many such wants, in th profesion to which I belong. But if you
are afraid of dog any injury to Captain Hawdo, you may set
your mind at rest about that.”
“Ay! he is dead, sir.”
“Is he?” Mr Tulkighorn quietly sits down to write
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“We, sir,” says the trooper, lookig ito hi hat after another
disconcerted paus; “I am sorry not to have given you more
satisfacti If it would be any satisfacti to any o, that I should
be confirmed in my judgment that I would rathr have nothing to
do with this, by a fried of mi, who has a better head for
business than I have, and wh is an old soldier, I am wiing to
nsult with him. I—I really am so completely smothred myself at
pret,” says Mr George, passing his hand hopey acro h
brow, “that I do’t know but what it might be a satisfaction to me”
Mr Smallwed, hearig that this authrity is an old soldier, so
strogly iulates the expediency of the trooper’s takig coun
with him, and particularly informig him of its beg a question of
five guinas or mre, that Mr George engages to go and se him
Mr Tulkighorn says nthing either way.
“I’ll conult my friend, th, by your leave, sir,” says th
trooper, “and I’ll take the liberty of lookig in agai with a final
answer in th course of th day. Mr Smald, if you wish to be
arried downstairs—”
“In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let
me speak half a word with this gentleman, in private?”
“Certainly, sir. Don’t hurry yourself on my account.” Th
trooper retires to a ditant part of the room, and resum hi
curius inspection of th boxes; strong and othrwise.
“If I was’t as weak as a Brimsto Baby, sr,” wispers
Grandfathr Smallwed, drawig th lawyer dow to his level by
th lappel of his coat, and flashing some half-quenched gre fire
out of hi angry eye, “I’d tear the writig away from him He’s got
it buttod in hi breast. I saw him put it thre Judy saw hm put
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stick shop, and say you saw him put it thre!”
This vement conjuration th old gentleman accopanies
th such a thrust at his grand-daughter, that it is to much for h
strength, and h slips away out of his chair, drawig Mr
Tulkinghrn with him, until he is arrested by Judy, and w
shaken.
“Violen w not do for me, my friend,” Mr Tulkinghrn th
remarks coolly.
“No, n, I kn, I kn, sir. But it’s chafig and galg—it’s—
it’s worse than your smattering chattering Magpi of a
grandmther,” to the iperturbable Judy, who only looks at the
fire, “to know he has got what’s wanted, and won’t give it up. He,
nt to give it up! He! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind.
t the mot he has ony his own way for a little while. I have hi
peridically in a vice. I’ll twist him, sir. I’ll scre him, sir. If he
won’t do it with a good grac, I’ll make hi do it with a bad one,
sir!—Now, my dear Mr George,” says Grandfathr Smallwed,
winkig at the lawyer hideously, as he releas him, “I am ready
for your kind assistance, my excelt friend!”
Mr Tulkighorn, with so shadowy sign of amuset
manifestig itself through his self-possession, stands on th
hearth-rug with his back to the fire, watchig the diappearan of
Mr Smald, and acknowledgig the trooper’s parting salute
wth on slight nod.
It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentlan, Mr George
finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him upstairs; for, wh he i
replaced i h conveyance, he is so loquacious on th subjet of
th guineas, and retais such an affectionate hod of hi button—
having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat ope, and rob
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hi—that s degree of force is nary on the trooper’s part
to effect a separati. It is accomplished at last, and he prods
alon in quet of his adviser.
By th cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (thre, not wthut
a glance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would se to be
something in hi way), and by Blackfriars bridge, and Blackfriars
road, Mr George sedately marcs to a stret of littl shops lying
somewre in that ganglion of roads fro Kent and Surrey, and of
strets fro th bridges of London, centring in th far-famed
Elephant who has lot his castl formed of a thousand four-horse
aches, to a stronger iron mter than he, ready to chop him
to m-mat any day he dares To on of the little shops in this
stret, wich is a musician’s shop, having a fe fiddles in th
ndow, and some Pan’s pipes and a tambouri, and a triangle,
and certain egated scraps of music, Mr George directs hi
massive tread. Ad halting at a fe paces fro it, as he see a
soldierly-lkig woman, with her outer skirts tucked up, come
forth with a smal woode tub, and in that tub c a
wisking and a splashing on th margi of th pavement, Mr
George says to himf “She’s as usual, wasg gree I never
saw her, except upo a baggage-waggon, wh she was’t washing
greens!”
Th subjet of this reflti i at all evets so occupied in
ashing gres at pret, that she reais unsuspicious of Mr
George’s approac; until, lfting up hersef and her tub together,
when sh has poured the water off into the gutter, sh finds him
standing near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.
“George, I never see you, but I wi you was a hundred m
away!”
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The trooper, without remarkig on this wel, follows ito
th musical istrument shop, whre th lady plac her tub of
gree upon the cunter, and having shake hands with him, rests
her arm upo it.
“I nver,” se says, “George, coder Matthew Bagnet safe a
minute w you’re near hi You are that restles and that
roving—”
“Yes! I kn I am, Mrs Bagnet. I kn I am.”
“You know you are!” says Mrs Bagnet. “What’s the use of that?
Why are you?”
“The nature of the anal, I suppo,” returns the trooper
good-humouredly.
“Ah!” cries Mrs Bagnt, something shriy, “but wat
satisfaction wil the nature of the anal be to me, when the
animal shall have tempted my Mat away fro th musical
business to New Zealand or Australey?”
Mrs Bagnt is not at all an ill-looking wan. Rathr largebod, a lttle cars in the grai, and freckled by the sun and
wind whic have tanned her hair upon the forehead; but healthy,
wholese, and bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-facd
wan, of from forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and s
onomally dred (though substantially), that the only artic
f ornament of wich she stands posssed appears to be her
wdding-ring; around which her finger has gron to be so large
since it was put o, that it will never come off again until it shall
mingl with Mrs Bagnet’s dust.
“Mrs Bagnet,” says the troper, “I am on my paro with you.
Mat wil get n harm from m You may trust me so far.”
“We, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettlig,”
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Mrs Bagnet rejoin “Ah, George, George! If you had only settled
down, and married Joe Pouch’s widow when he did in North
America, she’d have cobed your hair for you.”
“It was a can for me, crtaiy,” returns the trooper, halflaughngly, half-sriously, “but I shall never settl dow into a
respectable man now Jo Pouc’s wdow might have done me
good—there was sthing in her—and sthing of her—but I
culdn’t make up my mind to it. If I had had the luck to mt with
such a wife as Mat found!”
Mrs Bagnet, who se in a virtuous way to be under little
reserve with a good sort of fellw, but to be another good srt of
fellow hersf for that matter, receive this compliment by flicking
Mr George i the fac with a head of gree, and takig her tub
ito the little room bend the shop.
“Why, Quebe, my poppet,” says George, folg, o
vitation, ito that apartmet. “And little Malta, too! Co and
ki your Bluffy!”
Thes young ladi—not suppod to have be actually
christed by th names applied to th, thugh always so called
i the famy, from the plac of their birth in barracks—are
respectivey eployed o thre-legged stos: th younger (s
five or six years od), in learning her letters out of a penny prir:
th eder (eight or nine perhaps), in teaching her, and sewng with
great assiduity. Both hail Mr George with acclamations as an old
fried, and after so kig and rompig plant their stools
besde hi
“And ho’s young Wooch?” says Mr George
“Ah! There now!” cri Mrs Bagnet, turnig about from her
saucpans (for she is cokig dinr), with a bright flus on hr
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fac Would you beve it? Got an engagemt at the Theayter,
with his father, to play the fife in a mitary pi”
“Well done, my gods!” cries Mr George, slapping his thigh
“I beeve you!” says Mrs Bagnet. “He’s a Brito That’s wat
Wooich is. A Brito.”
“And Mat bls away at his bassoon, and you’re respectable
civilian on and all,” says Mr George. Famly people. Cdre
groing up. Mat’s old mothr in Scotland, and your od fathr
sere els, crrepoded with; and helped a lttle; and—w,
wll! To be sure, I don’t kn why I shouldn’t be wished a
hundred mile away, for I have not much to do with all this!”
Mr George is beg thoughtful; sitting before the fire i the
whitewashed room, whic has a sanded floor, and a barrack smell,
and contains nothg superfluous, and has not a visibl speck of
dirt or dust in it, fro th faces of Quebe and Malta to th bright
tin pots and panikins upo th drer-sheves;—Mr George i
beg thoughtful, sitting here whil Mrs Bagnet i busy, when
Mr Bagnt and young Wooch opportuny come ho Mr
Bagnet i an ex-artillery man, tall and upright, with shaggy
eyebro, and whiskers like th fibre of a cocoa-nut, not a hair
upo his head, and a torrid complxion. His voice, short, deep, and
resonant, is not at al unlike th tos of th instrument to which
h is devoted. Indeed thre may be gerally observed i hm an
unbending, unyiding, brass-bound air, as if he wre hf th
basoon of the human orchtra. Young Woolwic i the type and
model of a young drummer.
Both father and so salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in
due seas, that he has come to advise with Mr Bagnet, Mr Bagnet
hspitably decare that he wi hear of no busine until after
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dinnr; and that his friend shall not partake of his coun, wthut
first partakig of bod pork and gree The trooper yiedig to
this ivitatio, he and Mr Bagnet, nt to embarrass the doti
preparati, go forth to take a turn up and down the little street,
w they promenade with masured tread and folded arm, as if
it were a rampart.
“George,” says Mr Bagnet. “You kn me. It’s my old girl that
advises. She has th head. But I never own to it before hr.
Disciplin must be maintained. Wait till th gre is off her mid.
Then, we’ll cult. Whatever the old girl says, do—do it!”
“I inted to, Mat,” replies the othr. “I would sooer take her
opinion than that of a college.”
“Cge,” returns Mr Bagnt, in shrt setes, basso-like
“What cege culd you lave—i another quarter of the world—
with nothing but a grey clak and an umbrea—to make its way
h to Europe? Th old girl would do it tomorro Did it once!”
“You are right,” says Mr George
“What coege,” pursues Bagnet, “could you set up in lfe—with
two pe’orth of white li—a pe’orth of fullr’s earth—
ha’porth of sand—and the rest of the change out of sixpe in
y? That’s what the old girl started on. In the pret
business.”
“I am rejoiced to hear it’s thrivig, Mat.”
“Th od girl,” says Mr Bagnt, acquiescing, “save Has a
stoking somewre With money in it. I never saw it. But I know
she’s got it. Wait ti th gres is off her mind. Th she’l set you
up.”
“She is a treasure!” excai Mr George
“She’s mre. But I nver own to it before her. Displ must
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be maitaid. It was the old girl that brought out my musal
abiities. I should have be in th artiry now, but for th old
girl. Six years I hammred at the fiddl Ten at the flute. The old
girl said it wouldn’t do; intention god, but want of flxibility; try
the bas The old girl borrowed a basoon from the
bandmaster of th Rifl Regiment. I practised in th treche. Got
on, got another, got a living by it!”
George remarks that she looks as fre as a ro, and as sound
as an appl
“The old girl,” says Mr Bagnet in reply, “i a thoroughly fin
man. Cnsequently, she i like a throughly fi day. Gets fir
as sh gets on I nver saw the old girl’s equal But I never own to
it before her. Discipline must be maitaid!”
Procedig to cvers on indifferent matters, they walk up
and do the little street, keepig step and ti, unti sumoned
by Quebe and Malta to do justice to th pork and gres; over
wich Mrs Bagnt, like a mitary chaplain, says a short grace. In
the ditribution of these ctibl, as in every other household
duty, Mrs Bagnet develps an exact syste; sitting with every di
before her; allotting to every portion of pork its own portion of potlquor, gree, potatoes, and eve mustard; and serving it out
complete. Having likewise served out th ber fro a can, and
thus supplied th mess with all thgs necesary, Mrs Bagnt
prods to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state
The kit of the m, if the table furniture may be s deated,
is chiefly composd of utesils of horn and tin, that have done duty
in several parts of th world. Young Wooich’s knife, in
particular, wich i of th oyster kind, with th additial feature
f a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks th
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appetite of that young musician, is mentioned as having go in
varius hands th complete round of foreign service.
Th dinnr done, Mrs Bagnt, assisted by th younger branche
(w polish thr own cups and platters, knive and forks), makes
all th dinner garniture shi as brightly as before, and puts it all
away; first swpig the hearth to the end that Mr Bagnet and the
visitor may not be retarded in th smkig of thr pipes. Th
used cares ivolve much pattening and counter-pattening in
th back yard, and considerable us of a pai, which i finally so
happy as to assist in th ablutis of Mrs Bagnt hrsf. That od
girl reappearig by-and-by, quite fresh, and stting do to her
needlrk, then and only then—the greens beg ony then to be
dered as entirely off her mid—Mr Bagnt requests the
troper to state his case.
This Mr George doe with great discretion; appearing to
addres hielf to Mr Bagnet, but havig an eye soy on the old
girl all th time, as Bagnt has hif. She, equally discret,
bus hersef with her nedlwork. The cas fully stated, Mr
Bagnt resorts to his standard artifice for th maintean of
discipline.
“That’s th wh of it, is it, George?” says he
“That’s the whole of it.”
“You act accordig to my opinion?”
“I shall be guided,” replies George, “entirey by it.”
“Old girl,” says Mr Bagnet, “give him my opiion You kn it.
Tell him what it is.”
It i, that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too
deep for him, and cannot be too careful of iterferenc with
matters he do nt understand; that the plai rule is to do
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nthing in the dark, to be a party to nthing under-handed or
mysterious, and never to put his fot whre he cannot see th
ground. This, in effect, is Mr Bagnt’s opiion, as delivered
through the old girl; and it so relve Mr George’s mid, by
confirming h own opiion and banishing his doubts, that he
mpos hif to smke anothr pipe on that exceptional
occason, and to have a talk over old tim with the whole Bagnet
famy, acrdig to their various range of experie
Through th means it comes to pass that Mr George doe not
agai ris to hi full height in that parlour until the tim is
drawing on wh th bassoo and fife are expected by a British
publ at the theatre; and as it take tim eve then for Mr George,
in hi domestic character of Bluffy, to take leave to Quebe and
Malta, and insinuate a sposorial shilling into th pocket of hi
godson, wth felicitations o his success in life, it is dark wh Mr
George again turns hi face toards Lin’s Inn Fids.
“A famy home,” he rumiates, as he marches alg, “however
small it is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it’s well I never
made that evolutio of matrimony. I shouldn’t have been fit for it.
I’m such a vagabod still, eve at my pret time of life, that I
culdn’t hold to the gallry a mth together, if it was a regular
pursuit, or if I didn’t camp thre, gypsy fashion. Cme! I disgrace
nobody and cumber nobody: that’s something. I have not done
that, for many a long year!”
So he whistles it off, and marcs on
Arrived in Lincol’s Inn Fields, and mounting Mr
Tulkighorn’s stair, he finds the outer door closed, and the
cambers shut; but the trooper not knowing muc about outer
doors, and th staircase beg dark besides, he is yet fumbling and
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gropig about, hopig to diover a be handl or to open the door
for himf, when Mr Tulkighorn co up the stairs (quietly, of
course), and angrily asks:
“Wh is that? What are you doing thre?”
“I ask your pardo, sir. It’s George. The serjeant.”
“And couldn’t George, the serjeant, see that my door was
locked?”
“Why, no, sir, I couldn’t. At any rate, I didn’t,” says the troper,
rather nettled.
“Have you canged your mind? or are you in the sam mnd?”
Mr Tulkighorn deands But he knows well enough at a glan
“In the same mind, sir.”
“I thught so. That’s sufficient. You can go. So, you are th
an,” says Mr Tulkighorn, opeg his door with the key, “i
hiding-place Mr Gridley was found?”
“Yes, I am th man,” says th troper, stopping tw or thre
stairs dow. “What then, sir?”
“What then? I do’t like your asate You should not have
s the ide of my door this mrnig, if I had thought of your
beg that man Gridly? A threateg, murderous, dangerous
fellow”
With thes words, spoke i an unusually high tone for hi, the
lawyer goes ito hi rooms, and shuts the door with a thundering
noise.
Mr George take this dial in great dudgen; the greater,
becaus a clerk cong up th stairs has heard th last words of
al, and evidetly appl them to him “A pretty caracter to
bear,” the trooper growls with a hasty oath, as he stride upstairs.
“A threatenig, murderous, dangerous fellow!” and lookig up, he
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sees the clerk lookig down at hi, and markig hi as he pas
a lamp. This so intensifies his dudge, that for five minute he is
in an ill-humour. But he whistles that off, like th rest of it; and
marches home to the Shooting Galry.
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Chapter 28
The Ironmaster
S
ir Leiter Dedlk has got the better for the tim beg,
of the famy gout; and is once more, in a literal no l than
i a figurative pot of vie, upon his legs. He is at hi
place in Lincolnsre; but the waters are out agai on the lowlying grounds, and th cold and damp steal into Chy Wold,
thugh well defended, and eke into Sir Leicester’s bos. Th
blazig fires of faggot and cal—Dedlk timber and antediuvian
forest—that blaze upon the broad wide hearths, and wink i the
twilght on the frownig woods, sul to see how trees are
sacrifid, do not excude th eny. Th hot water pipes that
trai themsves al over the house, the cusd doors and
wndows, and th scres and curtains, fail to supply th fires’
deficiencies, and to satisfy Sir Leicester’s need. Hence th
fashionabl inteigece prolaims on morning to th listeg
earth, that Lady Dedlock is expeted shortly to return to town for
a few weeks
It is a mlancholy truth, that eve great me have their poor
relations. Inded, great me have often more than their fair share
of poor relations; inasuc as very red blood of the superior
quality, like inferir bld unlawfully shed, wi cry alud, and
will
be hard. Sir Leicester’s cousins, in th remotest degre, are so
many Murders, in th respect that thy “will out.” Among w
there are cusi who are s poor, that one mght alt dare to
think it would have be the happir for them never to have be
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plated links upo th Dedlock chain of gold, but to have bee
made of com iro at first, and done base service.
Servic, however (with a few lited resrvatins: gente but
nt profitabl), they may not do, beg of the Dedlk dignity. So
thy visit thr richer cousins, and get into debt w thy can,
and live but shabbily wh thy can’t, and fid—th women no
husbands, and th men no wives—and ride in borrod carriage,
and sit at feasts that are never of thr own making, and so go
through hgh life. Th rich famly sum has be divided by so
many figures, and they are the sthing over that nbody knows
what to do with.
Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock’s side of th queti, and
of his way of thinking, would appear to be his cous more or les
From my Lord Boodl, through the Duke of Foodl, do to
Noodle, Sir Leicester, like a glrious spider, stretcs his threads
f relatiship. But while he is statey in th cousship of th
Everybodys, he is a kind and gerous man, according to h
dignified way, in th cousship of th Nobodys; and at th pret
time, in despite of th damp, he stays out th visit of several such
cousins at Chy Wold, with th contany of a martyr.
Of the, foret in the first rank stands Voluma Dedlock, a
young lady (of sixty), who is doubly highly related; having the
honour to be a poor relation, by the mther’s sde, to another great
family. Miss Voluma, displaying in early life a pretty talent for
cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to
the guitar in the Spanh tongue, and propoundig Fre
nundrums in country houses, passed th twty years of hr
existece betw twty and forty in a sufficiently agreabl
anr. Lapsg then out of date, and beg codered to bore
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mankind by her vocal performances in th Spani language, she
retired to Bath; where she live slenderly on an anual present
fro Sir Leicester, and wce she makes oasional
resurrections in th country houses of her cousins. She has an
extensive acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen
with thin lgs and nanke trousers, and is of high standig in
that dreary city. But she is a little dreaded eere, i
nseque of an idiscret profusion in th arti of rouge, and
persistecy in an obsolete pearl necklace lke a rosary of lttl
bird’s-eggs.
In any country in a wh state, Voluma would be a clear
case for th pension list. Efforts have be made to get her on it,
and wh Wiiam Buffy came in it was fuly expected that her
name would be put dow for a couple of hundred a-year. But
Willam Buffy someh discovered, contrary to all expectation,
that thes were not tim when it culd be do; and this was the
first clear indicati Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him,
that th country was going to pieces.
Thre is likewise th Honourable Bob Stables, w can make
warm mashe with th skill of a veteriary surgen, and is a better
shot than most gamekeepers. He has bee for some time
particularly desirous to serve his country in a post of god
eumts, unaccompanied by any troubl or responsibiity. In a
wel regulated body potic, this natural dere on the part of a
spirited young gentleman so highly coted, wuld be spediy
regnised; but someh Willam Buffy found wh he came in,
that thes were not tim in whic he could manage that little
matter, eithr; and this was th second idicati Sir Leicester
Dedlock had cveyed to him, that the country was going to
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pieces.
The ret of the cousi are ladi and getlan of various ages
and capacities; th major part, amiabl and sensible, and likely to
have do well enough in lfe if they could have overco their
cousinship; as it is, thy are almost all a littl worsted by it, and
lounge in purpos and listless paths, and see to be quite as
much at a los ho to dispose of thlve, as anybody el can
be ho to dispose of th
In this society, and whre not, my Lady Dedlk reigns
supre Beautiful, elgant, accomplished, and powrful i hr
lttle world (for the world of fas do not stretch
all the way
from po to po), her influene i Sir Leicter’s house, however
haughty and indifferent her manr, is greatly to iprove it and
refi it. Th couss, eve th oder couss w wre
paralysd when Sir Leiter married her, do her feudal homage;
and th Honourable Bob Stables daily repeats to some cho
pers, betw breakfast and lun, his favourite original
remark that she is th best-grod woman in th wh stud.
Suc the guests in the lg drawg-room at Chy Wold this
dial night, when the step on the Ghost’s Walk (inaudibl here,
hver), might be th step of a deceased cous shut out in th
ld. It is near bedti Bedro fires blaze brightly all over th
use, raising ghts of grim furniture on wal and ceig.
Bedro candlesticks bristl on th distant tabl by th door, and
cousins yaw on ottomans. Cousins at th piano, couss at th
soda-water tray, couss ring fro th card-table, cousins
gathered round the fire. Standig on one sde of hi own peular
fire (for thre are tw), Sir Leicester. On th opposte side of th
broad hearth, my Lady at her table. Voluma, as one of the more
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privileged cousins, in a luxurius chair betw th. Sir
Leter glang, with magnfient diplasure, at the rouge and
th pearl necklace.
“I occasionally meet on my staircas hre,” drawls Volumia,
w thughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a
lg eveg of a very deultory talk, “o of the prettiet girls, I
thk, that I ever saw in my life.”
“A protegée of my Lady’s,” observes Sir Leicester.
“I thught so. I felt sure that some unmmon eye must have
picked that girl out. She really is a marve. A dolly sort of beauty
perhaps,” says Miss Volumia, rerving her own sort, “but in its
ay, perfet; such bl I never saw!”
Sir Leicester with his magnificent glance of displeasure at th
rouge, appears to say so to
“Indeed,” rearks my Lady, languidly, “if there is any
un eye in th case, it is Mrs Rouncew’s, and not mine
Rosa is her discovery.”
“Your maid, I suppoe?”
“No. My anythng; pet—secretary—messenger—I don’t know
what.”
“You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a
flower, or a bird, or a piture, or a poodl—no, not a poodl,
thugh—or anythng el that was equally pretty?” says Volumnia,
sympathng. “Ye, ho charmng now! and h wll that
delightful old soul Mrs Rouncew is lookig. She must be an
immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome!—She is th
dearet friend I have, positivey!”
Sir Leiter fee it to be right and fitting that the housekeper
of Chesny Wold should be a remarkabl person. Apart from that,
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he has a real regard for Mrs Rouncwel, and lke to hear her
praised. So he says, “You are right, Volumia;” which Volumnia i
extremely glad to hear.
“She has n daughter of her own, has she?”
“Mrs Rouncewll? No, Voluma. She has a son. Indeed, she
had two.”
My Lady, wh chronic malady of boredom has bee sadly
aggravated by Voluma this eveg, glanc weariy towards the
candlesticks and heave a noiss sigh
“And it is a remarkable exampl of th confusion into wich th
present age has falen; of the oblterati of landmarks, th
peg of fldgates, and th uproting of distinction,” says Sir
Leicester with statey gl; “that I have be informd, by Mr
Tulkighorn, that Mrs Rouncwel’s so has be invited to go
into Parliament.”
Miss Volumnia utters a littl sharp scream.
“Yes, indeed,” repeats Sir Leester. “Into Parliament.”
“I never hard of such a thg! Good gracious, what is th
man?” exclaims Volumnia.
“He i caled, I beeve—an—Iroaster.” Sir Leter says it
sowly, and with gravity and doubt, as not beg sure but that he is
calld a Lead-mistress; or that th right word may be some othr
wrd expressive of some othr relatiship to some othr metal.
Voluma utters another little scream
“He has declined th propoal, if my information fro Mr
Tulkinghrn be correct, as I have no doubt it is, Mr Tulkinghrn
beg always correct and exact; still that doe not,” says Sir
Leiter, “that do nt le the analy; whic is fraught with
strange consideration—startling considerations, as it appears to
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me.”
Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir
Leiter potely performs the grand tour of the drawg-room,
brings one, and lights it at my Lady’s shaded lamp.
“I must beg you, my Lady,” he says wile doig so, “to remain a
fe moments; for this individual of wh I speak, arrived this
evenig shortly before dier, and requested—i a very beg
nte;” Sir Leiter, with his habitual regard to truth, dw upon
it; “I am bound to say, in a very beming and we expred
note—th favour of a short interview with yourself and myself, on
the subjet of this young girl. A it appeared that he wisd to
depart tonight, I repld that we would se him before retiring.”
Miss Volumnia wth a third littl scream takes flight, wishing
her hosts—O Lud!—well rid of the—what is it?—Ironmaster!
Th othr cousins soo dispers, to th last cous thre Sir
Leicester rings th be. “Make my compliments to Mr
Rouncwell, in the housekeper’s apartmets, and say I can
receive him now”
My Lady, wh has heard al this with slight attention outwardly,
looks toards Mr Rouncewll as he comes in. He is a littl over
fifty perhaps, of a god figure, like his mothr; and has a car
voice, a broad foread fro which his dark hair has retired, and a
shred, thugh ope face. He is a responsibl-lookig gentleman
dred in black, portly eugh, but strong and active. Has a
perfectly natural and easy air, and is nt in the least embarrasd
by th great prece into which he comes.
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlk, as I have already apolgised
for intrudig on you, I cant do better than be very brif. I thank
you, Sir Leicester.”
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The head of the Dedlocks has mtioned towards a sofa betwee
mself and my Lady. Mr Rouncew quietly takes his seat thre
“In thes busy tim, when so many great undertakigs are in
progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many
places, that we are alays on the flight.”
Sir Leicester is contet enugh that th iromaster should fe
that there is no hurry there; thre, in that ant house, rooted i
that quiet park, where the ivy and the mo have had tim to
mature, and th gnarled and warted el, and th umbrageus
aks, stand deep i th fern and leave of a hundred years; and
were the sundial on the terrac has dumbly rerded for
centuries that time, wich was as much th property of every
Dedlock—while h lasted—as th house and lands. Sir Leicester
sits dow in an easy chair, opposing his repose and that of
Cy Wold to th restless flights of iromasters.
“Lady Dedlock has be so kind,” prods Mr Rouncew,
wth a respectful glance and a bow that way, “as to place near hr
a young beauty of th name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen i
ve with Roa; and has asked my cnsent to hi proposig
marriage to her, and to their beg engaged if s will take
m—which I suppose she wi. I have never se Rosa until today,
but I have some confidece in my son’s god sen—eve in love. I
find her what he represts her, to the bet of my judgmt; and
my mothr speaks of her with great commendation.”
“She in al repects deserves it,” says my Lady.
“I am happy, Lady Dedlk, that you say so; and I need not
ct on the value to me of your kind opin of her.”
“That,” observe Sir Leicester, with unpeakabl grandeur; for
he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib; “must be quite
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unnecessary.”
“Quite uncessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young
man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my
son must make h; and hs being marrid at pret is out of th
question. But suppog I gave my cnset to hi egaging hif
to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl wil engage hersef to hi, I
think it a piece of candour to say at once—I am sure, Sir Leicester
and Lady Dedlk, you wi understand and excuse me—I should
make it a condition that she did not reai at Chy Wold.
Therefore, before counating further with my so, I take the
lberty of saying, that if her remval would be i any way
ivenit or objectinable, I will hold the matter over with him
for any reasonabl ti, and leave it preciely where it is.”
Not remain at Chy Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir
Leicester’s old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler, and th people in
the iron ditricts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight, co
a shower upon his head: the fin grey hair of whic, as well as of
his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.
“Am I to understand, sir,” says Sir Leicester, “and is my Lady
to understand;” he brigs her in thus speally, first, as a pot of
galantry, and nxt as a pot of prude, having great relanc
hr sen; “am I to understand, Mr Rouncewll, and is my
Lady to understand, sr, that you coder this young woman too
god for Chy Wold, or likely to be injured by reaiing
here?”
“Certainly not, Sir Leicester.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.
“Pray, Mr Rouncwell,” says my Lady, warning Sir Leiter
off with the slghtest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly,
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“explain to me what you mean.”
“Willingly, Lady Dedlock. Thre is nothing I could desre
more.”
Addressing her composd face, wh inteige, hover, is
to quick and active to be concealed by any studid ipassives,
hver habitual, to th strong Saxon face of th visitor, a picture
f resoluti and persverance, my Lady listes with attention,
occasonaly slghtly bendig her head.
“I am the so of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and pasd
my chdhood about this house My mother has lved here half a
ctury, and will die here I have no doubt. She i oe of those
exampl—perhaps as good a one as there i—of lve, and
attachment, and fidelty in such a station, w England may w
be proud of; but of whic no order can appropriate the whole
pride or th wh merit, becaus such an instance bespeaks hgh
worth on two sides; on the great side asuredly; on the sal oe,
no les assuredly.”
Sir Leiter sorts a lttle to hear the law laid down in this
way; but in his honour and hi lve of truth, he freely, though
silently, admts th justice of th iromaster’s propoition.
“Pardon me for sayig what is so obvius, but I wuldn’t have it
hastiy supposed,” with the least turn of his eye towards Sir
Leicter, “that I am ashamd of my mther’s potion here, or
wanting in all just respect for Chy Wold and th famly. I
crtainly may have dered—I certainly have dered, Lady
Dedlock—that my mothr should retire after so many years, and
ed her days with me But, as I have found that to sver this
strong bond wuld be to break her heart, I have long abandoned
that idea.”
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Sir Leicester very magnificent again, at th noti of Mrs
Rouncew beg spirited off fro her natural ho, to end her
days with an iromaster.
“I have be,” prods th vitor, in a modest clar way, “an
appretice, and a workman. I have lived on workman’s wages,
years and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate
myself. My wife was a forean’s daughter, and plainly brought up.
We have three daughters, bede this so of whom I have spoke;
and beg fortunatey abl to give them greater advantage than
we had ourseves, we have educated them well; very wel It has
been oe of our great care and pleasure to make them worthy of
any station.”
A littl boastfulss in his fathrly to here, as if he added in
hi heart, “even of the Chy Wold stati” Not a little more
magnfie, therefore, on the part of Sir Leter.
“All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlk, whre I live, and among
the clas to whic I beg, that what would be genrally calld
unequal marriage are nt of suc rare occurrence with us as
re A son will sometis make it knn to his fathr that
h has fallen in love, say with a young woman in th factory. Th
father, who onc worked in a factory himf, will be a lttle
disappoited at first, very possibly. It may be that he had othr
vis for his son. Hover, th chances are, that having
ascertained th young wman to be of unblished character, he
ll say to his son, ‘I must be quite sure that you are in earnt
hre. This is a serius matter for both of you. Threfore I shall
have this girl educated for tw years’—or, it may be—‘I shall place
this girl at the sam school with your sisters for such a time,
durig wh you wi give me your word and hour to se her
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only so often. If, at th expiration of that time, w she has so far
profited by her advantage as that you may be upo a fair equality,
you are both in th same mind, I wi do my part to make you
happy.’ I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I
think they indiate to me my own curse no”
Sir Leicester’s magnificece explode. Cally, but terribly.
“Mr Rouncew,” says Sir Leicester, with his right hand in th
breast of his blue coat—th attitude of state in w h is painted
i the galery: “do you draw a paralel between Chesy Wod, and
a—” here he resists a disposition to choke—“a factory?”
“I ned not reply, Sir Leiter, that the two plac are very
different; but, for the purpose of this cas, I think a parall may
be justly draw between them.”
Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance dow on side of th
g drawg-room, and up the other, before he can beeve that
h is awake
“Are you aware, sir, that this young woman w my Lady—
my Lady—has placed near her pers, was brought up at th
vilage shool outside the gates?”
“Sir Leicter, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is,
and handsomely supported by this family.”
“Thn, Mr Rouncewll,” returns Sir Leicester, “th applicati
f what you have said, is, to me, inmpreibl”
“Will it be more compreble, Sir Leicester, if I say,” th
ronmaster i reddeg a little, “that I do nt regard the villageshool as teacg everything derable to be known by my so’s
wife?”
From the vilage school of Chesny Wod, intact as it i this
ute, to the whole framework of soty; from the whole
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framewrk of society, to th aforeaid framrk receiving
tremendous cracks in coequence of peopl (iroasters, ladmtres, and what nt) not midig their catec, and getting
out of the stati unto wh they are caled—neariy and for
ever, accordig to Sir Leicester’s rapid logic, th first station i
whic they happe to find themve; and from that, to their
educatig other peopl out of their stations, and so obliterating th
andmarks, and opeg the floodgates, and al the rest of it; this is
th swift progress of th Dedlock mind.
“My Lady, I beg your pardo. Permit me for on moment!” She
as given a faint indicati of intending to speak. “Mr Rouncew,
our views of duty, and our views of stati, and our views of
educati, and our views of—i short,
all our views—are so
diamtrically opposed, that to prog this discussion must be
repeant to your feegs, and repeant to my own. This young
wman is hured wth my Lady’s notice and favour. If she
ishe to wthdraw hrsf fro that notice and favour, or if she
hooses to place hersef under the influen of any one who may,
in hi peculiar opinions—you will allow me to say, in hs pecular
opinions, thugh I readily admt that he is not accountabl for
th to me—wh may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw hr
fro that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so.
We are obliged to you for the plainne with whic you have
spoke It will have n effect of itsf, one way or other, on the
young woman’s position here. Beyond this, w can make no terms;
and here we beg—if you will be so good—to leave the subject.”
Th visitor paus a moment to give my Lady an opportunity,
but she says nothing. He th ris and replies:—
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlk, allow me to thank you for
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your attention, and only to observe that I shal very seriusly
remmend my son to conquer his pret inclinations. Good
nght!”
“Mr Rouncew,” says Sir Leicester, wth all th nature of a
gentleman shining in him, “it is late, and th roads are dark. I
hpe your time is not so precious but that you wll allow my Lady
and myself to offer you th hospitality of Cy Wold, for
tonight at least.”
“I hope so,” adds my Lady.
“I am muc oblged to you, but I have to trave all night, i
order to reach a ditant part of the country, puntually at an
appoted tim in the mornig.”
Threith th iromaster takes his departure; Sir Leicester
ringing th bel, and my Lady ring as he leave th ro
Wh my Lady goes to her boudoir, sh sts do thoughtfully
by the fire; and, inattentive to the Ghost’s Walk, looks at Roa,
writing in an inr ro. Pretly my Lady calls her.
“Come to me, child. Te me the truth Are you in lve?”
“O! My lady!”
My Lady, lookig at th dowast and blusng face, says
iling:
“Who is it? Is it Mrs Rouncew’s grands?”
“Ye, if you please, my Lady. But I don’t kn that I am i love
with him—yet.”
“Yet, you siy lttle thing! Do you know that he loves you, yet?”
“I think he like me a little, my Lady.” And Roa bursts ito
tears
Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside th viage beauty,
soothing her dark hair with that mtherly touch, and watchig
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hr with eye so full of musng interest? Aye, indeed it is!
“Liten to me, cd. You are young and true, and I beeve you
are attacd to m”
“Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed thre is nothing in th wrld I
wuldn’t do, to sho ho much.”
“And I do’t think you would wis to leave me just yet, Roa,
even for a lover.”
“No, my Lady! O no!” Roa looks up for the first tim, quite
frightend at the thought.
“Confide in me, my chid. Don’t fear me. I wish you to be happy,
and wi make you so—if I can make anybody happy on this earth”
Roa, wth fresh tears, kneels at her feet and ki her hand.
My Lady takes th hand with which she has caught it, and,
standig with her eye fixed on the fire, puts it about and about
between her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall Seg her
so absorbed, Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady’s eye are o
the fire.
In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand
that nver was, of any touch that might have magicaly changed
her lfe? Or do she liten to the Ghost’s Walk, and thk what
step doe it most reble? A man’s? A wman’s? Th pattering
of a littl child’s fet, ever coming on-on-o? Some melanchoy
ifluene i upo her; or why should so proud a lady close the
doors, and sit alone upo the hearth so deate?
Volumnia is away next day, and all th couss are scattered
before dir. Not a cousi of the batch but is amazed to hear
from Sir Leiter, at breakfast tim, of the obliteration of
landmarks, and openig of floodgates, and crackig of the
framewrk of society, manfested through Mrs Rouncew’s son.
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Not a cousi of the batch but is really idignant, and cnnets it
wth the feebl of Wiam Buffy wen i offic, and realy
doe fe deprived of a stake in th country—or th pension list—
or something—by fraud and wrog. As to Volumia, she is handed
do the great staircase by Sir Leter, as eloquent upon th
theme, as if there wre a geral rig in the North of England to
obtai her rouge-pot and pearl neklac And thus, with a catter
of maids and valets—for it is on appurteance of thr cousship,
that however difficult they may find it to keep themsves, they
must keep maids and valets—th couss disperse to th four
wnds of heave; and th on wintry wind that bls today shakes
a shower from the trees near the derted house, as if al th
usins had be changed into leave
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Chapter 29
The Young Man
C
hesney Wod is shut up, carpets are rod ito great
scro in cornrs of comfortl ros, bright damask
doe penance in bron hland, carving and gildig puts
mortification, and th Dedlk ancestors retire fro th light of
day again. Around and around th house th leave fal thick—but
nver fast, for they co circg down with a dead lightne that
i sbre and sow. Let the gardener seep and seep the turf as
he w, and pres the laves into full barro, and wheel them off,
sti they le ankle-deep. Howl the shri wid round Chesny
Wold; th sharp rai beats, th windows rattl, and th chiys
grol. Mists hide in th aveues, ve th points of vi, and move
in funeral wi across th rising grounds. On all th huse thre is
a cld, blank sm, like the sm of the little church, though
sthing dryer: suggestig that the dead and buried Dedlocks
walk there, in the log nights, and leave the flavour of their grave
behd th
But th huse in to, which is rarely in th same mid as
y Wold at th same time; seldom rejoicing wh it rejoices,
or mourng when it mourn, exceptig when a Dedlock di; th
use in to shi out awakened. As warm and bright as so
much state may be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scts that
bear n trace of winter as hothouse flowers can make it; sft and
hushed, so that th ticking of th clocks and th crisp burng of
th fires alon disturb th stillness in th ros; it sees to wrap
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th chilled bos of Sir Leicester’s in raibo-coloured w
And Sir Leter is glad to repose in dignified contetmt before
th great fire in th library, condescendingly perusing th backs of
hi books, or honouring the fin arts with a glan of approbatin.
For he has his picture, ancient and modern. Some, of th Fancy
Bal School i whic Art occasaly codends to be a
master, which would be best catalogued like th miscellaneus
articles in a sale. A, “Thre hgh-backed chairs, a tabl and cover,
lg-necked bottle (contaig wi), one flask, one Span
femal’s cotume, three-quarter fac portrait of Mis Jogg the
model, and a suit of armour containing Do Quixote” Or, “One
tone terrac (cracked), on gondola i ditan, one Ventian
nator’s dress complete, richly embrodered white satin costum
th profile portrait of Miss Jogg th model, o scimeter superbly
mounted in god with jelled handle, elaborate Morish dre
(very rare), and Othello.”
Mr Tulkighorn co and goes pretty often; there beg etate
business to do, leases to be red, and so on. He see my Lady
pretty often, too; and he and se are as coposed, and as
differet, and take as lttle heed of one another, as ever. Yet it
may be that my Lady fears this Mr Tulkighorn, and that he
knows it. It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily,
wth no touc of compunction, remors, or pity. It may be that hr
beauty, and all th state and briancy surrounding her, only give
m th greater zest for what he is set upo, and makes hm th
more inflxible in it. Whethr he be cold and cruel, wthr
immovabl in what he has made hs duty, wthr absorbed in
lve of power, whether determied to have nothing hidde from
hi in ground where he has burrowed amg serets al his lfe,
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wthr he in his heart despises th splendour of which h is a
distant beam, wthr h is always treasuring up slights and
offences in th affability of his gorgeus clients—whthr h be
any of this, or all of this, it may be that my Lady had better have
five thusand pairs of fashionabl eye upo hr, in distrustful
vigilan, than the two eye of this rusty lawyer, with his wisp of
nkcoth and his dul black breeches tied with ribbo at the
knees.
Sir Leicester sits in my Lady’s ro—that ro in which Mr
Tulkinghrn read th affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce—
particularly coplacent. My Lady—as on that day—sits before th
fire with her scre in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly
complacent, becaus he has found in hs nespaper some
cgeal remarks bearig directly on the floodgates and the
framewrk of society. Thy apply so happily to th late case, that
Sir Leicester has come fro th library to my Lady’s ro
xpressly to read th alud. “Th man wh wrote this article,”
he obsrves by way of preface, nddig at the fire as if he were
nodding dow at th man fro a Mount, “has a we-balanced
mind.”
Th man’s mid is not so we balanced but that he bores my
Lady, w, after a languid effort to liste, or rathr a languid
resignati of hersf to a sho of listeg, bemes distraught,
and falls into a conteplation of th fire as if it were her fire at
Chesny Wod, and se had nver left it. Sir Leter, quite
unscious, reads on through his double eyeglass, occasionaly
stopping to remove his glass and express approval, as “Very true
deed,” “Very properly put,” “I have frequetly made the same
remark myself;” invariably losng his place after each observation,
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and going up and do the coum to find it agai
Sir Leicester is reading, with infinite gravity and state, w
th door opes, and th Mercury in powder makes this strange
announcement:
“Th young man, my Lady, of the name Guppy.”
Sir Leicester paus, stare, repeats in a kig voice:—
“The young man of the nam of Guppy?”
Lookig round he beholds the young man of the nam of
Guppy, much discfited, and not preting a very impreve
tter of introduction in his manner and appearan
“Pray,” says Sir Leiter to Mercury, “what do you mean by
announng wth this abruptness a young man of th name of
Guppy?”
“I beg your pardo, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she wuld
see the young man whenever he cald. I was nt aware that you
were here, Sir Leiter.”
With this apoogy, Mercury directs a scrnful and idignant
look at th young man of th name of Guppy, wich plainly says,
“What do you co calg here for, and getting
me into a ro?”
“It’s quite right. I gave him those directi,” says my Lady.
“Let the young man wait.”
“By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I
wil nt interrupt you.” Sir Leiter i hi gallantry retires, rather
deg to acpt a bow from the young man as he goes out, and
majestialy supposig him to be so shoemaker of intrusive
appearance.
Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her vistor, when the srvant
has lft the room; castig her eyes over him from head to foot. Sh
uffers him to stand by the door, and asks him what he wants?
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“That your ladysp would have the kidn to oblige me with
a little coversatio,” returns Mr Guppy, embarrasd.
“You are, of course, the person who has written m so many
ltters?”
“Several, your ladyship. Several, before your ladyship
condescended to favour me with an answer.”
“And could you not take th same means of rendering a
conversati uncesary? Can you not still?”
Mr Guppy scres h mouth into a silent “No!” and shake hi
head.
“You have be strangey importunate If it should appear,
after all, that what you have to say doe not concern me—and I
don’t kn h it can, and don’t expect that it wi—you wi allow
to cut you short with but lttle cremy. Say what you have
say, if you please”
My Lady, with a carel toss of her scree, turns hersef
towards the fire agai, sitting almt with her back to the young
man of th name of Guppy.
“With your ladyship’s permission, th,” says th young man, “I
wll now enter on my busss. Hem! I am, as I tod your ladyship
i my first letter, in the law. Beig in the law, I have learnt the
habit of nt cotting mysf in writig, and therefore I did not
mention to your ladyship th name of th firm with which I am
connected, and in which my standing—and I may add income—is
tolerably god. I may now state to your ladyship, in confidence,
that th name of that firm is Kenge Carboy, of Lincoln’s Inn;
whic may not be altogether unknown to your ladysp in
nnection with th case in Chancery of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.”
My Lady’s figure begi to be expreve of so atteti Sh
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has ceased to toss th scre, and hods it as if she were listeg.
“Now, I may say to your ladyship at oce,” says Mr Guppy, a
lttle embolded, “it is n matter arig out of Jarndyc and
Jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship,
wich conduct I have no doubt did appear, and do appear,
obtrusive—in fact, almost blackguardly.” After waitig for a
moment to receive some assurance to th contrary, and not
receiving any, Mr Guppy prods. “If it had be Jarndyce and
Jarndyce, I should have go at once to your ladyship’s solicitor,
Mr Tulkinghrn of th Fids. I have th pleasure of being
acquaited with Mr Tulkighorn,—at last we move when we
meet one another—and if it had be any bus of that sort, I
should have gone to him”
My Lady turns a lttl round, and says “You had better sit
dow.”
“Thank you ladyship.” Mr Guppy does so. “No, your
ladyship;” Mr Guppy refers to a slip of paper on which he has
made small notes of his line of argument, and which se to
vove him i the det obsurity whenever he looks at it: “I—O
yes!—I place myself entirely in your ladyship’s hands. If your
ladysp were to make any coplait to Kege and Carboy, or to
Mr Tulkinghrn, of th pret visit, I should be placed in a very
diagreeable stuation. That I openly admt. Conequently, I rey
upo your ladyship’s honour.”
My Lady, with a didainful gesture of the hand that holds the
scre, assure him of his being worth no complait fro her.
“Thank, your ladyship,” says Mr Guppy, “quite satisfactory.
Now—I—dash it!—Th fact is, that I put dow a head or tw hre
of the order of the pots I thought of touchig upon, and they’re
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written short, and I can’t quite make out what they mean If your
ladyship w excuse me taking it to th window half a moment, I—
”
Mr Guppy going to th window tumbles into a pair of lovebirds, to wh he says in his confusion, “I beg your pardo, I am
ure.” This do not tend to the greater legibity of his ntes He
murmurs, groing warm and red, and hoding a slip of paper now
cloe to eyes, n a lg way off. “C.S. What’s C.S. for? O! ‘E.S!’ O,
I know! Yes, to be sure!” And comes back enlighted.
“I am not aware,” says Mr Guppy, standing midway betw
my Lady and his chair, “whthr your ladyship ever happed to
hear of, or to see, a young lady of the nam of Mis Esther
Summers.”
My Lady’s eyes look at hi ful “I saw a young lady of that
name not long ago This past autumn.”
“Now, did it strike your ladysp that sh was lke anybody?”
asks Mr Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on on side,
and scratching th cornr of his mouth with his memoranda.
My Lady removes her eye fro him no more
“No”
“Not like your ladyship’s famly?”
“No”
“I think your ladyship,” said Mr Guppy, “can hardly remember
Miss Summers’s face?”
“I rember the young lady very wel What has this to do with
me?”
“Your ladyship, I do assure you, that having Miss Sumrson’s
image iprited o my art—wich I mention in confidece—I
found, when I had the honour of going over your ladysp’s
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mansion of Cy Wold, wile on a short out in th county of
Lincolnshire with a friend, such a reblance betw Mi
Esthr Summers and your ladyship’s own portrait, that it
completely knked me over; so much so, that I didn’t at th
moment eve kn what it
was that knked me over. And now I
have the honour of beholdig your ladysp near (I have often,
since that, taken th liberty of lookig at your ladyship in your
carriage in th park, wh I dare say you was not aware of me, but
I never saw your ladyship so near), it’s really more surprising than
I thought it.”
Young man of the nam of Guppy! There have been ti w
ladi lived in stronghds, and had unscrupulus attedants
within cal, when that poor life of yours would nt have been
worth a miute’s purchas, with those beautiful eye lookig at
you as thy look at this moment.
My Lady, slowly usg her littl hand-scre as a fan, asks hi
again, wat h suppo that hi taste for likenesses has to do with
her?
“Your ladysp,” repl Mr Guppy, agai referring to hi
paper, “I am comng to that. Dash th notes. O! ‘Mrs Chadband.’
Yes.” Mr Guppy draws his chair a littl forward, and seats himself
agai My Lady rec in her chair cposedly, though with a
trifle les of graceful ease than usual, perhaps; and never falters in
r steady gaze. “A—stop a minute, thugh!” Mr Guppy refers
agai “E. S. twice? O yes! yes, I see my way no, right on.”
Rolling up th slp of paper as an instrument to poit his spee
th, Mr Guppy prods.
“Your ladysp, there is a mystery about Mi Esther
Summers’s birth and briging up. I am informd of that fact,
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becaus—wich I mention in confidence—I kn it in th way of
my profession at Kenge and Carboy’s. Now, as I have already
mentioned to your ladyship, Miss Summers’s image is
imprited on my art. If I could clear this mystery for her, or prove
her to be well related, or find that having the honour to be a
remote branch of your ladyship’s family she had a right to be
made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might make a sort
of a claim upo Miss Sumrson to look wth an eye of more
deded favour o my propoals than sh has exactly do as yet.
In fact, as yet she hasn’t favoured them at al”
A kind of angry smile just daws upo my Lady’s face.
“Now, it’s a very singular circumstance, your ladyship,” says Mr
Guppy, “though one of those circumtances that do fall in the way
of us professional men—which I may cal myself, for thugh not
admtted, yet I have had a pret of my artic made to m by
Kenge and Carboy, on my mothr’s advang fro th principal
of her littl income th money for th stamp, w comes havy—
that I have enuntered the person, who lived as servant with the
lady wh brought Miss Summers up, before Mr Jarndyce tok
charge of her. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship.”
Is the dead cour on my Lady’s fac, reflected from the sreen
wich has a gren silk ground, and which she hods in her raid
hands as if she had forgotten it; or is it a dreadful paleness that has
fallen on her?
“Did your ladyship,” says Mr Guppy, “ever happe to hear of
Miss Barbary?”
“I don’t kn. I thk so. Yes.”
“Was Miss Barbary at all coted with your ladyship’s
famy?”
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My Lady’s lips move, but they utter nthing. Sh sake her
head.
“Not connected?” says Mr Guppy. “O! Not to your ladyship’s
knowledge, perhaps? A! But might be? Yes” After eac of thes
interrogatori, she has inclind her head. “Very god! Now, this
Miss Barbary was extrey clos—ses to have be
xtraordiariy cl for a femal, femal beg genrally (in
life at least) rather given to cversation—and my
wtnss never had an idea whthr she possessed a single relative
On one occas, and only one, se seems to have be
fidetial to my witne on a sgl pot; and s then told her
that the little girl’s real nam was nt Esther Sumrs, but
Esther Hawdon.”
“My God!”
Mr Guppy stare. Lady Dedlk sits before him, lookig hi
through, with the sam dark shade upo her fac, in the sam
attitude eve to th hoding of th scre, wth hr lips a lttl
apart, her brow a lttle ctracted, but for the mot dead. He
se her conscious return, see a treur pass across hr
frame lke a rippl over water, sees her lps shake, sees her
cpose them by a great effort, sees her force herself back to th
knowledge of his prece, and of what he has said. All this, so
quickly, that her excamation and her dead condition seed to
have pased away lke the features of those log-prerved dead
bodies sometimes oped up in tobs, which, struck by th air
lke lightnig vani i a breath.
“Your ladyship is acquaited with the name of Hawdo?”
“I have heard it before.”
“Nam of any coateral, or remote branch of your ladyship’s
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famy?”
“No”
“Now, your ladyship,” says Mr Guppy, “I com to th last point
of the cas, so far as I have got it up. It’s going on, and I shal
gather it up coser and coser as it go on. Your ladysp must
know—if your ladyship don’t happen, by any chance to kn
already—that thre was found dead at th house of a pers
named Krok, near Chancery Lane, some ti ago, a law-writer in
great ditre Upon wh law-writer, there was an inquest; and
wich law-writer was an anymus character, his name being
unknn. But, your ladyship, I have discvered, very lately, that
that law-writer’s nam was Hawdon.”
“And what is that to me?”
“Aye, your ladyship, that’s the questi! No, your ladyship, a
queer thing happed after that man’s death. A lady started up; a
disguised lady, your ladyship, wh went to look at th scene of
action, and went to lok at his grave. She hired a cross-seepig
boy to sho it her. If your ladyship would wish to have th boy
producd i corroborati of this statet, I can lay my hand
upon him at any tim”
The wretced boy is nothg to my Lady, and se do
not wish
to have him produced.
“Oh, I assure your ladyship it’s a very quer start indeed,” says
Mr Guppy. “If you was to hear him tel about the rings that
sparkled on her fingers wh she tok her glve off, you’d thk it
quite romantic.”
There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the
scre. My Lady trifles with th scre, and makes th glitter
mre; agai with that expreon whic i other tim might have
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been s dangerous to the young man of the nam of Guppy.
“It was suppod, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap
bend hi by whic he could be pobly identified. But he did.
He left a bundle of old letters”
The sreen sti go, as before. A th ti, her eyes never
onc release him
“They were take and sereted. And tomorrow nght, your
ladyship, thy wi come into my possession”
“Sti I ask you, what is this to me?”
“Your ladyship, I conclude with that.” Mr Guppy rises. “If you
think thre’s enugh, in this chain of circumstances put togethr—
i the undoubted strong like of this young lady to your
ladyship, wich i a positive fact for a jury—in her having be
brought up by Miss Barbary—i Mi Barbary statig Miss
Summers’s real name to be Hawdo—in your ladyship’s
knowing both thes nam
very well—and in Hawdo’s dying as
did—to give your ladyship a famly iterest in going furthr
into th case, I wi bring th papers here. I don’t know what
they are, except that they are old letters: I have nver had them in
my possession yet. I w brig th papers here, as soo as I get
them; and go over them for the first tim with your ladysp. I
have told your ladysp my objet. I have told your ladysp that I
should be placed in a very disagreabl situati, if any complaint
was made; and al is in strict confidence.”
Is this the full purpose of the young man of the nam of Guppy,
or has he any other? Do his words di the legth, breadth,
depth, of his object and suspicion in coming here; or, if not, what
do thy hide? He is a matc for my Lady thre She may look at
hi, but he can look at the table, and kep that witne-box fac of
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his fro teing anythng.
“You may brig the letters,” says my Lady, “if you choose.”
“Your ladyship is not very enuraging, upo my word and
honour,” says Mr Guppy, a lttle injured.
“You may brig the letters,” sh repeats, in the sam tone, “if
you—please”
“It shall be done. I wish your ladyship god day.”
On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and
clasped like an old strong chet. She, lookig at hm still, takes it
to her and unlocks it.
“Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of
that sort,” says Mr Guppy; “and I couldn’t accept of anythng of
th kind. I wish your ladyship god day, and am much obliged to
you all th same.”
So th young man makes his bow, and go dowstairs; wre
th supercilious Mercury doe not consider himsef called upo to
ave his Olympus by the hall fire, to let the young man out.
As Sir Leicester basks in his library, and dozes over hi
wspaper, is there no influence in the house to startle him; not to
say, to make the very tree at Cy Wod flg up their knotted
arm, the very portraits frown, the very armur stir?
No. Words, sobs, and cries, are but air; and air is so shut in and
sut out throughout the house in town, that sounds ned be
uttered trumpet-tongued inded by my Lady in her chamber, to
carry any faint vibration to Sir Leicester’s ears; and yet this cry is
i the house, going upward from a wild figure on its kn
“O my child, my chid! Not dead in th first hours of her life, as
my cruel siter tod m; but sterny nurtured by her, after she had
renounced me and my name! O my chid, O my child!”
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Chapter 30
R
ichard had be go away some ti, wh a visitor
came to pas a fe days with us. It was an elderly lady. It
was Mrs Woodcurt, who, having co from Wal to stay
with Mrs Bayham Badger, and having written to my Guardian,
“by her s Aan’s dere,” to report that she had heard from him
and that he was well, “and set his kid rembrance to all of
us,” had be ivited by my Guardian to make a vist to Bleak
House. She stayed with us nearly three weeks She took very
kindly to me, and was extrey confidential; so much so that
sometimes she almost made me unmfortabl I had no right, I
knew very well, to be unmfortabl becaus she confided in me,
and I felt it was unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not
quite help it.
She was such a sharp littl lady, and usd to sit with hr hands
folded in each othr, lookig so very watcful while she talked to
me, that perhaps I found that rathr irksom Or perhaps it was
her beg so upright and trim; though I do’t think it was that,
beaus I though that quaitly plasant. Nor can it have be the
geral expresion of her face, which was very sparkling and
pretty for an old lady. I don’t know what it was. Or at least if I do,
nw, I thought I did not then Or at last—but it do’t matter.
Of a nght when I was going upstairs to bed, s would invite
m ito her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair;
and, dear me, she would te me about Morgan ap Kerrig unti I
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was quite low-spirited! Sometis she reted a fe vers fro
Crumlaler and the Medd (if those are th
right nam, whic I dare say they are not), and would be
quite fiery with the setients they expresd. Though I nver
kn what they were (beg in Weh), further than that they were
hghly eulogistic of th lineage of Morgan ap Kerrig.
“So, Mi Sumrson,” she would say to me wth statey
triumph, “this you see, is th fortun inherited by my son.
Wherever my so go, he can clai kidred wth Ap Kerrig. He
may nt have my, but he always has what is muc better—
family, my dear.”
I had my doubts of their caring s very muc for Morgan ap
Kerrig, in India and Cha; but of course I never expred th. I
used to say it was a great thing to be so highly cnneted.
“It is my dear, a great thing,” Mrs Woodcurt would reply. “It
has its disadvantages; my son’s choce of a wife, for instance, is
lted by it; but the matrimonial choic of the Royal famiy
limited in much th same manr.”
Th she would pat me on th arm and smth my dres, as
much as to assure me that she had a god opinion of me, th
distance betw us notwithtanding.
“Poor Mr Woodcourt, my dear,” she wuld say, and alays wth
some emtion, for with her lofty pedigre she had a very
affectinate heart, “was deded from a great Highland famy,
the Mac Coorts of Mac Coort. He served his kig and country as an
officr in the Royal Highanders, and he died on the field. My s
one of the last repretatives of two old fam With the
blg of Heaven he wi set them up agai, and unite them with
another old famy.”
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It was i vai for me to try to change the subjet, as I used to
try—only for th sake of novelty—or perhaps becaus—but I ned
not be so particular. Mrs Woodcourt never would let me change it.
“My dear,” she said on night, “you have so much sense, and
you look at the world in a quiet manr so superior to your tim of
lfe, that it i a cfort to m to talk to you about thes famy
matters of mine. You don’t kn much of my son, my dear; but
you know enough of him, I dare say, to recoect him?”
“Yes, ma’am. I rect him.”
“Ye, my dear. Now, my dear, I thk you are a judge of
caracter, and I should like to have your opi of him?”
“O, Mrs Woodcourt,” said I, “that is so difficult.”
“Why is it so difficult, my dear?” she returnd. “I don’t see it
myself.”
“To give an opiion—”
“On so slight an acquaitance, my dear. That’s true.”
I didn’t mean that; beause Mr Woodcurt had been at our
house a good deal altogether, and had be quite intimate with
my Guardian. I said so, and added that he seed to be very
clever in his profesion—we thught—and that his kidness and
gentleness to Miss Flite were above all praise.
“You do him justie!” said Mrs Woodcurt, presg my hand.
“You defi him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in hi
profession faultlss. I say it, thugh I am his mothr. Still, I must
cfe he is nt without faults, love.”
“Noe of us are,” said I.
“Ah! But hi really are faults that he mght correct, and ought
to correct,” returnd th sharp old lady, sharply shakig her had.
“I am so much attached to you, that I may confide in you, my dear,
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as a third party whlly disintereted, that he is fikleness itself.”
I said, I should have thught it hardly possible that he could
have been otherwis than cotant to his professon, and zealous
i the pursuit of it, judgig from the reputation he had earned.
“You are right again, my dear,” th old lady retorted; “but I
don’t refer to his profession, look you.”
“O!” said I.
“No,” said she. “I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He is
always paying trivial attentins to young ladi, and always has
been ever sie he was eighteen. No, my dear, he has never
realy cared for any one of them, and has nver mant i dog
this to do any harm, or to express anythng but polte and
good nature. Sti, it’s nt right, you know; is it?”
“No,” said I, as she seemed to wait for me.
“And it might lead to mistake ntis, you see, my dear.”
I supposed it might.
“Therefore I have told him, many tim, that he realy should
be more careful, both in justi to hmsef and in justice to othrs
d he has alays said, ‘Mother, I wil be; but you know m better
than anybody e do, and you know I man no harm—i short,
mean nthg.’ A of wh is very true, my dear, but is n
justificati. Hover, as he is now go so far away, and for an
indefinite time, and as he wi have god opportunities and
introductis, we may consider this past and go. Ad you, my
dear,” said th old lady, wh was now all nods and siles;
“regarding your dear self, my love?”
“Me, Mrs Woodcourt?”
“Not to be always sefih, talkig of my son, who has gone to
seek hi fortune, and to find a wife—when do you mean to seek
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your fortun and to find a husband, Miss Summers? Hey, look
you! Now you blush!”
I don’t thk I did blus—at all evets, it was not important if I
did—and I said, my pret fortun perfetly conteted me, and I
had no wish to change it.
“Shall I tel you what I always think of you, and the fortun yet
to come for you, my love?” said Mrs Woodcourt.
“If you beeve you are a good prophet,” said I.
“Why, th, it is that you wi marry so on, very ri and
very worthy, much older—five and twty years, perhaps—than
yourself. And you wi be an excelt wfe, and much beloved, and
very happy.”
“That is a god fortun,” said I. “But, why is it to be mine?”
“My dear,” she returnd, “thre’s suitabiity in it—you are so
busy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogethr, that
thre’s suitability in it, and it wi come to pass. Ad nobody, my
love, wll congratulate you more sincerey on such a marriage than
I shal”
It was curius that this should make me unmfortabl, but I
think it did. I kn it did. It made me for some part of that night
quite unmfortabl I was so ashamed of my folly, that I did not
like to confe it eve to Ada; and that made me more
uncfortable sti I would have given anything nt to have be
so much i th bright old lady’s confidece, if I could have
possibly declined it. It gave me th most isistet opiion of
her. At one tim I thought she was a storytellr, and at another
tim that s was the pink of truth. Now, I suspeted that sh was
very cunning; next moment, I believed her hot Wel heart to
be perfetly inocent and simple. And, after al, what did it matter
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to me, and why did it matter to me? Why could not I, going up to
bed with my basket of keys, stop to st down by her fire, and
accomdate myself for a littl wile to hr, at least as w as to
anybody e; and nt troubl mysf about the harml things
she said to me? Impeld toards her, as I certainy was, for I was
very anxius that she should like me, and was very glad ideed
that sh did, why should I harp afterwards, with actual ditres
and pain, on every word she said, and weigh it over and over again
in twty scales? Why was it so worrying to me to have her in our
house, and cofidetial to me every night, when I yet felt that it
was better and safer, sohow, that sh should be there than
anywre el? Th were perplexiti and contradictions that I
could not account for. At least, if I could—but I shall come to al
that by-and-bye, and it is a mere idleness to go on about it now
So, when Mrs Woodcurt went away, I was srry to l her,
but was reeved too. And then Caddy Jeyby cam do; and
Caddy brought such a packet of domesti new, that it gave us
abundant occupati
First, Caddy declared (and would at first decare nothing e)
that I was th best adviser that ever was know This, my pet said,
was no ne at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonse. Th
addy told us that sh was going to be married in a moth; and
that if Ada and I would be her bridemaids, she was th happiest
girl in the world. To be sure, this was nws inded; and I thought
we never should have do talkig about it, we had s muc to say
to Caddy, and Caddy had to much to say to us
It seemed that Caddy’s unfortunate papa had got over his
bankruptcy—“go through th Gazette,” was th expression
addy used, as if it were a tunne,—with the genral cy and
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commiserati of his creditors; and had got rid of hi affairs in
bled manr, without sucdig in understandig them;
and had given up everything he pod (whic was nt worth
muc I should thk, to judge from the state of the furnture), and
had satisfied every on conrned that he could do no more, poor
man. So, he had bee hourably dismissed to “th office,” to
begin th world again. What he did at th office, I never knew:
Caddy said he was a “Custom-Hous and General Aget,” and th
only thing I ever understood about that bus was, that when
wanted money more than usual he went to th Docks to look
for it, and hardly ever found it.
As soo as her papa had tranquillised his mind by beming
this shorn lamb, and thy had removed to a furnished lodgig in
Hatton Garde (where I found the chdre, when I afterwards
went there, cutting the horsehair out of the seats of the chairs, and
chokig themve with it), Caddy had brought about a mtig
betwee hi and od Mr Turveydrop; and poor Mr Jelyby, beg
very humble and meek, had deferred to Mr Turveydrop’s
Deportment so submissivey, that thy had be excellent
frieds By degree, old Mr Turveydrop, thus famliarid with the
idea of hs son’s marriage, had worked up hi parental fegs to
the height of coteplatig that evet as beg near at hand; and
had given hi gracus conset to the young coupl cg
housekeepig at the Acadey in Nean Street, when they
would.
“And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?”
“O! poor Pa,” said Caddy, “ony cried, and said he hoped we
ght get on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn’t say so
before Prince; he only said so to me. And he said, ‘My poor girl,
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you have not been very well taught how to make a home for your
husband; but unle you mean with al your heart to strive to do it,
you had better murder him than marry him—if you really love
m.’”
“And ho did you reassure him, Caddy?”
“Why, it was very distressing, you kn, to see poor Pa so low,
and hear hi say such terribl thgs, and I couldn’t help crying
myself. But I tod him that I did mean it with all my hart; and that
I hoped our house would be a place for him to co and find so
fort i, of an eveg; and that I hoped and thought I could be
a better daughter to him there, than at home Then I mtid
Peepy’s cog to stay with me; and then Pa began to cry agai,
and said th chidre were Indians.”
“Indians, Caddy?”
“Yes,” said Caddy. “Wild Indians. And Pa said,”—(here she
began to sob, poor girl, not at all like th happiest girl in th
rld)—“that he was sensibl th best thing that could happen to
them was, their beg al Tomahawked together.”
Ada suggested that it was cofortable to know that Mr Jelyby
did not mean th destructive sentits
“No, of course I know Pa wouldn’t like his famy to be
welterig i their blood,” said Caddy; “but he means that they are
very unfortunate in being Ma’s chidre, and that he is very
unfortunate in beg Ma’s husband; I am sure that’s true, though
it sees unnatural to say so.”
I asked Caddy if Mrs Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was
fixed.
“O! you kn what Ma is, Esther,” she returned. “It’s
imposble to say wthr she knows it or not. She has be told it
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often eugh: and wh she is tod it, she only gives me a placid
look, as if I was I don’t know wat—a steple in th distance,” said
Caddy, wth a sudden idea; “and then she sake her head, and
says ‘O Caddy, Caddy, what a teaze you are!’ and go on with th
Borrioboola letters.”
“And about your wardrobe, Caddy?” said I. For sh was under
n restrait with us.
“Well, my dear Esther,” se returned, dryig her eyes, “I must
do the bet I can, and trust to my dear Pri never to have an
unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to hm. If th
question cncerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know al
about it, and would be quite excited. Being wat it is, she neithr
knows nor cares.”
Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for hr
mther, but mtid this with tears, as an undeniabl fact:
wich I am afraid it was. We were so sorry for th poor dear girl,
and found so much to admire in th god dispoition wich had
survived under such discuragement, that we both at once (I mean
Ada and I) proposed a little sce, that made her perfectly joyful.
This was, her stayig with us for three weeks; my stayig with her
for on; and our all thre contriving and cutting out, and
repairig, and seng, and saving, and doig th very best w
uld thk of, to make th most of her stok. My Guardian beig
as plasd with th idea as Caddy was, we tok her ho nxt day
to arrange the matter; and brought her out agai in triumph, with
hr boxes, and all th purcases that could be squezed out of a
ten-pound note, wich Mr Jellyby had found in th Docks I
suppose, but which he at all evets gave her. What my Guardian
wuld not have given her, if we had enuraged him, it would be
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difficult to say; but we thought it right to copound for no mre
than her weddig-dres and bot. He agreed to this
mpromise; and if Caddy had ever be happy in hr life, she
was happy when we sat down to work.
She was clumsy enugh with her needle, poor girl, and pricked
her fingers as muc as se had been used to ink th. She culd
nt help reddeg a little, now and then; partly with the sart,
and partly with vexation at beg abl to do n better: but sh so
got over that, and began to improve rapidly. So, day after day, sh,
and my darlg, and my littl maid Carly, and a mir out of
the to, and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as posbl
Over and above this, Caddy was very anxius “to learn
housekeepig,” as se said. No, Mercy upo us! the idea of her
learnng husekeepig of a pers of my vast experice was such
a joke, that I laughd, and coloured up, and fe ito a comical
nfusion wh she propod it. Hover, I said, “Caddy, I am
sure you are very welcom to learn anythng that you can learn of
me, my dear;” and I shod her all my books and methds, and al
y fidgety ways. You would have supposed that I was showing her
some wnderful ivention by her study of th; and if you had
seen her, whenever I jingld my housekepig keys, get up and
attend m, crtaiy you might have thought that there never was
a greater impotor than I, with a blder follwer than Caddy
Jellyby.
So, what with workig and housekepig, and lons to
Charly, and backgam in the evenig wth my Guardian, and
duets with Ada, the three weeks slpped fast away. Then I wt
home with Caddy, to see what culd be do there; and Ada and
Carley remained behnd, to take care of my Guardian.
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When I say I wt ho with Caddy, I mean to the furnd
ldgig i Hatton Garde We went to Newman Street two or
three ti, where preparati were in progre too; a good
many, I obsrved, for encang the coforts of old Mr
Turveydrop, and a fe for putting th ney marrid couple away
caply at the top of the house; but our great pot was to make
the furnid lodgig det for the weddig breakfast, and to
ibue Mrs Jellyby beforeand with some fait sen of th
ccasi
The latter was the more difficult thing of the two, beause Mrs
Jellyby and an unwholese boy occupid the front stting-room
(th back o was a mere ct), and it was littered dow with
aste paper and Borriboan documents, as an untidy stable
mght be littered with straw. Mrs Jelyby sat there al day,
drinking strong coffe, dictating and hding Borribolan
tervi by appotment. The unholese boy, who seemed to
to be going into a de, took his meal out of the house
When Mr Jellyby cam home, he usually groand and went down
ito the kitchen. There he got sothing to eat, if the servant
would give him anything; and then feeg that he was in the way,
went out and walked about Hatton Garde in the wet. The poor
childre scrambled up and tumbled dow th house, as thy had
always bee accustod to do.
The production of thes devoted little sacrifi, i any
pretabl cnditin, beg quite out of the question at a week’s
tice, I propoed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as
could, on her marriage morng, in the atti were they al
ept; and should cofie our greatest efforts to her mama and her
mama’s ro, and a clan breakfast. In truth, Mrs Jellyby
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required a good deal of attenti, the lattic-work up her back
having widened considerably since I first knew her, and her hair
lookig like the man of a dustman’s horse
Thinkig that the diplay of Caddy’s wardrobe would be the
best means of approachig th subjet, I invited Mrs Jeyby to
me and look at it spread out on Caddy’s bed, in th eveg,
after the unwholese boy was go
“My dear Miss Sumrson,” said she, ring fro hr desk,
wth her usual swetne of temper, “th are really ridiculous
preparations, thugh your assistig th is a prof of your
kindness. Thre is somethg so inxpresibly absurd to me, in th
idea of Caddy beig marrid! O Caddy, you silly, siy, silly puss!”
Sh cam upstairs with us notwithstandig, and looked at the
cloths in her custoary far-off manr. Thy suggested on
distict idea to her; for she said, with her placid sm, and shakig
hr head, “My god Miss Sumrson, at half th cost, this wak
child might have be equipped for Africa!”
On our going dowstairs again, Mrs Jeyby asked me whthr
this troubl busss was really to take place next
Wedneday? And o my replying yes, she said, “Will my ro be
required, my dear Miss Summers? For it’s quite impossible that
I can put my papers away.”
I took the liberty of saying that the room would certaiy be
wanted, and that I thought we must put the papers away
somewre “Well, my dear Miss Sumrson,” said Mrs Jeyby,
“you know bet, I dare say. But by oblging me to employ a boy,
Caddy has embarrasd me to that extet, overwelmd as I am
th publ business, that I don’t know which way to turn. We
have a Ramfiatio meeting, too, on Wednday afternoon, and
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th inconveien is very serius.”
“It is not likely to occur again,” said I, smiling. “Caddy wi be
marrid but once, probably.”
“That’s true,” Mrs Jeyby replied, “that’s true, my dear. I
suppose we must make th best of it!”
The nxt question was, how Mrs Jellyby should be dresd on
the occas I thought it very curious to see her lookig on
serely fro her writing-tabl, wh Caddy and I discusd it;
occasonaly shakig her head at us with a half-reproachful se,
like a superir spirit wh could just bear with our trifling.
Th state in which her dres were, and th extraordinary
confusion in which she kept th, added not a little to our
difficulty; but at legth we devisd sthing not very unlke what
a co-place mothr might wear on such an ocasion. Th
abstracted manner in whic Mrs Jellyby would deliver hersef up
to having this attire tried on by the dreaker, and the stn
th wich she would th observe to me ho sorry she was that I
had nt turned my thoughts to Africa, were cotent with the
rest of her behaviour.
The lodgig was rather cofid as to space, but I fancid that
if Mrs Jellyby’s hused had bee th only lodgers in Saint
Paul’s or Sait Peter’s, the so advantage they would have found
in th size of th buiding would have be its affordig a great
deal of room to be dirty i I believe that nthing begig to the
family, wich it had be possibl to break, was unbroke at th
time of th preparations for Caddy’s marriage; that nothg
wich it had be possible to spoi i any way, was unpolt; and
that no domesti object which was capabl of colting dirt, form
a dear child’s knee to th door-plate, was withut as much dirt as
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could we accumulate upo it.
Poor Mr Jellyby, who very sedom spoke, and alt always sat
when he was at home with his head against the wal, beam
terested when he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to
etablish some order amg all this waste and rui, and tok off
his coat to help. But such wonderful things came tumbling out of
the closets when they were opened—bits of mouldy pi, sur
bottle, Mrs Jellyby’s caps, letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes
f childre, fired, wafers, saucpan-lds, damp sugar in odds
and ends of paper bags, footstools, black-lad brushes, bread, Mrs
Jelyby’s bonnets, books with butter stikig to the bindig,
guttered candl-ends put out by beg turned upsde down in
broke candlesticks, nutss, heads and tails of shrips, dinnermats, gloves, cffee-grounds, umbrellas—that he looked
frightened, and lft off agai But he cam i regularly every
eveg, and sat without his coat, with his head against the wal;
as though he would have helped us, if he had known how.
“Poor Pa!” said Caddy to me, on the night before the great day,
when we realy had got things a little to rights. “It s unkind to
lave him, Esther, but what could I do if I stayed! Si I first
knew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over agai; but it’s
use Ma and Africa, together, upst the whole house directly.
We never have a srvant who don’t drik. Ma’s ruinous to
everythig.”
Mr Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seed very
lw inded, and shd tears, I thought.
“My hart aches for him; that it doe!” sobbed Caddy. “I can’t
help thinkig, tonight, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with
Pri, and ho dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma.
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What a disappointed life!”
“My dear Caddy!” said Mr Jeyby, lookig slowly round fro
the wal It was the first tim, I think, I ever heard him say three
words together.
“Ye, Pa,” cried Caddy, going to him and embracing hi
affectionately.
“My dear Caddy,” said Mr Jeyby. “Never have—”
“Not Prince, Pa?” faltered Caddy. “Not have Price?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr Jeyby. “Have hm, certaiy. But,
nver have—”
I mentioned, in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn, that
Richard desribed Mr Jellyby as frequently opeg his mouth
after dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his He
opened hi muth nw, a great many tim, and shook his head in
a melanchoy manner.
“What do you wis me not to have? Do’t have what, dear Pa?”
asked Caddy, coaxig him, with her arm round his nek.
“Never have a mission, my dear child.”
Mr Jellyby groaned, and laid hi head against th wall again;
and this was th only time I ever heard him make any approach to
xpressing his sentits on th Borriboan queti. I suppo
had bee more talkative and lively, once; but he sed to
ave bee completely exhausted long before I knew him.
I thught Mrs Jellyby never would have left off serely looking
over her papers, and drinking coffe, that night. It was twve
’clock before we could obtain possession of th ro; and th
earane it required then, was so diouragig, that Caddy, w
as almost tired out, sat dow in th middle of th dust and crid.
But she soon cheered up, and we did woders with it before w
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went to bed.
In the mrng it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a
quantity of soap and water, and a little arranget, quite gay.
Th plain breakfast made a cherful sho, and Caddy was
perfectly charmg. But when my darling cam, I thought—and I
think now—that I never had se such a dear face as my beautiful
pet’s.
We made a little feast for the chdre upstairs, and we put
Peepy at the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy i her
bridal dress, and thy clapped thr hands and hurrahd, and
Caddy crid to think that sh was going away from them, and
hugged them over and over agai, until we brought Pri up to
fetch her away—when, I am sorry to say, Peepy bit him Th,
thre was old Mr Turveydrop dowstairs, in a state of Deportment
not to be expressed, bengnly blessing Caddy, and giving my
Guardian to understand, that his son’s happine was his ow
parental work, and that he sacrificed persal coderation to
insure it. “My dear sir,” said Mr Turveydrop, “th young people
wll live with me; my house is large enugh for thr
accomdation, and thy shall not want th sheter of my rof. I
culd have wisd, you will understand the aluson, Mr Jarndyc,
for you remember my illustrius patro th Prince Regent—I
could have wished that my son had marrid ito a family wre
there was more Deportmt; but the wi of Heaven be do!”
Mr and Mrs Pardiggle were of the party—Mr Pardiggle, an
bstinate-lookig man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair,
w was always talking in a loud bas voice about hs mite, or Mrs
Pardiggle’s mite, or their five boys’ mites Mr Quale, with hi hair
brushed back as usual, and his knobs of templ sg very
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much, was also thre; not in th character of a disapponted lover,
but as th Accepted of a young—at least, an unmarrid—lady, a
Miss Wisk, wh was also thre Mi Wisk’s mssion, my Guardian
said, was to sho th world that woman’s mission was man’s
mission; and that th only genuine mission, of both man and
wman, was to be always moving decaratory resolutis about
things in genral at publi mtigs The guests were few; but
were, as one mght expet at Mrs Jelyby’s, all devoted to publi
bjects only. Besides th I have mentioned, thre was an
extremely dirty lady, with her bot al awry, and the tiketed
price of her dress still stiking o it, w neglted h, Caddy
told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but w church was like a
fancy fair. A very contetius gentleman, wh said it was hi
to be everybody’s brother, but who appeared to be on
terms of coolness with th wh of his large famly, completed th
party.
A party having les i com with such an occasion, could
hardly have be got together by any igenuity. Suc a man
mission as th domestic mission, was th very last thing to be
dured amg them; inded, Mis Wik iformed us, with great
idignati, before we sat down to breakfast, that the idea of
wman’s mission lying chiefly in th narro sphere of ho was
an outrageus slander on the part of her Tyrant, Man. One other
singularity was, that nobody with a mission—except Mr Quale,
w mission, as I think I have formrly said, was to be i
cstasies with everybody’s mission—cared at all for anybody’s
mission. Mrs Pardiggl being as clar that th only on infallible
course was her course of pouncing upo th poor, and applying
bevolence to th like a strait waistcoat; as Miss Wisk was that
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the only practical thing for the world was the emancpatin of
Woan from the thraldo of her Tyrant, Man Mrs Jellyby, al the
whil, sat sg at the lited vis that culd s anything but
Borrioboola-Gha.
But I am anticpating nw the purport of our coversation on
the ride home, intead of first marryig Caddy. We al wet to
urch, and Mr Jelyby gave her away. Of the air with whic old
Mr Turveydrop, with hi hat under his left arm, (the inde
presented at the clergyman lke a canon,) and his eyes creasg
themsves up ito his wig, stood, stiff and high-shouldered,
bed us bridesaids during th ceremony, and afterwards
saluted us, I could never say enugh to do it justice. Miss Wisk,
w I cannot report as prepossing i appearance, and w
manner was grim, listed to th prodings, as part of Woman’s
wrongs, with a didainful fac Mrs Jellyby, with her calm s
and her bright eye, looked th least concerned of all th company.
We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs Jeyby sat at th
head of the table, and Mr Jeyby at the foot. Caddy had previusly
stole upstairs, to hug the chdre agai, and tell them that her
name was Turveydrop. But this piece of information, instead of
beg an agreeable surpri to Peepy, thre him o hi back i
uc tranports of kikig grief, that I could do nothing on beg
st for, but accde to the proposal that he should be admtted to
th breakfast tabl So he came dow, and sat in my lap; and Mrs
Jelyby, after saying, in reference to the state of his pinafore, “O
you naughty Peepy, wat a shockig little pig you are!” was not at
all discompod. He was very god, except that h brought dow
Noah with him (out of an ark I had given him before we went to
church), and wuld dip him head first into th wi-glasses, and
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then put him in his mouth.
My Guardian, with his swet temper and hs quick percpti
and hi amable fac, made sthg agreeabl even out of th
ungenal cpany. No of them sd abl to talk about
anything but his or her, own one subject, and n of them
seemed abl to talk about even that, as part of a world in w
there was anything el; but my Guardian turned it all to the
mrry encuragemet of Caddy, and the honour of the occas,
and brought us through the breakfast nobly. What we should have
do without hi, I am afraid to think; for, al the copany
despising th bride and bridegro, and old Mr Turveydrop—and
od Mr Turveydrop, in virtue of his Deportment, considerig
hmself vastly superir to all th company—it was a very
unprosing case.
t last the tim cam when poor Caddy was to go, and when all
r property was packed on th hired coac and pair that was to
take her and her husband to Gravesd. It affected us to se
Caddy clging, then, to her deplorabl home, and hangig on her
mther’s nek with the greatest tendern
“I am very sorry I couldn’t go on writig fro dictation, Ma,”
sobbed Caddy. “I hope you forgive me now?”
“O Caddy, Caddy!” said Mrs Jellyby, “I have told you over and
over again that I have engaged a boy, and thre’s an end of it.”
“You are sure you are not the last angry with m, Ma? Say you
are sure before I go away, Ma?”
“You fooli Caddy,” returned Mrs Jelyby, “do I look angry, or
have I inati to be angry, or tim to be angry? How
can you?”
“Take a littl care of Pa while I am go, mama!”
Mrs Jellyby postively laughd at th fancy. “You romantic
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child,” said she, lightly patting Caddy’s back. “Go along. I am
excellent friends with you. Now, god bye, Caddy, and be very
happy!”
Then Caddy hung upon her father, and nursd his cheek
against hrs as if he were some poor dul chid in pain. All this
took place in the hall Her father released her, took out hi pokethandkercf, and sat dow on th stairs with hi head against th
alls. I hope he found some consolation in wals. I almost thk h
did.
Ad then Pri took her arm i hi, and turned with great
etion and respect to his fathr, wh Deportment at that
moment was overwming.
“Thank you over and over again, fathr!” said Prince, kissing
his hand. “I am very grateful for all your kindne and
cderatin regardig our marriage, and so, I can asure you, is
addy.”
“Very,” sobbed Caddy. “Ve-ry!”
“My dear son,” said Mr Turveydrop, “and dear daughter, I have
done my duty. If th spirit of a sainted Wooan hovers above us,
and looks dow on th ocasion, that, and your constant affection,
wll be my rempen You wll not fai i
your duty, my son and
daughter, I beeve?”
“Dear fathr, never!” cried Prince.
“Never, never, dear Mr Turveydrop!” said Caddy.
“Thi,” returned Mr Turveydrop, “i as it should be My
childre, my ho is yours, my heart is yours, my al is yours. I
wll never leave you; nothg but Death shall part us My dear son,
you cotemplate an abse of a week, I thk?”
“A week, dear father. We shal return hoe this day week.”
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“My dear chid,” said Mr Turveydrop, “let me, eve under th
pret exceptional circumstances, remmend strict puntuality.
It i highly iportant to kep the connetion together; and
shools, if at all neglected, are apt to take offenc”
“This day week, father, we shal be sure to be hoe to diner.”
“Good!” said Mr Turveydrop. “You wil find fires, my dear
Caroline, in your own ro, and dinner prepared in my
apartmt. Yes, yes, Prince!” anticipating some self-deying
objection on his son’s part with a great air. “You and our Caroline
be strange in the upper part of the premi, and w,
therefore, di that day in my apartment. No, bl ye!”
They drove away; and whether I wodered mt at Mrs Jeyby,
or at Mr Turveydrop, I did not kn. Ada and my Guardian wre
in th same condition w w came to talk it over. But before we
drove away, to, I received a most unxpected and equent
compliment fro Mr Jellyby. He came up to me in th hal, tok
both my hands, presd them earntly, and opened his mouth
twice. I was so sure of his meang, that I said, quite flurrid, “You
are very welcom, sir. Pray don’t mention it!”
“I hope th marriage is for the bet, Guardian?” said I, when
we three were on our road home
“I hope it is, littl woman. Patice. We shall see”
“Is the wid in the East today?” I vetured to ask him
He laughd heartiy, and answered “No”
“But it must have be this morng, I thk,” said I.
He answered “No,” again; and this time my dear girl
fidetly anered “No,” too, and shook the lovely head whic,
with its bloomig flowers agait the golde hair, was like the very
Sprig. “Muc
you kn of East wids, my ugly darlg,” said I,
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kissing her in my admirati—I couldn’t help it.
Wel! It was only thr love for me, I know very well, and it is a
long time ago I must write it, eve if I rub it out again, beaus it
gives me so much plasure. Thy said thre could be no East
wds where Sobody was; they said that wherever Dam
Durden wet, there was sun and sumr air.
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Chapter 31
Nurse And Patient
I
had nt been at home agai many days, wh one eveg I
wt upstairs ito my ow ro to take a pep over Carly’s
houlder, and see how she was getting on with her cpy-book.
Writig was a trying bus to Charly, who sed to have no
atural por over a pe, but in whose hand every pe appeared
to beme perversely animated, and to go wrog and croked, and
to stop, and splash, and sidle into cornrs, like a saddle-dokey. It
was very odd, to see what old letters Charley’s young hand made;
thy, so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering; it, so plump and
round. Yet Charley was unmmonly expert at othr things, and
had as nibl lttle figers as I ever watched.
“Well, Carley,” said I, looking over a copy of th letter O in
wich it was repreted as square, triangular, pear-saped, and
coapsed i al kinds of ways, “we are improving. If we only get to
make it round, we shall be perfet, Charley.”
Then I made one, and Charly made one, and the pe wouldn’t
join Charley’s neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.
“Never mind, Charly. We shal do it in time.”
Carley laid dow her pen, th copy being finished; oped and
sut her cramped lttle hand; lked gravey at the page, half in
pride and half in doubt; and got up, and dropped me a curtsey.
“Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you kno a poor
person of the nam of Jenny?”
“A brickmaker’s wife, Charley? Yes.”
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“Sh came and spoke to me wh I was out a littl wh ago,
and said you kn her, miss. She asked me if I was’t th young
lady’s littl maid—maning you for th young lady, miss—and I
said yes, miss.”
“I thought she had left this nghbourhood altogether,
Charly.”
“So she had, miss, but she’s come back again to whre she usd
to live—she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the
name of Liz, miss?”
“I thk I do, Charly, thugh not by name.”
“That’s wat she said!” returnd Charley. “Thy have both
me back, miss, and have be trampig high and lo”
“Tramping high and l, have they, Charly?”
“Ye, miss.” If Carley could only have made th letters in her
cpy as round as the eyes with wh se looked ito my fac, they
wuld have be excellent. “Ad this poor pers came about th
house three or four days, hopig to get a glips of you, m—al
e wanted, se said—but you were away. That was when se saw
me. She saw me a gog about, miss,” said Charly, with a short
laugh of the greatest deght and pride, “and s thought I looked
like your maid!”
“Did she thugh, realy, Charly?”
“Ye, miss!” said Charley, “really and truly.” Ad Charley, with
another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round
again, and looked as serius as beame my maid. I was never tired
of seeing Charly in the full enjoyment of that great dignty,
standing before me with her youthful face and figure, and hr
steady manr, and her childish exultati breaking through it
n and then in the pleasantest way.
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“And where did you see her, Charly?” said I.
My littl maid’s countenance fell, as she replied, “By th
doctor’s shop, miss.” For Charly wore her black frok yet.
I asked if th brickmaker’s wfe were il, but Charley said No. It
was some o e. Some o in her cottage wh had tramped
dow to Saint Alban’s, and was tramping he didn’t kn wre A
poor boy, Charly said. No father, no mther, no any one. “Like as
Tom might have bee, miss, if Ema and me had did after
father,” said Charly, her round eyes filg with tears
“And she was getting medici for him, Charley?”
“She said, miss,” returned Charly, “ho that he had oce don
as muc for her.”
My littl maid’s fac was so eager, and her quiet hands were
folded s clely in one another as she stood lookig at me, that I
had no great difficulty in readig her thoughts. “We, Carly,”
said I, “it appears to me that you and I can do no better than go
round to Jeny’s and se what’s the matter.”
The alacrity with whic Charly brought my bonnet and vei,
and, having dressed me, quaintly pinned hersf into hr warm
shawl and made hersf look like a littl od wan, suffitly
expresd her readi So Charly and I, wthout sayig
anything to any one, went out.
It was a cd, wild night, and the tree suddered i the wind.
The rai had be thick and heavy al day, and with little
intermission for many days. None was falg just th, hver.
The sky had partly cleared, but was very gloomy—even above us,
wre a fe stars wre shining. In th north and northt, whre
the sun had st three hours before, there was a pal dead light
both beautiful and awful; and into it long sullen lis of clud
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waved up, like a sea strike immovabl as it was heavig.
Toards Lodon, a lurid glare overhung the whole dark waste;
and the cotrast betwee thes two lights, and the fancy whic the
redder light engendered of an unearthly fire, gleamg on all the
unseen buidigs of the city, and on al the fac of its many
thousands of wonderig iabitants, was as so as might be
I had n thought, that night—n, I am quite sure—of what
was soo to happen to me. But I have always rebered since,
that when we had stopped at the garde gate to look up at the sky,
and when we went upo our way, I had for a mt an
undefinabl impression of myself as being something different
from what I then was I know it was then, and there, that I had it. I
have ever si cnneted the feeg with that spot and tim, and
with everythig asated with that spot and tim, to the ditant
voic i the town, the barkig of a dog, and the sound of whee
ming dow th miry hi
It was Saturday night; and mt of the peopl begig to the
place where we were going, were driking elwhere We found it
quieter than I had previously see it, thugh quite as mrabl
Th kilns were burning, and a stiflng vapour set toards us with a
pale blue glare
We cam to the cottage, where there was a feebl candl in th
patched window. We tapped at the door and went i The mther
of th littl child wh had died, was sitting in a chair o o side of
the poor fire by the bed; and oppote to her, a wretcd boy,
supported by th chiy-piec, was coring on th flr. He
ld under his arm, like a littl bundle, a fragment of a fur cap;
and as he tried to warm himf, he shook until the crazy door and
window shook. The place was coser than before, and had an
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unalthy, and a very pecular sm
I had nt lfted my vei when I first spoke to the woman, whic
was at the mot of our going in The boy staggered up itantly,
and stared at me with a remarkable expresion of surpri and
terror.
His acti was so quick, and my being th caus of it was so
evident, that I stod still, instead of advang nearer.
“I won’t go no more to the berryin ground,” muttered the boy;
“I ai’t a-going there, so I tel you!”
I lifted my veil and spoke to th woman. She said to me in a low
voice, “Don’t mid hi, ma’am. He’l soo come back to his had;”
and said to him, “Jo, Jo, what’s the matter?”
“I know wot she’s come for!” cried th boy.
“Who?”
“The lady there Sh’s co to get me to go along with her to
the berryin ground. I won’t go to the berryin ground. I do’t like
the nam of it. Sh might go a-berryin me!” His shivering came on
agai, and as he laned against the wal, he shook the hovel.
“He has been talkig off and on about suc lke, al day,
ma’am,” said Jey, softly. “Why, ho you stare! This is
my lady,
Jo.”
“Is it?” returned the boy, doubtfully, and surveyig m with hi
arm held out above his burning eyes. “She looks to m the t’other
one It ai’t the bot, nr yet it ai’t the gownd, but s looks to
m the t’other one.”
My little Charly, with her premature experienc of il and
trouble, had puld off her bonnet and shawl, and now wnt
quietly up to him with a chair, and sat him down in it, like an od
sick nurs Except that no such attedant could have shon hi
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Carley’s youthful face, which sed to engage his confidence.
“I say!” said the boy. “You tel m A’t the lady the t’other
lady?”
Charly shook her head, as she methodialy drew his rags
about him and made him as warm as she could.
“O!” the boy muttered. “Th I ’spose she ai’t.”
“I came to se if I could do you any god,” said I. “What is th
atter with you?”
“I’m a-beg froze,” returned the boy hoarsey, with hi
haggard gaze wanderig about m, “and then burnt up, and then
froze, and th burnt up, ever so many times in a hur. Ad my
had’s all slpy, and all a-going mad—like—and I’m so dry—and
my bones isn’t half so much bones as pain”
“When did he come here?” I asked th woman.
“This morng, ma’am, I found hm at th cornr of th to. I
had known him up i London yonder. Hadn’t I, Jo?”
“To-all-Alone’s,” th boy replied.
Whenever he fixed his atteti or his eyes, it was ony for a
very lttle while. He soon began to droop his head agai, and roll it
havily, and speak as if he were half awake.
“When did he c from London?” I asked.
“I co from London yes’day,” said the boy himsef, n
flusd and hot. “I’m a-gog someres.”
“Where is he gog?” I asked.
“Somewhere,” repeated the boy, i a luder to “I have been
moved o, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since th
t’other one giv’ me the sov’ring. Mrs Snagsby, s’s alays awatchig, and a-drivig of me—what have I do to her?—and
they’re al a-watcg and a-drivig of m. Every one of ’em’s
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dog of it, from the tim when I do’t get up, to the tim when I
do’t go to bed. And I’m a going sowhere That’s where I’m agoing. She told me, dow in Tom-all-A’s, as she come fro
Stolbun, and s I took the Stolbun Road. It’s as good as
another.”
He always coluded by addresing Charly.
“What is to be do with him?” said I, takig the woman asde
“He could not trave in this state, eve if h had a purpo, and
knew where he was gog!”
“I know no more, ma’am, than th dead,” she replied, glanng
compassionately at hm. “Perhaps th dead kn better if thy
could only te us. I’ve kept him hre all day for pity’s sake, and
I’ve given him broth and physic, and Liz is go to try if any on
ll take him in (hre’s my pretty in th bed—her chid, but I cal it
mine); but I can’t keep hm long, for if my husband was to come
home and find him here, he’d be rough in putting hi out, and
might do him a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!”
The other wan cam hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy
got up with a half obscured se that h was expected to be
gog. When the little chd awoke, and when and how Charly got
at it, took it out of bed, and began to walk about hushg it, I do’t
know. There sh was, dog all this, in a quiet motherly manner,
as if she were living in Mrs Blder’s attic wth Tom and Emma
again.
The frid had be here and there, and had be played about
from hand to hand, and had co back as se went. At first it was
too early for the boy to be recved into the proper refuge, and at
last it was too late. One offical set her to another, and the other
st her back agai to the first, and so backward and forward;
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until it appeared to me as if both must have be appoited for
thr skill i evading thr duti, instead of performing th. And
now, after all, she said, breathg quickly, for she had be
running, and was frighted to, “Jenny, your master’s o th
road h, and mine’s not far behnd, and th Lord help th boy,
for we can do n more for him!” They put a few half-pe
together, and hurried them ito hi hand, and s, in an oblivious,
half-thankful, half-insensibl way, he suffled out of the house
“Give me th chid, my dear!” said its mothr to Charley, “and
thank you kindly to! Jenny, wman dear, god nght! Young lady,
if my master don’t fal out with me, I’ll look dow by th ki byand-bye, where the boy wi be mot like, and agai i th
rng!” She hurried off; and prestly w pased her hushg
and sigig to her chd at her own door, and lookig anxiously
along the road for her drunke husband.
I was afraid of stayig then to speak to either woman, lt I
should brig her into troubl But I said to Charly that we must
nt lave the boy to die. Charly, who knew what to do muc
better than I did, and whose quikn equald her presenc of
mind, glided on before me, and pretly we came up with Jo, just
short of th brick-kiln.
I think he must have begun his journey with som small bundle
under his arm, and must have had it sto or lost it. For he still
carrid his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, thugh h
nt bare-haded through th rain, which now fell fast. He
stopped wh we called to him, and again shod a dread of me
w I came up; standing with his lustrous eye fixed upo me,
and eve arrested in his shivering fit.
I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that h
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had so shter for the night.
“I do’t want no ster,” he said; “I can lay amgst the warm
bricks.”
“But do’t you know that peopl die there?” returned Charly.
“They di everywhere,” said the boy. “They di i their
ldgigs—she knows were; I showed her—and they di do in
Tom-al-Alone’s in heaps They di more than they lves,
accordig to what I see.” Th he hoarsy whispered Charley. “If
se ai’t the t’other one, she ai’t the forrer. Is there
three of
’em then?”
Charly looked at me a lttle frightened. I felt half frightened at
mysf when the boy glared on me s
But he turned and followed when I bekoned to hi; and
finding that he acknledged that influence in me, I led th way
straight home. It was nt far; only at the sumt of the hil We
pasd but one man I doubted if we should have got home
thut assistance; th boy’s steps were so uncertain and
treulus. He made no complaint, hover, and was strangey
unrned about himself, if I may say so strange a thg.
Leaving hm in th hall for a moment, shrunk into a cornr of
the window-seat, and starig with an idifferen that could
scarcy be called wnder, at th comfort and brightness about
hi, I went ito the drawg-room to speak to my Guardian. There
I found Mr Skipo, who had c down by the cach, as he
frequently did withut notice, and never bringig any cloths wth
, but always borrowing everything he wanted.
They cam out with me directly, to look at the boy. The
srvants had gathered in the hall, too; and he svered in the
wndow-sat with Charley standing by hm, like some wunded
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animal that had bee found in a ditc
“This is a sorroful case,” said my Guardian, after asking him a
question or two, and touchig him, and examg his eyes. “What
do you say, Harold?”
“You had better turn him out,” said Mr Skipo
“What do you mean?” inquired my Guardian, almost sterny.
“My dear Jarndyce,” said Mr Skipol, “you kn what I am: I
am a chid. Be cross to me, if I deserve it. But I have a
ctitutional objecti to this srt of thing. I always had, when I
was a medical man. He’s not safe, you know. Thre’s a very bad
srt of fever about him”
Mr Skipo had retreated from the hall to the drawg-room
again, and said this in his airy way, seated on th music-sto as
we stood by.
“You’ll say it’s childish,” observed Mr Skipole, looking gaily
at us. “Wel, I dare say it may be; but I am a child, and I never
preted to be anythng el If you put him out in th road, you
only put him whre he was before He will be no wors off than h
as, you know Eve make him better off, if you like. Give hi
sixpence, or five shings, or five pound ten—you are
arithticians, and I am not—and get rid of him!”
“Ad what is he to do th?” asked my Guardian.
“Upon my life,” said Mr Skipol, shruggig hi shoulders wth
engaging sm, “I have not the least idea what he i to do then
But I have no doubt he’l do it.”
“Now, is it not a horribl reflti,” said my Guardian, to
whom I had hastiy explaid the unavailing efforts of the two
wmen, “is it not a horrible reflti,” walking up and dow and
rumpling his hair, “that if this wretched creature were a convicted
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prisoner, his hospital would be wide ope to him, and he would be
as we taken care of as any sick boy in th kingdom.”
“My dear Jarndyc,” returned Mr Skipo, “you’l pardo the
simplcity of th queti, comng as it doe fro a creature w is
perfetly simple in wrldly matters—but, why isn’t he a prir
then?”
My Guardian stopped and looked at him with a whsical
mixture of amust and indignation in hi face.
“Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I
should imagi,” said Mr Skimpole, unabasd and candid. “It
ses to me that it would be wiser, as we as in a certain kid of
way more respectable, if h shod some midireted enrgy that
got him into prison. Thre would be more of an adventurous spirit
in it, and consequently more of a certain sort of poetry.”
“I beeve,” returned my Guardian, resuming hi unasy walk,
“that thre is not such anthr child on earth as yourself.”
“Do you really?” said Mr Skipole; “I dare say! But, I confes I
do’t se why our young fried, i his degree, should not sk to
invest hif with such poetry as is ope to hi He is no doubt
born with an appetite—probably, wh he is in a safer state of
health, he has an exct appetite. Very wel At our young
fried’s natural dinner hour, mot lkey about noon, our young
frid says in effet to soty, ‘I am hungry; wi you have th
godness to produc your spoo, and fed me?’ Socty, wich has
taken upo itself th geral arranget of th wh syste of
spoos, and profes to have a spoo for our young friend, doe
not produce that spoon; and our young fried, therefore, says ‘You
really must excuse me if I seize it.’ Now, this appears to me a case
f misdireted ergy, wich has a certain amunt of reason in it,
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and a certain amount of romance; and I don’t kno but wat I
should be mre iterested in our young fried, as an ilustratio of
such a case, than merely as a poor vagabond—which any o can
be.”
“In the meantime,” I vetured to observe, “he is gettig worse.”
“In th meantime,” said Mr Skimpole cherfuly, “as Mi
Summers, with her practical god sense, observe, h is getting
wrse. Therefore I red your turng him out before he
gets sti worse”
Th amiabl fac wth wich he said it, I think I shal never
forget.
“Of course, lttle woman,” obsrved my Guardian, turnig to
me, “I can esure his admission into th proper place by merely
going there to enforce it, though it’s a bad state of things when, in
is codition, that is necessary. But it’s groing late, and is a very
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There i a bed in the
wholese lft-room by the stabl; we had better keep him there
till morng, wh he can be wrapped up and reved. We’ll do
that.”
“O!” said Mr Skimpole, with his hands upo th keys of th
piano, as we moved away. “Are you going back to our young
fried?”
“Yes,” said my Guardian
“How I envy you your cotitution, Jarndyc!” returned Mr
Skipo, with playful admration. “You do’t mind thes things,
neithr doe Miss Summers. You are ready at all times to go
anywre, and do anythng. Such is Wi! I have no Will at all—and
no Won’t—simply Can’t.”
“You can’t remmend anythng for th boy, I suppose?” said
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my Guardian, looking back over his shoulder, half angrily; only
half angrily, for he never seed to consider Mr Skimpole an
accountabl being.
“My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottl of cooing medicine in
is pocket, and it’s impossible for him to do better than take it.
You can tel them to sprinkl a lttle vinegar about the place where
sleeps, and to keep it moderately coo, and hm moderately
warm. But it’s mere impertice in me to offer any
remmendation. Miss Summers has such a knledge of detai
and such a capacity for th administrati of detail, that she
knows all about it.”
We went back into the hal, and explaid to Jo what we
propod to do, which Charley explained to him again, and wh
received with th languid unrn I had already noticed,
warily looking on at what was done, as if it wre for somebody
e. Th servants compassionating his miserabl state, and beg
very anxious to help, we soon got the loft-room ready; and s of
the me about the house carried hi across the wet yard, well
rapped up. It was pleasant to observe ho kind thy were to
, and how there appeared to be a geral ipreson amg
th that frequently callg him “Old Chap,” was lkely to revive
is spirits. Charley directed th operations, and wnt to and fro
betwee the loft-room and the house with suc lttle stiulants
and cforts as we thought it safe to give him My Guardian
hif saw hi before he was left for the night, and reported to
m, when he returned to the Growlery to write a letter on the
boy’s bealf, wich a messenger was charged to delver at daylight
i the morng, that he seed easer, and ied to sleep. They
had fastened h door on the outside, he said, in cas of his beg
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delirius; but had so arranged that he could not make any noise
without beg heard.
Ada being i our ro with a cold, Mr Skipole was left al
all this time, and entertained himself by playig satche of
pathtic airs, and sometimes singing to th (as we heard at a
ditan) with great expreson and feelig. When w rejoined hi
the drawg-room he said he would give us a little balad, whic
had c ito hi head, “apropos of our young fried;” and he
sang on about a Peasant boy,
“Thro on the wide world, doo’d to wander and roam,
Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home,”
quite exquisitey. It was a song that always made hm cry, h told
us.
He was extremely gay al the ret of the evenig: “for he
absolutely chirped,” th were his delighted wrds; “whn h
thught by what a happy talent for business h was surrounded.”
He gave us, in his glas of negus, “Better health to our young
friend!” and suppod, and gaily pursued, th case of his beg
resrved lke Whttington to be Lord Mayor of London. In
that evet, no doubt, he would establish th Jarndyce Institution
and the Sumers A-house, and a little anual Corporati
Pigrimage to St. Alban’s He had n doubt, he said, that our
young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his way was not
th Harold Skipole way; what Harold Skimpole was, Harod
Skimpole had found himself, to hs considerable surprise, w h
first made his ow acquaintance; he had accepted himself wth all
is faigs, and had thught it sound philosphy to make th best
of th bargain; and he hoped we would do th same.
arley’s last report was, that th boy was quiet. I could se,
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from my window, the lantern they had left hi burng quietly;
and I went to bed very happy to think that he was shtered.
There was more movemt and more talkig than usual a little
before daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dreng, I looked out
of my window, and asked one of our me who had been amg the
active sympathirs last night, whether there was anything wrong
about th house Th lantern was still burng in th loft-window
“It’s th boy, miss,” said he
“Is he worse?” I inquired.
“Gone, miss.”
“Dead!”
“Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off.”
At what tim of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it
seemed hope ever to divi The door reaig as it had be
left, and th lantern standing in th window, it could only be
suppod that he had got out by a trap in the floor whic
mmunicated with an empty cart-huse below But h had shut it
dow again, if that were so; and it looked as if it had not be
raised. Nothing of any kid was missing. On this fact being clearly
ascertained, w all yided to th painful belf that delirium had
come upo hm in th night, and that, allured by some imagiary
object, or pursued by some imaginary horror, he had strayed away
in that wors than helpless state;—all of us, that is to say, but Mr
Skimpole, wh repeatedly suggested, in his usual easy light styl,
that it had occurred to our young fried that he was nt a safe
iate, having a bad kind of fever upon him; and that he had, with
great natural politess, taken himself off.
Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was
arced. The brik ki were examed, the cottage were
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visited, th tw women were particularly quetid, but thy
knew nothing of hm, and nobody could doubt that thr wonder
was genui The weather had for so tim be too wet, and
the night itsf had be too wet, to admt of any tracg by
fotsteps. Hedge and ditc, and wal, and rik and stack, wre
xamind by our men for a long distance round, lest th boy
should be lyig in such a place inseble or dead; but nothing was
een to idiate that he had ever been near. From the ti when
he was left in the loft-room, he vaned.
Th search contiued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased,
eve then; but that my attenti was then diverted into a current
very memorable to me.
As Carley was at hr writing again in my ro in th eveing,
and as I sat oppote to her at work, I felt the table tremble
Lookig up I saw my lttle maid shvering from head to foot.
“Charley,” said I “are you so cold?”
“I think I am, miss,” she replied. “I don’t kn what it is. I can’t
hd myself still. I felt so yesterday; at about this same time, miss.
Don’t be unasy, I thk I’m ill.”
I heard Ada’s voic outside, and I hurried to the door of
cunation betwee my room and our pretty sitting-room,
and locked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was
yet upon the key.
Ada cald to me to lt her in; but I said, “Not nw, my dearet.
Go away. There’s nothing the matter; I will co to you
pretly.” Ah! it was a long, long time, before my darling girl and
I were companions again.
Carley fe ill. In twve hours she was very ill. I moved her to
my ro, and laid hr in my bed, and sat dow quietly to nurs
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hr. I told my Guardian all about it, and wy I felt it was necesary
that I should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeng my
darlig above all At first sh cam very often to the door, and
calld to me, and eve reproached me with sobs and tears; but I
wrote her a long letter, saying that she made me anxius and
unappy, and implring her, as she loved me, and wished my
mnd to be at peace, to co no narer than the garde After that,
se cam beath the widow, even ofter than she had c to
the door; and, if I had learnt to love her dear sweet voic before
wen w wre hardly ever apart, how did I larn to love it then,
wen I stood bed the widow-curtai ltenig and replyig,
but not so muc as lookig out! How did I larn to lve it
afterwards, when the harder ti cam!
They put a bed for me i our sitting-room; and by kepig the
door wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, nw that Ada
had vacated that part of the house, and kept them alays fres
and airy. There was nt a srvant, in or about the house, but was
so god that thy would all most gladly have come to me at any
hour of the day or night, without the least fear or unwilgn;
but I thought it bet to choose one worthy woman who was nver
to s Ada, and whom I could trust to co and go with al
preaution. Through her means, I got out to take the air with my
Guardian, when there was n fear of meetig Ada; and wanted for
nthing in the way of attendan, any more than in any other
respect.
d thus poor Charly sikeed and grew worse, and fel into
avy danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round
of day and nght. So patiet s was, s uncplaig, and
inspired by such a gentle fortitude, that very often as I sat by
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Charly, holdig her head in my arm—repose would co to her,
so, wh it would come to her in no othr attitude—I silently
prayed to our Father in heave that I mght not forget the leon
wich this littl sister taught me.
I was very sorroful to think that Carley’s pretty looks wuld
change and be disfigured, eve if she revered—she was such a
cd with her dipld fac—but that thought was, for the greater
part, lt i her greater peril Wh sh was at the worst, and her
mind rambled again to th cares of her fathr’s sk bed, and th
littl chidre, she still kn me so far as that she would be quiet
i my arm wh she could le quit nere els, and murmur
out th wanderings of her mid less restlessly. At th times I
used to think how should I ever tell the two remaig babi that
the baby who had larnd of her faithful heart to be a mther to
them in their need, was dead!
There were other ti when Charly knew m we, and talked
to me: telg me that sh set her lve to Tom and Ema, and
that s was sure Tom would grow up to be a good man At those
times Charley would speak to me of what she had read to hr
father as well as sh could, to cfort hi; of that young man
arried out to be buried, who was the only so of his mther and
she was a widow; of th ruler’s daughter raised up by th gracious
hand upon her bed of death. And Charly told me that when her
fathr died, she had kneeled dow and prayed in her first sorro
that h likewise might be raised up, and give back to his poor
childre; and that if she should never get better, and should die
too, sh thought it likey that it mght c into Tom’s mid to
offer the sam prayer for her. Then would I show Tom how those
peopl of old days had been brought back to life on earth, only that
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we might know our hope to be restored in Heave!
But of all th varius times thre were in Carley’s illness,
thre was not on wh she lost th gentle qualities I have spoken
of. Ad there were many, many, when I thought in the night of the
last high bef in the watchig Age, and the last higher trust i
God, on the part of her poor depid father.
And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slly turnd th
dangerous pot, after lg ligerig there, and then began to
mnd. The hope that never had be given, from the first, of
Carley beig i outward appearance Charley any more, soo
began to be enuraged; and eve that propered, and I saw hr
groing into her old chidish likene again.
It was a great mrnig, when I could tel Ada all this as s
tood out in the garde; and it was a great evenig wen Charly
and I at last took tea together in the next room. But, on that sam
veing, I felt that I was stricken cold.
Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe i bed
again and placidly asleep, that I began to think th contagion of
her illnes was upo me I had be abl easy to hide what I had
felt at tea-tim, but I was past that already now, and I kn that I
was rapidly foing in Charley’s steps.
I was we enough, however, to be up early in the mrng, and
to return my darlig’s chrful bleg from the garde, and to
talk with her as long as usual. But I was not fre fro an
pre that I had be walkig about the two rooms in the
nght, a lttle bede mysf, though knowing where I was; and I
felt confusd at times—with a curius sense of fulness, as if I wre
beg too large altogether.
In the evenig I was s muc worse that I reved to prepare
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Carley; with which vi, I said, “You’re getting quite strong,
Carley, are you not?”
“O quite!” said Charly.
“Strong enough to be told a seret, I think, Charley?”
“Quite strong enugh for that, miss!” crid Carley. But
Carley’s face fe in th height of her delight, for she saw th
cret in my fac; and s cam out of the great chair, and fell
upo my bosom, and said “O miss, it’s my doing! It’s my doig!”
and a great deal more, out of the fuln of her grateful heart.
“Now, Charly,” said I, after letting her go on for a little whil,
“if I am to be i, my great trust, humany speakig, i in you. Ad
unles you are as quiet and composd for me, as you alays wre
for yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.”
“If you’ll let me cry a littl longer, miss,” said Carley. “O my
dear, my dear! if you’l only let me cry a littl longer, O my
dear!”—ho affectionately and devotedly she poured this out, as
s clung to my nek, I never can rember without tears—“I’l
be good.”
So I let Charley cry a littl longer, and it did us both god.
“Trust in me now, if you please, miss,” said Charley, quietly. “I
am listeing to everythng you say.”
“It is very little at pret, Charly. I shal tell your dotor
tonight that I do’t think I am well, and that you are going to
nurs me.”
For that the poor chd thanked me with her whole heart.
“And in the morning, when you hear Mis Ada in the garde, if
I should nt be quite abl to go to the window-curtai as usual, do
you go, Charley, and say I am asleep—that I have rathr tired
myself, and am asleep. At all times keep th ro as I have kept it,
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Carley, and let no on come.”
Carly promd, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw
the dotor that nght, and asked the favour of him that I wisd to
ask, relative to his saying nothing of my illness in th huse as yet.
I have a very inditit rembranc of that nght metig ito
day, and of day metig into nght agai; but I was just abl, o the
first mornig, to get to the window, and speak to my darlg.
On th second morning I heard her dear voice—O ho dear
now!—outside; and I asked Charley, with som difficulty (spee
beg paiful to me), to go and say I was asp. I heard her
answer softly, “Don’t disturb her, Charly, for the world!”
“How do my own Pride look, Charly?” I iquired.
“Diappoted, miss,” said Carly, peping through th
curtain.
“But I kn she is very beautiful this morng.”
“She is indeed, miss,” answered Charley, peeping. “Sti looking
up at the wido.”
With her blue car eyes, God bl them, alays lvet wen
raised like that!
I called Charley to me, and gave her her last charge
“Now, Charly, when se knows I am il, she wi try to make
her way into the room. Kep her out, Charly, if you love me truly,
to the last! Charly, if you let her in but on, oy to look upon me
for on moment as I li here, I shall die.”
“I never wi! I never will!” she prod me.
“I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and st beside me
for a little whil, and touch m with your hand. For I cannot s
you, Charly; I am blid.”
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Chapter 32
The Appointed Ti
I
t is night in Lin’s Inn—perplexed and troublous valy of
the shadow of the law, where suitors genrally find but little
day—and fat candles are suffed out in offices, and clrks
have rattled do the crazy wooden stairs, and dipersd. The be
that rings at nine o’clock, has ceased its doleful clangour about
nthing; the gates are sut; and the night-porter, a so warder
with a mighty power of slp, keps guard i hi lodge From tiers
of staircase wdows, clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity,
blared Argus with a fathoml poket for every eye and an eye
upo it, diy blk at th stars. In dirty upper casements, here
and there, hazy little patches of candllight reveal where s
wis draughtsman and coveyanr yet toil for the etanglt
of real estate i m of seepski, in the average ratio of about
a dozen of shep to an acre of land. Over which bee-like industry,
these befactors of their speci lger yet, though offic-hours
be past: that they may give, for every day, so good accunt at
last.
In the nghbourig court, where the Lord Chanor of th
Rag and Bottle shop dw, there is a genral tendey towards
ber and supper. Mrs Piper and Mrs Perkins, wh respective
, egaged with a crc of acquaitanc in the game of hide
and sek, have be lying in ambush about th by-ways of
Cancery Lane for some hours, and scourig th plain of th same
throughfare to th confusion of passengers—Mrs Piper and Mrs
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Perkins have but nw excanged cogratulations on the cdre
beg abed; and they sti liger on a doorstep over a few partig
words Mr Krook and hi ldger, and the fact of Mr Krook’s being
“continualy in liquor,” and the testamtary prospets of the
young man are, as usual, the stapl of their coversatio But they
have sothing to say, likewis, of the Harmoni Meetig at the
So’s Arm; where the sound of the piano through the partlyopened widows jigl out into the court, and where little Sw,
after keepig th lovers of harmy in a roar like a very Yorick,
may now be heard taking th gruff line in a concerted pi, and
sentimentally adjuring his friends and patros to Liste, liste,
lten, Te the wa-ter-Fal! Mrs Perki and Mrs Piper cpare
pinions o th subjet of th young lady of profeal celebrity
w assists at th Harmic Metigs, and wh has a space to
rsf in th manuscript announcement in th window; Mrs
Perkins possessing information that she has be marrid a year
and a half, thugh announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, th noted
syren, and that her baby is clandestiney conveyed to th Sol’s
rm every night to recve its natural nourishmet during the
entertaients “Sooer than which, myself,” says Mrs Perki, “I
wuld get my living by seing lucifers.” Mrs Piper, as in duty
bound, is of th same opinion; holding that a private station is
better than publ applause, and thanking Heave for hr o
(and, by implati, Mrs Perkins’s) respetabity. By this tim,
th pot-boy of th Sol’s Arms appearig wth hr supper-pint w
frothd, Mrs Piper accepts that tankard and retires indoors, first
giving a fair good night to Mrs Perki, who has had her own pit
i her hand ever sie it was fetched from the sam hostelry by
young Perki before he was st to bed. No, there is a sund of
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putting up shop-shutters in the court, and a sm as of the
sokig of pipe; and shooting stars are seen i upper windows,
furthr indicating retirement to rest. Now, to, th policeman
begi to push at doors; to try fasteings; to be suspicious of
bundles; and to admnister his beat, o th hypothsis that
everyo is either robbig or beg robbed.
It is a clos night, thugh th damp cold is searchig to; and
there is a laggard mt a little way up in the air. It is a fine
teamg night to turn the slaughterhouse, the unwhole
trade, the sewerage, bad water, and burial grounds to acunt,
and give the Registrar of Deaths so extra bus It may be
something in th air—thre is plenty in it—or it may be something
in himself, that is in fault; but Mr Weevle, othrwise Jobling, i
very ill at ease. He comes and go, betw his on ro and th
pen street door, twenty times an hour. He has be doing so, ever
since it fe dark. Since th Chancellor shut up his shop, which he
did very early toght, Mr Weevl has been do and up, and
dow and up (with a cheap tight velvet skull-cap on hi had,
makig hi whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener than
before
It is no phe that Mr Snagsby should be ill at ease to;
for h always i so, more or less, under th oppressive influence of
th secret that is upo him. Impelled by th mystery, of wich h
is a partaker, and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr Snagsby
haunts what se to be its fountain-head—the rag and bottle
shop in th court. It has an irresistible attracti for hm. Eve
now, coming round by th Sol’s Arms with th intention of passing
down the court, and out at the Chanry Lan end, and so
terminatig his unpreditated after-supper stro of ten minute
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lg from his own door and back agai, Mr Snagsby approac
“What, Mr Weevle?” says th stationer, stopping to speak. “Are
you there?”
“Ay!” says Weevl. “Here I am, Mr Snagsby.”
“Arig yoursef, as I am dog, before you go to bed?” the
stationer inquire
“Why, there’s not muc air to be got here; and what there i, is
not very frening,” Weevle answers, glancing up and dow th
urt.
“Very true, sir. Don’t you observe,” says Mr Snagsby, pausing
to sff and taste the air a little; “do’t you obsrve, Mr Weevl,
that you’re—not to put too fin a pot upo it—that you’re rather
greasy here, sir?”
“Why, I have noticed myself that thre is a quer kind of flavour
in th place tonight,” Mr Weevle rejos. “I suppose it’s chops at
th Sol’s Arms.”
“Chps, do you thk? Oh!—Cps, eh?” Mr Snagsby siffs and
taste again. “Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say thr cook
at the So wanted a little lookig after. She has been burng ’em,
sir! Ad I don’t thk;” Mr Snagsby sniffs and taste again, and
th spits and wipes his mouth; “I don’t think—not to put to fi
a pot upon it—that they were quite fresh, when they were shown
the gridiron.”
“That’s very likey. It’s a taintig sort of weathr.”
“It is a taintig sort of wathr,” says Mr Snagsby; “and I find it
sinking to th spirits.”
“By George! I find it gives me the horrors,” returns Mr Wevl
“Thn, you see, you live in a lonsome way, and i a lonesome
ro, with a black circumstance hanging over it,” says Mr
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Snagsby, lookig in past the other’s shoulder along the dark
passage, and th falling back a step to look up at th house. “
I
culdn’t live in that room alone, as you do, sr. I should get s
fidgetty and worried of an eveg, stim, that I should be
drive to co to the door, and stand here, sooner than st there
But then it’s very true that you didn’t see, in your room, what I
saw thre That makes a difference.”
“I know quite enough about it,” returns Tony.
“It’s not agreabl, is it?” pursues Mr Snagsby, coughng hi
ugh of md persuasn bed hi hand. “Mr Krook ought to
coder it in the ret. I hope he does, I am sure.”
“I hope he does,” says Toy. “But I doubt it!”
“You find the rent high, do you, sr,” returns the statir.
“Rents are high about here. I do’t know how it is exactly, but the
law s to put things up in pri Not,” adds Mr Snagsby, with
his apolgetic cough, “that I mean to say a word against th
profession I get my living by.”
Mr Wevl again glanc up and down the court, and the loks
at th stationer. Mr Snagsby, blankly catcng h eye, looks
upward for a star or so, and cough a cough expreve of not
exactly seg his way out of this coversatio
“It’s a curius fact, sir,” he observe, slly rubbing his hands,
“that he should have been—”
“Who’s he?” interrupts Mr Weevle.
“Th deceasd, you kn,” says Mr Snagsby, twitching hi
head and right eyebrow towards the staircas, and tappig his
acquaitanc on the button.
“Ah to be sure!” returns the other, as if he were not overfond of
the subjet. “I thought we had do with him”
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“I was only going to say, it’s a curius fact, sir, that h should
have co and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then
that you should co and live here, and be one of my writers, too.
Wh there is nthing derogatory, but far from it i the
appellation,” says Mr Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that h
may have unpolitely asserted a kind of propritorship in Mr
Weevle, “beause I have known writers that have go into
Brers’ houses and done really very respectable indeed.
Emtly respetabl, sir,” adds Mr Snagsby, with a misgivig
that he had not improved the matter.
“It’s a curius coiciden, as you say,” answers Weevle, oce
more glancing up and dow th court.
“Se a Fate in it, do’t there?” suggests the statir.
“Thre does.”
“Just so,” observe th stationer, with his confirmatory cough
“Quite a Fate in it. Quite a Fate. Wel, Mr Weevl, I am afraid I
must bid you god night;” Mr Snagsby speaks as if it made h
delate to go, though he has be castig about for any man of
escape ever sinc h stopped to speak; “my littl woman will be
lookig for me, el. Good night, sir!”
If Mr Snagsby hastes ho to save his littl wan th
trouble of lookig for him, he mght set hi mid at rest on that
sre. His lttle woan has had her eye upon hi round the So’s
rm al this tim, and now glide after him with a poket
handkerchief wrapped over her head; honuring Mr Weevle and
his doorway with a very searching glance as she go past.
“You’ll kn me agai, ma’am, at al events,” says Mr Weevl to
mself; “and I can’t compliment you on your appearance,
whoever you are, with your head tied up in a bundl Is this fel
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never coming!”
This fellow approache as he speaks. Mr Weevle softly hods up
his finger, and draws him into th passage, and cl th stret
door. Th, thy go upstairs; Mr Weevle heavily, and Mr Guppy
(for it is he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into the back
room, they speak l
“I thought you had gone to Jericho at least, intead of cg
hre,” says Toy.
“Why, I said about te”
“You said about ten,” Tony repeats. “Ye, so you did say about
ten But, acrdig to my count, it’s ten tim ten—it’s a hundred
o’clock. I never had such a night in my life!”
“What has be the matter?”
“That’s it!” says Tony. “Nothing has been the matter. But, here
have I be steing and fuming in this jolly old crib, ti I have had
the horrors falg on me as thick as hail
There’s a blssed lookig
candl!” says Tony, poting to the heaviy burng taper on hi
tabl with a great cabbage head and a lg windig-sht.
“That’s easly improved,” Mr Guppy observe, as he takes th
uffers in hand.
“Is it?” returnd his friend. “Not so easly as you think. It has
been soulderig like that, ever sie it was lighted.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Tony?” inquire Mr Guppy,
lookig at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on
the tabl
“William Guppy,” replies th othr, “I am in th Dos. It’s this
unbearably dull, suicidal ro—and old Boguey dowstairs, I
suppose.” Mr Weevle moodily pushe th suffers-tray fro h
th his ebo, leans hs had on his hand, puts his fet on th
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fender, and looks at th fire. Mr Guppy, observing hm, slightly
toss his head, and sits down on the other side of the table i an
asy attitude
“Was’t that Snagsby talkig to you, Tony?”
“Yes, and h—yes, it was Snagsby,” says Mr Weevl, alterig
the cotruction of the sete
“On busss?”
“No. No busine. He was only sauntering by and stopped to
pro”
“I thought it was Snagsby,” says Mr Guppy, “and thought it as
that he shouldn’t see me, so I waited ti he was go.”
“Thre w go again, Willam G.!” cries Tony, looking up for an
instant. “So mysterious and secret! By George, if we wre going to
mmit a murder, we couldn’t have more mystery about it!”
Mr Guppy affects to smile; and with th vi of changing th
versation, looks with an admration, real or pretended, round
the room at the Galaxy gallry of Briti beauty; termiatig his
urvey wth the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantel-shelf, in
ich she is repreted on a terrace, with a pedestal upo th
terrace, and a vase upo th pedestal, and hr shawl upo th
vase, and a prodigious pie of fur upo th shawl and her arm
upon the pi of fur, and a bracelet on her arm
“That’s very like Lady Dedlok,” says Mr Guppy. “It’s a
speakig likeness.”
“I wish it was,” grols Tony, wthut changing his position “I
should have some fashionabl conversati here, th.”
Findig, by this tim, that his friend is nt to be wheedld ito a
more sociable humour, Mr Guppy puts about upo th ill-usd
tack, and remtrate with him
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“Toy,” says he, “I can make alan for los of spirits,
for no man kns what it is wh it doe come upo a man, better
than I do; and n man perhaps has a better right to know it, than a
man w has an unrequited image prited on his art. But thre
are bounds to thes things when an unoffendig party is in
question, and I will acknowledge to you, Tony, that I do’t think
your manner on th pret occasion is hopitable or quite
gentlemany.”
“This is strong language, Willam Guppy,” returns Mr Weevle.
“Sir, it may be,” retorts Mr William Guppy, “but I fe strongly
wen I use it.”
Mr Weevle admits that he has bee wrog, and begs Mr William
Guppy to think no more about it. Mr Wiliam Guppy, hover,
having got the advantage, cannot quite relas it without a little
re injured remtran
“No! Das it, Tony,” says that gentlan, “you realy ought to
be careful how you wound the feeligs of a man, who has an
unrequited image imprinted on his art, and wh is not altogethr
happy in those chords wh vibrate to the tederest emoti
You, Tony, posses in yourself all that is calulated to charm th
ye, and allure th taste It is not—happily for you, perhaps, and I
may wis that I could say the sam—it is not your character to
hover around one flower. The ’ole garden i open to you, and your
airy pinion carry you through it. Still, Tony, far be it fro me, I
am sure, to wound even your feeligs without a cause!”
Tony agai entreats that the subjet may be no lger pursued,
saying emphatially, “William Guppy, drop it!” Mr Guppy
acquiesces, wth th reply, “I never should have taken it up, Tony,
of my own acrd.”
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“And no,” says Toy, stirrig the fire, “touching th same
bundl of ltters. Isn’t it an extraordiary thing of Krook to have
appoted twelve o’cock tonght to hand ’e over to me?”
“Very. What did he do it for?”
“What do he do anything for? He don’t kn. Said, today was
birthday, and he’d hand ’e over tonight at twelve o’cock.
He’ll have drunk hf blind by that time. He has bee at it all
day.”
“He has’t forgotten the appotmet, I hope?”
“Forgotten? Trust hi for that. He never forgets anything. I
saw hi tonght, about eight—helped him to shut up his shop—
and he had got the letters then in hi hairy cap. He pulld it off,
and showed ’e m When the shop was cosed, he took them out
of his cap, hung his cap on th chair-back, and stod turning th
over before the fire. I heard him a little whil afterwards through
the floor here, hummg, lke the wind, the only sg he knows—
about Bibo, and old Charo, and Bibo beig drunk wh he died,
or sthing or other. He has be as quiet, sie, as an old rat
asleep in his hole.”
“And you are to go dow at twelve?”
“At twelve. And, as I tel you, when you cam it sd to m a
hundred.”
“Toy,” says Mr Guppy, after considering a littl wth his legs
crossed, “he can’t read yet, can he?”
“Read! He’ll never read. He can make all th letters separately,
and he knows mot of them sparately when he se them; he has
got on that muc, under me; but he can’t put them together. He’s
to old to acquire th knack of it now—and to drunk.”
“Toy,” says Mr Guppy, uncrossing and recrosing his legs;
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“ho do you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdo?”
“He never spelt it out. You know what a curius powr of eye
he has, and how he has be used to employ hielf i cpyig
things by eye al He imitated it—evidently fro th direction of
a letter; and asked me what it meant.”
“Toy,” said Mr Guppy, uncrosing and recrosing his legs
again; “should you say that th original was a man’s writing or a
woman’s?”
“A woman’s Fifty to on a lady’s—slopes a god deal, and th
d of th letter ‘n,’ long and hasty.”
Mr Guppy has be biting his thumbnail during this dialgue,
genrally changing the thumb when he has canged the crossd
leg. As he is gog to do so again, h happens to look at his coatsleeve It takes hi attention He stare at it, aghast.
“Why, Tony, what on earth is going on i this house tonight? Is
there a chy on fire?”
“Chimney on fire!”
“Ah!” returns Mr Guppy. “See how the soot’s fallg. See here,
on my arm! See agai, on the table here! Confound the stuff, it
wn’t blow off—sars, like black fat!”
They look at one another, and Tony goes lteg to the door,
and a littl way upstairs, and a littl way dowstairs Comes back,
and says it’s al right, and all quiet; and quotes the remark he
lately made to Mr Snagsby, about their cookig chops at the So’s
Arms.
“And it was th,” resumes Mr Guppy, still glancing wth
rearkabl avers at his coat-seeve, as they pursue their
conversati before th fire, leaning on opposte sides of th tabl,
with their heads very near together, “that he told you of hi having
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taken th bundle of letters fro his lodger’s portmanteau?”
“That was the tim, sr,” ansred Tony, faitly adjustig his
whiskers. “Whereupon I wrote a lne to my dear boy, the
Honourable Wiliam Guppy, informing him of th appoitmt for
tonight, and advisg him nt to call before: Boguey beg a
Slyboots.”
Th light vivacious to of fashionabl life which is usually
asumd by Mr Wevl, sits so i upon him tonight, that he
abandons that and his whkers togethr; and, after looking over
his shoulder, appears to yid himself up, a prey to th hrrors
again.
“You are to brig the letters to your room to read and cpare,
and to get yoursef into a poti to tell hi all about them That’s
the arranget, i’t it, Tony?” asks Mr Guppy, anxiously biting
his thumbnail.
“You can’t speak to lo Yes. That’s what he and I agreed.”
“I te you what, Toy—”
“You can’t speak to low,” says Tony once more. Mr Guppy
nods hs sagacus had, advan it yet clr, and drops into a
wisper.
“I tel you what. The first thing to be do i, to make another
packet, lke the real one; s that, if he should ask to see the real
one while it’s in my poon, you can show him the dumy.”
“And suppose he detects the dumy as soon as he s it—
wich wth his biting scre of an eye is about five hundred times
re likey than not,” suggests Tony.
“Then we’ll fac it out. They do’t beg to hi, and they
never did. You found that; and you placd th in my hands—a
legal friend of yours—for security. If he forc us to it, thy’ll be
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producible, wo’t thy?”
“Ye-es,” is Mr Weevl’s reuctant admission
“Why, Toy,” remontrates his friend, “ho you lok! You don’t
doubt Wiam Guppy? You do’t suspet any harm?”
“I don’t suspect anythg more than I kn, Wilam,” returned
the other, gravely.
“And what do you kn?” urges Mr Guppy, raising hs voice a
lttle; but on his fried’s once more warng him, “I tell you, you
can’t speak to low,” h repeats his queti withut any sound at
all; formg with his lips only th words, “What do you kn?”
“I know thre things. First, I kn that here we are whispering
in secrey; a pair of conspirators.”
“We!” says Mr Guppy, “and we had better be that, than the
pair of noodles, which we should be, if we were doig anythng
else; for it’s the ony way of doig what we want to do. Secondly?”
“Secdly, it’s not made out to me ho it’s likely to be
profitable, after all.”
Mr Guppy casts up hi eye at th portrait of Lady Dedlk over
the mantel-shelf, and repl, “Tony, you are asked to lave that to
th hour of your friend. Bedes its being calculated to serve
that fried, in those chords of the human md which—whic
d not be called into agoising vibration on th pret
occasi—your friend is no fo. What’s that?”
“It’s eleven o’clk strikig by the be of Sait Paul’s. Liten,
and you’ll hear all th bels in th city jangling.”
Both sit silent, listeg to th metal voices, near and distant,
resounding fro tors of varius heights, in tos more varius
than their situati When the at lgth case, al seems mre
ysterius and quiet than before. On diagreeable result of
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wispering is, that it sees to evoke an atmosphere of silence,
haunted by the ghosts of sound—strange cracks and tickigs, the
rustlg of garmets that have n substance in them, and the tread
of dreadful feet, that would leave no mark on the sa-sand or th
nter snow. So sesitive th tw friends happen to be, that th air
i full of these phantoms; and the two look over their shoulders by
one coent, to see that the door is shut.
“Ye, Tony?” says Mr Guppy, drawing nearer to th fire, and
biting his unsteady thumbnai “You were going to say, thirdly?”
“It’s far from a plasant thing to be plotting about a dead man
the room were he died, espealy when you happe to live in
it.”
“But we are plotting nthing against him, Tony.”
“May be not, still I don’t like it. Live hre by yourself, and see
how you like it.”
“A to dead mn, Tony,” proceds Mr Guppy, evadig this
proposal, “there have be dead m i mot rooms”
“I know there have; but in mot rooms you lt them alone,
and—and they let you al,” Tony anrs
The two look at eac other agai Mr Guppy make a hurried
remark to the effect that they may be dog the deasd a srvic;
that he hopes s. There is an oppresve blank, unti Mr Weevl,
by stirring th fire suddely, makes Mr Guppy start as if his hart
had be stirred istead.
“Fah! Here’s mre of this hateful soot hangig about,” says he.
“Let us ope the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It’s too
clos”
He raises th sash, and thy both rest o th wdo-sill, half in
and half out of the room. The nghbouring house are too nar, to
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admt of their seg any sky without crang their nks and
lookig up; but lghts i frowsy windows here and there, and the
rog of ditant carriages, and the ne expre that there i of
th stir of men, thy fid to be comfortabl Mr Guppy, noisesly
tapping o th wido-sill, resumes hi whispering in quite a
lght-cody tone
“By-th-bye, Toy, don’t forget old Smaleed;” meang th
Younger of that nam “I have nt let him ito this, you know.
That grandfathr of his is to ke by half. It run in the famy.”
“I remember,” says Toy. “I am up to al that” “And as to
Krok,” resumes Mr Guppy. “No, do you suppose he really has
got hold of any other papers of importan, as he has boasted to
you, since you have be such al?”
Tony shakes his had. “I don’t know. Can’t imagine If we get
through this business wthut rousing his suspicions, I shall be
better informed n doubt. How can I know without sg them,
when he do’t know himelf? He is always speg out words from
them, and chalkig them over the table and the shop-wal, and
asking what this is, and what that is; but his w stok, fro
begig to end, may easily be th waste paper he bought it as,
for anythng I can say. It’s a monomana with hi, to think he is
possesd of documents. He has be gog to learn to read th
this last quarter of a cetury, I should judge, from what he tells
me.”
“How did he first c by that idea, though? that’s the
question,” Mr Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little
forensic meditati. “He may have found papers i some thg h
bought, wre papers wre not supposed to be; and may have got
it into his srewd head, from the manr and place of their
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calmet, that they are worth sothing.”
“Or he may have be taken in, in some preteded bargain. Or
h may have bee muddled altogethr, by long starig at watever
he has got, and by drik, and by hangig about the Lord
Cancellor’s court and harig of documents for ever,” returns Mr
Weevl
Mr Guppy sitting on th window-sll, noddig his had and
balancing all th possibiities in his mind, contiues thughtfully
to tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with hs hand, until h hastily
draws his hand away.
“What, i th Devil’s name,” he says, “is this! Lok at my
fingers!”
A thick, yellow liquor defiles th, which is offeive to th
touc and sight, and more offensive to th smell. A stagnant,
sickeng o, wth some natural repulsion in it that makes th
both shudder.
“What have you be dog here? What have you be pourig
out of window?”
“I pouring out of wido! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I have
been here!” cri the lodger.
d yet look here—and look here! Wh he brigs the candl,
hre, fro th cornr of th window-sill, it slly drips, and creps
away down the briks; here, li in a little thick nausus pool.
“This is a horribl house,” says Mr Guppy, shutting dow th
do. “Give me some water, or I shal cut my hand off.”
He so washe, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells and washe,
that he has not log restored himelf with a glas of brandy, and
stod silently before th fire, wh Saint Paul’s be strikes twve,
and al those other be strike twelve from their towers of various
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hights in th dark air, and in thr many tos. Whe all is quiet
again, th lodger says:
“It’s the appoted tim at last. Shall I go?”
Mr Guppy nods, and give him a “lucky touc” on th back; but
nt with the wasd hand, though it is his right hand.
He go dowstairs; and Mr Guppy tries to compo himself,
before the fire, for waitig a log tim But i n more than a
minute or tw th stairs creak, and Tony comes swiftly back.
“Have you got them?”
“Got them! No The old man’s not there”
He has be so horribly frighted in th short interval, that h
terror seizes th othr, wh makes a rush at hm, and asks loudly,
“What’s the matter?”
“I couldn’t make him hear, and I softly opened the door and
looked i. Ad the burng sm i there—and the soot is there,
and the oil is there—and he is not there!”—Tony eds this with a
groan
Mr Guppy take the lght. They go down, more dead than alive,
and holdig one another, pus open the door of the back shop.
The cat has retreated close to it, and stands snarling—not at them;
at sothing on the ground, before the fire. There i very lttle fire
left in th grate, but thre is a suldering suffoating vapour in
th ro, and a dark greasy coatig on th wals and ceiling. Th
airs and tabl, and the bottle so rarely abst from the table, all
stand as usual. On on chair-back, hang th old man’s hairy cap
and coat.
“Lok!” whispers th lodger, pointing his friend’s attention to
thes objects with a tremblg finger. “I told you s Wh I saw
last, he took his cap off, took out the little bundl of old ltters,
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hung his cap on th back of th chair—his coat was thre already,
for he had pulld that off, before he went to put the shutters up—
and I lft hi turnig the letters over in his hand, standig just
where that crumbld black thing i upo the floor.”
Is he hangig sowhere? They look up. No
“See!” wispers Tony. “At th fot of th same chair, thre li
a dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pe with. That went
round th letters He undid it slly, leerig and laughng at me,
before he began to turn them over, and threw it there I saw it
fal.”
“What’s the matter with the cat?” says Mr Guppy. “Look at
her!”
“Mad, I thk. And n woder, in th evil place.”
They advan sowly, lookig at all thes things. The cat
reai where they found her, sti sarlg at the sthg on
the ground, before the fire and betwee the two chairs. What is it?
Hold up the light.
Here is a small burnt patc of flring; here is th tinder fro a
lttle bundl of burnt paper, but nt so light as usual, sg to
be steped in somethg; and here is—is it th cinder of a small
arred and broke log of wood sprikld with white ashes, or i it
cal? O Horror, he Is here! and this, from whic we run away,
strikig out the lght and overturnig on another into the street,
is all that reprets him.
Help, help, hep! come into this house for Heave’s sake!
Plenty wi co in, but n can help. The Lord Chanor of
that Curt, true to his title in hi last act, has did the death of al
Lord Chancellors in all Courts, and of all authrities in all plac
under al nam soever, where fale pretenc are made, and
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were ijusti is do. Cal the death by any nam Your
Highne wil, attribute it to whom you wil, or say it mght have
been prevented how you wi, it i the sam death eternaly—
iborn, inbred, engedered in the crrupted humours of th
vicious body itself, and that only—Spontanus Cobusti, and
n other of al the deaths that can be did.
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Chapter 33
Interlopers
N
ow do those two gentl not very nat about the cuffs
and buttons who attended the last Croner’s Inquest at
th Sol’s Arms, reappear in th prects with surprising
swiftnss (beng, i fact, breathlessly fetcd by th active and
inteiget beadle), and istitute perquisitis through th court,
and dive into the So’s parlour, and write with ravenus little pe
tissue-paper. Now do thy note dow, in th watcs of th
ght, how the neghbourhood of Chanry Lan was yesterday, at
about midnight, thro into a state of th most intense agitation
and excitet by th foing alarming and horribl discovery.
No do they set forth how it wi doubtl be rebered, that
some time back a paiful seation was created in th publ
mind, by a case of mysterious death fro opium ocurring o th
first floor of the house occupid as a rag, bottle, and genral
mari store shop, by an eccentric individual of itemperate
habits, far advanced in life, namd Krook; and how by a
rearkabl codee, Krook was examed at the iquest,
wich it may be reted was hed on that ocasion at th Sol’s
Arms, a we-cducted tavern, immediatey adjoing th
preises in queti, on th west side, and licend to a highly
respectable landlord, Mr James George Bogsby. Now do thy
show (in as many words as pobl), how during so hours of
yesterday eveing a very peculiar smel was observed by th
inhabitants of th court, in which th tragical occurrence which
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forms th subjet of that pret account transpired; and which
odour was at on time so powrful, that Mr Swills, a comic
vocalist, professionally engaged by Mr J. G. Bogsby, has hf
stated to our reporter that he metid to Mis M. Melvi, a
lady of some pretesion to musical abiity, lkew egaged by
Mr J. G. Bogsby to sing at a seri of concerts cald Harmic
Assemblies or Metings, which it would appear are hed at th
Sol’s Arm, under Mr Bogsby’s direction, pursuant to th Act of
George the Sed, that he (Mr Swls) found his voic sriousy
affected by th impure state of th atmosphere; his jo
xpression, at th time, beg, “that he was like an empty postoffic, for he hadn’t a sigl note in him” How this acunt of Mr
Swls i etirely crroborated by two intelgent married femal
residing in th same court, and known respectivey by th names
of Mrs Piper and Mrs Perkins; both of whom obsrved the foetid
effluvia, and regarded them as beg emitted from the premi i
the occupation of Krook, the unfortunate deasd. Al this and a
great deal mre, the two gentl, who have formed an amabl
partnersp in th melany catastrophe, write dow on th
spot; and th boy populati of th court (out of bed in a moment)
sarm up the shutters of the So’s Arm’s parlour, to behold the
tops of thr heads while thy are about it.
The whole court, adult as wel as boy, is slpl for that night,
and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of th illfated house, and look at it. Mi Flite has be bravey rescued
fro her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated wth
a bed at th Sol’s Arms. Th Sol neithr turns off its gas nor shuts
it door, all night; for any kind of public excitet makes god for
the So, and cause the court to stand i ned of cofort. The
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house has not do so muc in the stomac artic of clove, or
i brandy and water warm, si the Inquest. The mot the
potboy heard what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeve
tight to the shoulders, and said, “There’l be a run upo us!” In the
first outcry, Young Piper dasd off for the fire-engi; and
returned in triumph at a joltig gallop, perched up aloft on the
Phoenx, and holdig on to that fabulus creature with al his
ght, in the midst of helts and torches On helt remai
bed, after careful investigation of all chinks and crannies; and
slowly paces up and dow before th house, in company with on
f th tw policemen wh have be likewise left in charge
thref. To this trio, everybody in th court, possesd of sixpence,
has an inatiate desire to exhbit hospitality in a liquid form
Mr Weevle and his friend Mr Guppy are wthin th bar at th
Sol, and are worth anythng to th Sol that th bar contains, if thy
wll only stay thre “This is not a time,” says Mr Bogsby, “to
haggle about moy,” though he looks sothing sharply at it
over the cunter; “give your orders, you two gentl, and
you’re wee to whatever you put a nam to.”
Thus etreated, the two gentl (Mr Wevl espealy) put
nam to s many things, that in course of tim they find it
difficult to put a nam to anything quite dititly; though they
stil relate, to all newcors, so versi of the night they have
had of it, and of what thy said, and what thy thught, and wat
they saw. Meanwhil, one or other of the po often flits
about the door, and pusg it ope a little way at the full lgth of
his arm, looks in fro outer gl. Not that h has any suspicions,
but that he may as we kn what they are up to in there.
Thus, night pursues its leaden course; finding th court still out
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of bed through the unwonted hours, sti treating and beg
treated, still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a
lttle moy left it unxpetedly. Thus, night at legth with slowretreating steps departs, and the lamplghter going his rounds, lke
an exeutioner to a despotic king, strikes off th littl heads of fire
that have aspired to les th darkness. Thus, th day cometh,
whether or no
And th day may discern, eve with its dim London eye, that
the court has be up all nght. Over and above the fac that have
fal drowsy on tabl, and the heels that le prone on hard
flrs instead of beds, th brick and mortar physiogny of th
very court itself looks worn and jaded. And now th
ghbourhood wakig up, and beginnig to hear of what has
appened, comes streaming in, half dred, to ask quetis; and
the two po and the helmet (who are far le impresbl
xternaly than the court) have enough to do to kep the door.
“God gracious, gentlemen!” says Mr Snagsby, coming up.
“What’s this I hear!”
“Why, it’s true,” returns o of th policemen. “That’s what it
is. No move on here, come!”
“Why, god gracious, getlmen,” says Mr Snagsby, somewhat
proptly backed away, “I was at this door last night betwixt te
and eleven o’clk, i cversati with the young man wh
dges here.”
“Inded?” returns the polican. “You will find the young man
xt door, then. No move on here, some of you.”
“Not hurt, I hope?” says Mr Snagsby.
“Hurt? No. What’s to hurt him!”
Mr Snagsby, wholly unabl to aner this, or any other
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question, in his troubled md, repairs to the Sol’s Arm, and finds
Mr Wevl languisg over tea and toast; with a coderabl
xpression on him of exhausted excitet, and exhausted
tobacco-smoke.
“And Mr Guppy likewis!” quoth Mr Snagsby. “Dear, dear,
dear! What a fate there se in all this! And my lt—” Mr
Snagsby’s powr of spee derts hi in th formation of th
words “my little woman” For, to se that ijured femal walk into
the So’s Arm at that hour of the mornig and stand before the
ber-engine, with her eye fixed upo hm like an accusng spirit,
strikes him dumb.
“My dear,” says Mr Snagsby, when his togue is loened, “wi
you take anything? A little—nt to put too fin a pot upon it—
drop of shrub?”
“No,” says Mrs Snagsby.
“My love, you know th tw gentlemen?”
“Ye!” says Mrs Snagsby; and i a rigid manr acknowledge
their presenc, sti fixing Mr Snagsby with her eye.
The devoted Mr Snagsby cannot bear this treatmet. He take
Mrs Snagsby by th hand, and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.
“My little woman, why do you look at m in that way? Pray
don’t do it.”
“I can’t help my look,” says Mrs Snagsby, “and if I could I
wuldn’t.”
Mr Snagsby with his cough of meekness, rejos,—“Wouldn’t
you really, my dear?” and meditates. Th cough his cough of
trouble, and says, “Ths is a dreadful mystery, my love!” sti
fearfully disconcerted by Mrs Snagsby’s eye
“It is,” returns Mrs Snagsby, shakig her head, “a dreadful
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mystery.”
“My littl woman,” urges Mr Snagsby, in a piteus manner,
“don’t for goodn sake, speak to me with that bitter expre,
and look at me in that searchig way! I beg and entreat of you not
to do it. Good lord, you don’t suppose that I would go
spontanusly combusting any pers, my dear?”
“I can’t say,” returns Mrs Snagsby.
On a hasty revi of his unfortunate position, Mr Snagsby
“can’t say,” ethr. He is not prepared positivey to deny that he
may have had somethg to do with it. He has had something—h
don’t kn what—to do with so much in this conti that is
mysterious, that it is possibl he may eve be implicated, withut
knowing it, in th pret tranaction. He faitly wipes hi
forehead with his handkercef, and gasps
“My lfe,” says the unhappy statir, “would you have any
objections to mention why, beig in geral so deicately
circumspect i your conduct, you come into a Wine Vaults before
breakfast?”
“Why do you come here?” inquire Mrs Snagsby.
“My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accdet whic
has happened to the venerable party who has be—cbusted.”
Mr Snagsby has made a paus to suppres a groan. “I should th
ave reated them to you, my love, over your French ro.”
“I dare say you would. You relate everythig to me, Mr
Snagsby.”
“Every—my lit—?”
“I should be glad,” says Mrs Snagsby, after conteplatig h
increased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, “If you wuld
come ho with me; I thk you may be safer thre, Mr Snagsby,
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than anywre else.”
“My love, I don’t kn but what I may be, I am sure I am ready
to go.”
Mr Snagsby casts hi eye forlrnly round th bar, gives Messrs.
Wevl and Guppy good mrnig, asures them of the satisfaction
wth which he see th uninjured, and accompanies Mrs
Snagsby fro th Sol’s Arms. Before night his doubt whthr he
may not be responsible for some innceivabl part i th
atastrophe whic i the talk of the whole neghbourhood, is
almost resolved into certainty by Mrs Snagsby’s pertiacity in that
fixed gaze His mtal sufferings are s great, that he entertai
anderig ideas of delvering hif up to justice, and requiring
to be cleared, if innocent, and punished with th utmost rigour of
the law, if guilty.
Mr Weevl and Mr Guppy, havig take their breakfast, step
ito Lin’s In to take a lttle walk about the square, and clar
as many of the dark cobwbs out of their brai as a lttle walk
may.
“There can be n mre favourabl tim than the pret,
Tony,” says Mr Guppy, after they have broodigly made out the
four sdes of the square, “for a word or two between us, upon a
pot on which we must, with very little deay, co to an
understandig.”
“Now, I tell you what, Wiam G.!” returns the other, eyeing his
mpanion with a bldshot eye “If it’s a poit of copiracy, you
ndn’t take the troubl to meti it. I have had enough of that,
and I ain’t going to have any more. We sal have you takig fire
nxt, or blg up with a bang.”
This suppostitius phe i so very disagreabl to Mr
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Guppy that his voice quake, as h says in a moral way, “Toy, I
should have thought that what we went through last nght, would
have bee a lesson to you never to be persal any more as long as
you lived.” To whic Mr Wevl returns, “Wiliam, I should have
thought it would have be a lon to
you never to conpire any
more as long as you lived.” To which Mr Guppy says, “Who’s
nspiring?” To which Mr Joblg replies, “Why,
you are!” To
ich Mr Guppy retorts, “No, I am not.” To wich Mr Joblg
retorts again, “Ye, you are!” To which Mr Guppy retorts, “Who
says so?” To which Mr Joblg retorts, “I say so!” To wich Mr
Guppy retorts, “Oh, indeed!” To which Mr Joblg retorts, “Ye,
indeed!” And both being now in a heated state, thy walk on
silently for a while, to coo dow again.
“Toy,” says Mr Guppy, then, “if you hard your friend out,
itead of flyig at him, you wouldn’t fal into mitake But your
teper i hasty, and you are nt coderate. Possg i
yourself, Tony, all that is calculated to charm th eye—”
“Oh! Blow the eye!” cri Mr Weevl, cuttig him short. “Say
what you have got to say!”
Fidig his friend in th moro and material condition, Mr
Guppy oly expresses th fir feings of his soul through th
tone of injury in which he reco:
“Toy, wh I say thre is a point on which w must come to an
understandig pretty soon, I say so quite apart from any
conspiring, hover innocent. You know it is profeally
arranged beforeand, i all cases that are tried, wat facts th
tnsses are to prove Is it, or is it not, desirabl that we should
know wat facts we are to prove, on th inquiry into th death of
this unfortunate old Mo—getlean?” (Mr Guppy was going to
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say, Mogul, but thinks gentlan better suited to the
circumstance.) “What facts? The facts.”
“Th facts bearig on that inquiry. Th are—” Mr Guppy te
them off on his fingers—“what we knew of hi habits; when you
saw hm last; wat his condition was th; th discovery that we
made; and ho we made it.”
“Yes,” said Mr Weevl. “Those are about the facts”
“We made th discovery, in conquence of his having, in hi
tric way, an appotmet with you at twelve o’cock at nght,
when you were to explai s writig to hi, as you had often
do before, on accunt of his not beg abl to read. I, spendig
th eveing wth you, was cald dow—and so forth Th inquiry
beg only ito the circumtance touchig the death of the
deceasd, it’s not necesary to go beyond th facts, I suppo
you’ll agre?”
“No!” returns Mr Wevl “I suppo nt.”
“And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?” says th injured
Guppy.
“No,” returns his friend; “if it’s nothing wrs than this, I
withdraw the obsrvati”
“No, Toy,” says Mr Guppy, takig his arm agai, and
walking him slly on, “I should like to kn, in a friendly way,
whether you have yet thought over the many advantage of your
continuing to live at that place?”
“What do you mean?” says Tony, stoppig.
“Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of
your continuing to live at that place?” repeats Mr Guppy, walkig
hi on agai
“At what place? That plac?” poiting in th direction of th
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rag and bottle shop.
Mr Guppy nods
“Why, I wuldn’t pass anthr night there, for any
consideration that you could offer me,” says Mr Weevle haggardly
staring.
“Do you mean it, thugh, Toy?”
“Mean it! Do I lok as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I kn that,”
says Mr Wevl, with a very genui sudder.
“Thn th possibility or probabiity—for such it must be
nsidered—of your never beg disturbed in possession of th
ffects, lately belongig to a lone old man wh seed to have no
relation i the world; and the crtaity of your beg able to find
out what he realy had got stored up there; do’t weigh with you at
all agait last night, Tony, if I understand you?” says Mr Guppy,
biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.
“Crtainly not. Talk in that coo way of a fellow’s living thre?”
cries Mr Weevle, indignantly. “Go and live thre yourself.”
“O! I, Tony!” says Mr Guppy, soothing him “I have never lved
there, and culdn’t get a lodgig there no; whereas you have got
one.”
“You are wlcom to it,” rejoins his friend, “and—ugh!—you
may make yourself at ho in it.”
“Thn you really and truly at this poit,” says Mr Guppy, “give
up the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?”
“You never,” returns Tony, with a most convicing
steadfastns, “said a truer word in al your life. I do!”
While thy are so conversing, a hackney-cach drive into th
square, o th box of which ve a very tall hat makes itself
manifest to th public. Inside th coach, and coquently not so
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manifest to th multitude, thugh sufficiently so to th tw friends,
for the cach stops alt at their feet, are the verable Mr
Smallwed and Mrs Smallwed, accompanied by thr
granddaughter Judy. A air of haste and excitement pervades th
party; and as the tall hat (surmounting Mr Smallweed the
younger) alights, Mr Smallwed th elder pokes his head out of
wdo, and baws to Mr Guppy, “How de do, sir! How de do!”
“What do Ck and hi famy want here at this tim of the
morng, I wonder!” says Mr Guppy, nodding to his familiar.
“My dear sir,” cries Grandfathr Smallwed, “would you do me
a favour? Would you and your frind be s very oblgig as to
carry me ito th public-huse in th court, while Bart and hi
sister brig thr grandmthr along? Would you do an old man
that good turn, sir?”
Mr Guppy looks at his friend, repeatig inquiringly, “th
public-huse in th court?” And thy prepare to bear th
verabl burde to th Sol’s Arms.
“There’s your fare!” says the Patriarch to the coacan with a
firce grin, and shakig his inapabl fist at him. “Ask me for a
penny mre, and I’ll have my lawful revenge upo you. My dear
young men, be easy with me, if you plase. Allow me to catc you
round the nk. I won’t squeeze you tighter than I can help. O
Lord! O dear me! O my bones!”
It is well that the So is not far off, for Mr Wevl prets an
apoplctic appearance before half th distance is accomplished.
With no worse aggravatin of his symptoms, however, than the
utterance of divers croaking sounds, expresive of obstructive
respiration, he fulfis his share of th porterage, and th
benevolent od gentleman i deposited by his own desire in th
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parlour of the So’s Arm
“O Lord!” gasps Mr Smalld, lookig about hi, breathles,
fro an armchair. “O dear me! O my bone and back! O my ac
and pains! Sit dow, you dancing, prancing, shamblg,
scrambling poll parrot! Sit dow!”
This lttle apostrophe to Mrs Smaleed i occasoned by a
propensty on the part of that unlucky old lady, wenever s
finds herself on her feet, to amble about, and “set” to ianate
bjects, accompanying hrsf wth a chattering noi, as in a
wtc danc A nervous affection has probably as much to do with
th demontrations, as any imbecile intention in th poor od
wman; but on th pret ocasion thy are so particularly lvely
in connection wth th Windsor armchair, fe to that in which
Mr Smallwed is seated, that she only quite desists wh her
grandcdren have held her down i it: her lord in the manwhil
betowing upo her, with great volubility, the endearig epithet of
“a pighaded Jackdaw,” repeated a surprising number of times.
“My dear sir,” Grandfathr Smallwed th prods,
addresing Mr Guppy, “thre has be a calamity hre. Have you
heard of it, either of you?”
“Heard of it, sir! Why, we discovered it.”
“You discovered it. You tw discovered it! Bart, they discovered
it!”
Th tw discoverers stare at th Smallweds, wh return th
mpliment.
“My dear friends,” wh Grandfathr Smallwed, putting out
both his hands, “I owe you a thousand thanks for diharging the
mlanholy offic of divering the ashes of Mrs Smaleed’s
brother.”
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“Eh?” says Mr Guppy.
“Mrs Smallwed’s brothr, my dear friend—hr only reati
We were not on terms, which is to be deplored no, but h never
would be on term He was not fod of us. He was ecentric—he
as very eccentric. Unles he has left a wi (wich is not at al
likely) I shall take out letters of admnistrati I have come dow
to look after th property; it must be sealed up, it must be
proteted. I have come dow,” repeats Grandfathr Smallwed,
hookig the air towards hi with al hi ten figers at onc, “to
ook after the property.”
“I think, Small,” says th disconsolate Mr Guppy, “you might
have mentioned that th old man was your un”
“You two were so close about him that I thought you would lke
to be the sam,” returns that old bird, with a seretly gliteg
eye. “Besides, I wasn’t proud of him.”
“Besides which, it was nothg to you, you know, whthr h
as or not,” says Judy. Also with a secretly glteg eye.
“He never saw me i his life, to know me,” observed Small; “I
do’t know why I should introduce him, I am sure!”
“No, he never counated with us—w is to be
deplored,” the old gentlan strike in; “but I have c to look
after the property—to look over the papers, and to look after the
property. We shall make god our titl It is in th hands of my
solicitor. Mr Tulkinghrn, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, over th way
there, is so good as to act as my sotor; and gras don’t grow
under his feet, I can te ye. Krook was Mrs Smaleed’s only
brother; se had no relatio but Krook, and Krook had no relatio
but Mrs Smaleed. I am speakig of your brother, you britone
black-beetle, that was seventy-six years of age”
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Mrs Smallwed instantly begins to shake her head, and pipe up,
“Sevety-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventy-six thusand
bags of my! Seventy-six hundred thousand mi of parcels of
banknotes!”
“Wi sobody give me a quart pot?” excaim her exasperated
husband, lookig hplesly about him, and finding no missile
wthin his reac “Will somebody obleege me wth a spitto? Will
somebody hand me anythng hard and bruing to pelt at hr? You
hag, you cat, you dog, you britone barker!” Here Mr
Smald, wrought up to the highest pitc by his own eloquence,
actualy throws Judy at her grandmther in default of anything
e, by butting that young virgin at the old lady with suc force as
can muster, and th dropping into his chair in a heap.
“Shake me up, somebody, if you’l be so god,” says th voice
from within the faitly strugglig bundl into whic he has
coapsed. “I have come to look after th property. Shake me up;
and call in th police on duty at th next house, to be explaid to
about th property. My solicitor wi be here pretly to protet
the property. Tranportati or the galws for anybody who shal
touch the property!” As his dutiful grandcldren set him up,
pantig, and putting him through th usual restorative pros of
sakig and punchig, he sti repeats lke an eho, “the—the
property! The property!—property!”
Mr Wevl and Mr Guppy look at eac other; the former as
aving relinquished th wh affair; th latter with a discomfited
countenance, as having entertained some lingerig expectations
yet. But there i nthing to be do in oppotion to the
Smallwed interest. Mr Tulkinghrn’s clrk comes dow fro h
fficial pew in th chambers, to mention to th police that Mr
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Tulkinghrn is answerable for its being all correct about th next
of kin, and that th papers and effects will be formally taken
possession of in due time and course. Mr Smallwed is at once
permitted so far to assert his supreacy as to be carrid on a visit
of sentiment ito th next house, and upstairs into Mi Flite’s
derted room, where he looks like a hideous bird of prey newly
added to her aviary.
Th arrival of this unxpected heir soo taking wd i th
urt, still makes god for th Sol, and keeps th court upo its
ttle Mrs Piper and Mrs Perkins think it hard upon the young
man if thre really is no wi, and consider that a handsome
pret ought to be made him out of the estate. Young Piper and
Young Perkins, as members of that restless juvenile circ wich i
the terror of the foot-pasgers in Chanry Lan, crumble ito
ashes bed th pump and under th archway, all day long;
where wild yell and hootings take place over their remai Little
Swills and Miss M. Melvilleson etered into affabl conversati
with their patrons, feeg that thes unusual occurren level the
barrirs betw profeals and non-profeals. Mr Bogsby
puts up “Th popular song of KING DEATH! with chorus by th
whole strength of the copany,” as the great harmo feature of
th wek; and announces in th bill that “J. G. B. i iduced to do
so at a considerable extra expense, in conseque of a wish which
has be very genrally expred at the bar by a large body of
respectable individuals and in hoage to a late melanchoy evet
wich has aroused so much sensation.” Thre is on point
connected with th deceased, upo wh th court is particularly
anxius; namely, that th fiction of a ful-sized coffin should be
prerved, though there i so little to put in it. Upo the
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undertaker’s statig in the So’s bar in the curse of the day, that
h has received orders to construct “a six-foter,” th geral
solicitude is much relieved, and it is conidered that Mr
Smallwed’s conduct doe him great hour.
Out of th court, and a long way out of it, thre is coiderable
excitet to; for men of scien and philosphy come to look,
and carriage set dow doctors at th cornr w arrive wth th
same intent, and thre is more learned talk about inflamabl
gases and phosphuretted hydroge than th court has ever
imagid. Some of th authrities (of course th wisest) hod
with indignatin that the deased had n bus to di in the
alged manner; and beg reminded by other authoriti of a
certain inquiry into th evidence for such death, reprinted in th
sixth volume of th Philosphical Transactions; and also of a bok
not quite unknn, on English Medical Jurisprudence; and
lke of the Italan cas of the Counte Cornelia Baudi as st
forth i detai by one Bian, prebedary of Verona, who wrote
a scholarly work or so, and was occasnally heard of i hi tim as
having gleam of reason i him; and al of the testiy of
Messrs. Foderé and Mere, tw pestit Frechmen w
would
investigate th subjet; and furthr, of th corroborative testimony
of Monsieur Le Cat, a rathr celebrated Frech surgen oce
upon a tim, who had the unpolitene to live in a house where
such a case occurred, and eve to write an account of it;—still thy
regard the late Mr Krook’s obstiacy, in going out of the world by
any such by-way, as whly unjustifiabl and persally offensive
The le the court understands of all this, the more the court lke
t; and the greater enjoymet it has in the stock in trade of the
Sol’s Arm. Th, thre comes th artist of a picture newpaper,
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with a foreground and figures ready draw for anything, from a
wreck on the Cornh coast to a review in Hyde Park, or a meetig
at Manchester,—and in Mrs Perkins’s own room, merable
evermre, he then and there thro in upon the block, Mr Krook’s
huse, as large as life; in fact considerably larger, making a very
templ of it. Silarly, beg permitted to lok in at the door of the
fatal chamber, he depicts that apartmt as thre quarters of a
mile long, by fifty yards high; at which th court is particularly
charmed. All this time, th tw gentlemen before mentioned pop
i and out of every house, and ast at the phosophial
disputatis—go everywre, and liste to everybody,—and yet
are alays diving into the So’s parlour, and writig with the
ravenus little pe on the tisue-paper.
At last come th coror and his inquiry, like as before, except
that th coror cherishe this case as beg out of th common
ay, and tes th gentlemen of th Jury, in his private capacity,
that “that would seem to be an unlucky house next door,
gentlemen, a destid house; but so w sometimes find it, and
th are mysteries we can’t account for!” After which th sixfoter comes into acti, and is much admired.
In al th prodings Mr Guppy has so slight a part, except
w he gives his evidence, that h is moved o like a private
individual, and can only haunt th secret house on th outside;
were he has the mortifiation of seeing Mr Smaleed
padlockig the door. But before the proceedigs draw to a ce,
that is to say, on th night next after th catastrophe, Mr Guppy
has a thing to say that must be said to Lady Dedlk.
For whic reason, with a sinkig heart, and with that hang-dog
sense of guit upo him, which dread and watcng, efolded i
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the So’s Arm, have produced, the young man of the nam of
Guppy prets hif at th to mansion at about seve
o’clock in the evenig, and requests to see her ladysp. Mercury
repl that s is going out to dinner; do’t he s the carriage at
the door? Yes, he do see the carriage at the door; but he wants
to see my lady to
Mercury is disposed, as he will pretly decare to a fellow
gentlan i waitig, “to pitc into the young man;” but hi
instruction are positive Threfore he sulkily suppo that th
young man must co up ito the library. There he leave the
young man in a large room, nt overlight, while he make report of
hi
Mr Guppy looks into th shade i al directions, divering
everywre a certain charred and whited littl heap of coal or
wood. Presently he hears a rustlg. Is it —? No, it’s n ghost; but
fair fl and bld, most brilliantly dred.
“I have to beg your ladyship’s pardo,” Mr Guppy stammers,
very dowcast. “This is an inconveient time—”
“I told you, you could come at any time.” She takes a chair,
lookig straight at him as on the last occas
“Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affabl”
“You can sit dow.” Thre is not much affabity in her to
“I don’t know, your ladyship, that it’s worth wile my sitting
down and detaig you, for I—I have not got the letters that I
mtid when I had the honour of waitig on your ladysp.”
“Have you co merely to say so?”
“Merey to say so, your ladyship.” Mr Guppy bedes being
depressed, disappoited, and unasy, is put at a furthr
diadvantage by the spldour and beauty of her appearanc Sh
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knows its influe perfetly; has studied it to well to miss a grain
f its effect on any on As she looks at hm so steadily and codly,
h not only fes conscius that he has no guide, i th least
perception of what is realy the coplxio of her thoughts; but
also that he is being every moment, as it were, removed furthr
and further from her.
She wi not speak it is plain. So he must.
“In short, your ladyship,” says Mr Guppy, like a meanly
petent thief, “the person I was to have had the ltters of, has
me to a sudden end, and—” He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly
finishe th sentece.
“And the letters are detroyed with the person?”
Mr Guppy would say no, if he could—as he is unabl to hide.
“I beeve so, your ladyship.”
If he could see the least sparkle of reef in her fac no? No, he
could s no such thing, eve 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 tw for his faiure
“Is this all you have to say?” inquire Lady Dedlk, having
heard him out—or as nearly out as he can stumble.
Mr Guppy thinks that’s al
“You had better be sure that you wis to say nthing more to
m; this beg the last tim you wil have the opportunity.”
Mr Guppy is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at
present, by any mean
“That i eough. I wil dipense with excus Good eveg to
you!” and s rings for Mercury to show the young man of the
nam of Guppy out.
But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an
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old man of the nam of Tulkighorn. Ad that old man, cog
with his quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that mt
on the handl of the door—c in—and co fac to fac with
the young man as he is leavig the room.
On glan between the old man and the lady; and for an
instant th bld that is alays dow flies up. Suspicion, eager and
sharp, looks out. Anthr instant; cl again.
“I beg your pardo, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a
thusand times. It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour.
I supposed th ro was empty. I beg your pardo!”
“Stay!” She ngligetly cals hi back. “Remai here, I beg. I
am going out to dinner. I have nthing more to say to this young
man!”
Th disconcerted young man bo, as h go out, and
cringingly hope that Mr Tulkinghrn of th Fieds is we
“Ay, ay?” says the lawyer, lookig at him from under his bet
brows; though he has no ned to look agai—nt he. “From Kenge
and Carboy’s, surey?”
“Kenge and Carboy’s, Mr Tulkighrn Name of Guppy, sir.”
“To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr Guppy, I am very we!”
“Happy to hear it, sir. You can’t be to well, sir, for th credit of
th profession.”
“Thank you, Mr Guppy!”
Mr Guppy sneaks away. Mr Tulkighrn, such a foil in his odfashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlk’s brightness, hands her
down the staircas to her carriage He returns rubbig his c,
and rubs it a good deal in the cours of the evenig.
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Chapter 34
A Turn Of The Screw, what,” says Mr George, “may this
cartridge, or ball? A flash i the pan, or a shot?”
A ope ltter is the subjet of the trooper’s
speculatis, and it sees to perplex h mightily. He looks at it
at arm’s lgth, brigs it close to him, holds it in his right hand,
hds it in his left hand, reads it with his had o this side, wth h
ad o that side, contracts his eyebro, elvate th; still,
cannot satisfy himf. He sooths it out upon the table with hi
heavy palm, and thoughtfully walkig up and down the gallry,
makes a halt before it every now and th, to come upo it wth a
fresh eye. Even that wo’t do. “Is it,” Mr George mus, “blank
cartridge or bal?”
Phil Squod, with th aid of a brus and paint-pot, is emplyed
in th distance whiteg th targets; softly whistlg, i quickmarc time, and in drum-and-fife manr, that he must and h
ll go back again to th girl he left behnd him.
“Phi!” The trooper bekons as he cal him
Phil approache in his usual way; sidling off at first as if he were
going anywhere el, and then bearig down upo hi coander
lke a bayonet-charge. Crtai splas of white show in high
relief upon hi dirty fac, and he srape hi one eyebrow with the
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“Attention, Phil! Liste to this.”
“Steady, commander, steady.”
“N
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“‘Sir. Allow me to remind you (thugh thre is no legal
cessity for my doing so, as you are aware) that th bill at tw
ths’ date, draw on yoursef by Mr Matthew Bagnet, and by
you accepted, for th sum of ninety-sve pounds four shillings
and ninpe, will bec due tomorrow, when you wil plas
be prepared to take up the sam on pretation. Yours, JOSHUA
SMALLWEED.’—What do you make of that, Phi?”
“Mischief, guv’ner.”
“Why?”
“I think,” replies Ph, after pensivey tracing out a crosswrinkle i hi forehead with the brush handl, “that miheevious
cequenc is alays mant when moy’s asked for.”
“Lookye, Ph,” says the trooper, sitting on the tabl “First and
last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principal, i
interest and on thing and anthr.”
Phil intiates, by sidling back a pace or tw, with a very
unacuntabl wren of his wry fac, that he do not regard the
transaction as beg made more proising by this incident.
“And lkye furthr, Phil,” says the troper, staying hi
premature conclusons with a wave of hi hand. “There has alays
be an understandig that this bill was to be what they call
Rened. Ad it has bee red, no end of times. What do you
say now?”
“I say that I thk th times is come to a end at last.”
“You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself.”
“Joshua Smaleed is him that was brought here in a chair?”
“Th same.”
“Guv’ner,” says Phi, with exceeding gravity, “he’s a l i h
disposition, he’s a scre and a wice in his actis, a sake i h
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twistings, and a lobster in his claws.”
Having thus expresivey uttered his sentiments, Mr Squod,
after waiting a littl to ascertain if any furthr remark be expected
of hi, gets back, by his usual serie of movemnts, to the target
he has in hand; and vigorously signifi, through hi former
musical medium, that h must and h will return to that ideal
young lady. George having folded the letter, walks i that
direction.
“Thre is a way, comander,” says Phil, looking cunningly at
hi, “of settling this”
“Paying th money, I suppo? I wish I could.”
Phil shakes his head. “No, guv’nr, no; not so bad as that. There
is a way,” says Ph, with a highly artistic turn of his brus—“what
I’m a doig at pret.”
“Whitewasg.”
Phil nods
“A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would be
of the Bagnets in that cas? Do you know they would be ruind to
pay off my old scores? You’re a moral caracter,” says the trooper,
eyeng hm i hs large way with no small indignation, “upon my
lfe you are, Phil!”
Phil, on one knee at the target, is in cours of protestig
earnestly, though not without many algorical soops of hi
brush, and soothings of the white surfac round the rim with hi
thumb, that he had forgotten the Bagnet respobity, and would
not so much as injure a hair of th head of any meber of that
wrthy famy, wen steps are audible in the log pasage without,
and a cherful voice is heard to woder whthr George is at
home. Phil, with a look at his master, hobbl up, sayig, “Here’s
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the guv’nr, Mrs Bagnet! Here he is!” and the old girl hersef,
accompanied by Mr Bagnt, appears.
Th od girl never appears i walking trim, in any seas of th
year, withut a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much wrn but very
clean, which is, undoubtedly, th idential garmt rendered so
interesting to Mr Bagnt by having made its way ho to Europe
from another quarter of the globe, in copany with Mrs Bagnet
and an umbrela. Th latter faithful appendage is also ivariably a
part of the old girl’s pres out of doors. It is of no cur known
in this life, and has a corrugated wode crok for a handle, wth a
metalic object let into its pro or beak, rebling a littl model
of a fan-lght over a street door, or one of the oval glas out of a
pair of spetac: wh ornamental object has not that tenacious
capacity of sticking to its post that might be desred in an article
long associated wth th British army. Th old girl’s umbrela is of
a flabby habit of waist, and sees to be in need of stays—an
appearance that is possibly referabl to its having served, through
a seri of years, at ho as a cupboard, and on journeys as a
carpet bag. Sh nver puts it up, having the greatest relan on
her well-proved cloak with its capacus hood; but generally uses
th instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or
bunhes of gree i marketig, or to arrest the attenti of
tradesmen by a friendly poke. Withut hr market-basket, wich
is a sort of wicker we with tw flapping lids, she never stirs
abroad. Atteded by the her trusty copan, therefore, her
honest sunburnt fac lookig ceerily out of a rough straw bonnet,
Mrs Bagnt now arrives, fre-coloured and bright, in George’s
Shooting Galry.
“Well, George, old fellow,” says she, “and how do you do, this
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sunshiny morning?”
Giving him a friendly shake of th hand, Mrs Bagnt draws a
lg breath after her walk, and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a
faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-wagons, and in other suc
position, of resting easily anywre, she percs on a rough
be, unti her bot strings, pushe back hr bot, cro
her arm, and looks perfectly cofortable.
Mr Bagnt, in th mean time, has shake hands with his old
crade, and with Phil: on whom Mrs Bagnet likewis betows a
god-humured nod and smil
“No, George,” says Mrs Bagnet, briskly, “here w are, Lignum
and myself;” she often speaks of her husband by this appellation,
on acunt, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having be his old
regimtal nicknam when they first beam acquaited, i
plt to the extreme hardn and toughnes of his
physiogny; “just looked i, we have, to make it all correct as
usual about that seurity. Give him the nw bi to sgn, George,
and he’ll sign it like a man.”
“I was cog to you this mornig,” obsrves the trooper,
reluctantly.
“Ye, we thought you’d co to us this mornig, but we turned
out early, and left Wooich, th best of boys, to mid his sisters,
and came to you instead—as you see! For Lignum, he’s tid so
cose n, and gets so lttle exerc, that a walk do hi good.
But what’s the matter, George?” asks Mrs Bagnet, stoppig in her
cheerful talk. “You don’t lok yourself.”
“I am not quite mysf,” returns the trooper; “I have be a
lttle put out, Mrs Bagnet.”
Her bright quick eye catcs th truth directly. “George!”
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holdig up her forefinger. “Don’t tell m there’s anything wrong
about that seurity of Lignum’s! Do’t do it, George, on acunt of
th childre!”
The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.
“Gerge,” says Mrs Bagnet, usig both her arm for emphas,
and occasaly briging down her ope hands upon her knees
“If you have alwed anything wrong to co to that seurity of
Lignum’s, and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us
in danger of beg sold up—and I see sold up in your face, George,
as plain as print—you have don a shameful acti, and deceived
us cruelly. I tell you, cruelly, George Thre!”
Mr Bagnt, othrwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-pot,
puts his large right hand on th top of his bald head, as if to defed
it from a shower-bath, and looks with great uneas at Mrs
Bagnet.
“George!” says that old girl. “I woder at you! George, I am
ashamd of you! George, I couldn’t have beeved you would have
do it! I always kn you to be a rollig stone that gathered no
; but I never thought you would have take away what lttle
there was for Bagnet and the chdre to le upon. You know
what a hard-workig steady-going cap he is You know that
Quebe and Malta and Wooich are—and I never did thk you
would, or could, have had the heart to serve us so O George!” Mrs
Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eye on, i a very genui
manner, “Ho could you do it?”
Mrs Bagnet ceasg, Mr Bagnet remves hi hand from h
head as if the shower-bath were over, and looks dinsolately at
Mr George; wh has turnd quite white, and looks distressfully at
the grey cloak and straw boet.
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“Mat,” says th troper, in a subdued voice, addressing hm,
but still looking at his wife; “I am sorry you take it so much to
art, becaus I do hope it’s not so bad as that comes to. I certainly
have, this morng, received this letter; which he reads aloud; “but
I hope it may be st right yet. A to a rollg stone, why, what you
say is true. I am a rollig stone; and I nver rolld in anybody’s
ay, I fully believe, that I rolled th least god to But it’s
imposble for an old vagabod comrade to like your wfe and
famy better than I lke ’e, Mat, and I trust you’l look upo m
as forgivingly as you can. Don’t think I’ve kept anythng fro you.
I haven’t had the letter more than a quarter of an hour.”
“Old girl!” murmurs Mr Bagnt, after a short since, “w you
tell him my opiion?”
“O! Why didn’t he marry,” Mrs Bagnet answers, half laughg
and half crying, “Joe Pouch’s widder i North America? Then he
wouldn’t have got himf into thes troubl”
“Th od girl,” says Mr Bagnet, “puts it correct—why didn’t
you?”
“Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope,” return
the trooper. “Ayhow, here I stand, this prest day,
not married
to Joe Pouch’s widder. What shal I do? You see al I have got
about me. It’s not mine; it’s yours. Give the word, and I’ll sel off
every mrsel. If I culd have hoped it would have brought in
arly th sum wanted, I’d have sold all long ago Don’t belve
that I’ll leave you or yours in th lurc, Mat. I’d se myself first. I
only wis,” says the trooper, giving himf a diparagig blow in
th chet, “that I knew of anyo wh’d buy such a second-hand
piece of old store.”
Old girl,” murmurs Mr Bagnt, “give hi another bit of my
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mind.”
“George,” says the old girl, “you are not so much to be blamd,
o full cosideration, except for ever taking this business withut
the mean”
“And that was lke me!” obsrved the petent trooper, shakig
his head. “Like me, I kn.”
“Silence! Th od girl,” says Mr Bagnt, “is correct—in her way
of giving my opins—hear m out!”
“That was when you never ought to have asked for the seurity,
George, and when you never ought to have got it, al things
considered. But what’s done can’t be undone You are always an
honourabl and straight-forward fellw, as far as lays in your
power, though a lttle flighty. On the other hand, you can’t admt
but what it’s natural i us to be anxious, with suc a thing hangig
over our heads So forget and forgive all round, George. Co!
Forget and forgive al round!”
Mrs Bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands, and giving her
husband the other, Mr George gives eac of them one of hi, and
holds them while he speaks
“I do assure you both, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to
discharge this obligati. But whatever I have be able to scrape
together, has gone every two moths in kepig it up. We have
lved plaiy enough here, Phil and I. But the Galery do’t quite
do what was expected of it, and it’s not—in short, it’s not th Mint.
It was wrog in me to take it? Wel, so it was. But I was in a
manr draw into that step, and I thought it might steady m,
and set me up, and you’l try to overlook my having suc
xpectation, and upo my soul, I am very much obliged to you,
and very much ashamed of myself.” With th concluding wrds,
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Mr George gives a shake to each of th hands he holds, and,
relinquishing th, backs a pace or tw, in a broad-cheted
upright attitude, as if he had made a fial confesion, and were
diatey going to be shot with al mtary honours.
“George, har me out!” says Mr Bagnt, glancing at his wife
“Old girl, go on!”
Mr Bagnet, beg in this sigular manner heard out, has merely
to obsrve that the letter must be attended to without any deay;
that it is advisabl that George and he should immediatey wait o
Mr Smallwed in pers; and that th priary object is to save
and hold harml Mr Bagnet, who had n of the moy. Mr
George entirely astig, puts on his hat, and prepare to march
with Mr Bagnet to the eny’s camp.
“Don’t you mind a woman’s hasty wrd, George,” says Mrs
Bagnet, patting him on the shoulder. “I trust my old Lignum to
you, and I am sure you’l brig him through it.”
The trooper returns, that this is kidly said, and that he will
brig Lignum through it show. Upon whic Mrs Bagnet, with
her cloak, basket, and umbrella, go home, bright-eyed agai, to
the rest of her famy; and the corade sally forth on the hopeful
errand of mollifying Mr Smallwed.
Whether there are two peopl in England le likey to c
atisfactorily out of any ngotiati with Mr Smalld than Mr
George and Mr Matthew Bagnet, may be very reasonably
questioned. A, ntwithstandig their martial appearanc, broad
square shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are, with th
same limits, tw more simple and unaccustod childre, i all
the Smaleedy affairs of lfe. A they proceed with great gravity
through the streets towards the region of Mount Plasant, Mr
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Bagnt, observing his companion to be thughtful, considers it a
friedly part to refer to Mrs Bagnet’s late saly.
“George, you know the old girl—she’s as seet and as mid as
milk. But touc hr o th childre—or myself—and she’s off like
gunpowder.”
“It does her credit, Mat!”
“Gerge,” says Mr Bagnt, lookig straight before hi, “the od
girl—can’t do anything—that do’t do her credit. More or le I
never say so. Discipline must be maintaid.”
“She’s worth her weight in gold,” returns the trooper.
“In gold?” says Mr Bagnet. “I’ll tel you what. The old girl’s
ight—is twve sto six. Would I take that weight—in any
metal—for the old girl? No Why not? Because the old girl’s mtal
is far more precious—than th precioust metal And she’s
all
metal!”
“You are right, Mat!”
“When she tok me—and accepted of th ring—she ‘listed
under me and th chidre—hart and head; for lfe. She’s that
earnest,” says Mr Bagnet, “and true to her curs—that, touch us
with a finger—and s turns out—and stands to her arm If the
old girl fires wide—oe i a way—at the call of duty—look over it,
George. For she’s loyal!”
“Why bl her, Mat!” returns the trooper, “I think the higher
of her for it!”
“You are right!” says Mr Bagnet, with the warmet ethusias,
though without relaxing the rigidity of a sigle mus “Think as
high of the old girl—as the rock of Gibraltar—and sti you’ll be
thinking low—of such merits But I never own to it before hr.
Disciplin must be maintained.”
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Thes eums brig them to Mount Plasant, and to
Grandfather Smaleed’s house The door is oped by the
perenal Judy, who, having surveyed them from top to toe with
no particular favour, but indeed with a malignant sneer, leave
them standig there, whe she coults the orac as to their
adm The orac may be inferred to give cot, from the
crcumtane of her returnig with the words on her honey lps
“that thy can come in if thy want to it.” Thus priviged thy
c in, and find Mr Smaleed with his feet i the drawer of hi
chair as if it were a paper fotbath, and Mrs Smald obscured
wth th cushion like a bird that is not to sing.
“My dear friend,” says Grandfathr Smaleed, wth the tw
an affectiate arm 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, “i Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged m in that matter of
ours, you know.”
“Oh! Mr Bagnet? Surely!” the old man looks at him under his
and. “Hope you’re well, Mr Bagnt? Fine man, Mr George!
Miltary air, sr!”
No chairs beg offered, Mr George brigs on forward for
Bagnet, and oe for hielf. They sit do; Mr Bagnet as if he
had no power of bendig himf, except at the hips for that
purpo
“Judy,” says Mr Smaleed, “brig the pipe.”
“Why, I don’t know,” Mr George interposes, “that the young
woman nd give hersef that troubl, for to tel you the truth, I am
t ind to smoke it today.”
“Ain’t you?” returns th old man. “Judy, brig th pipe.”
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“Th fact is, Mr Smallwed,” prods George, “that I fid
myself in rathr an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir,
that your friend in th city has be playig tricks.”
“O dear no!” says Grandfathr Smallwed. “He never doe
that!”
“Don’t he? We, I am glad to hear it, beause I thought it mght
be his dog. This, you know, I am speakig of. This ltter.”
Grandfathr Smallwed smil in a very ugly way, in
recgniti of the letter.
“What does it mean?” asks Mr George
“Judy,” says th old man, “have you got th pipe? Give it to me.
Did you say what doe it mean, my god friend?”
“Aye! No, come, come, you kn, Mr Smaleed,” urges th
trooper, cotraining himf to speak as soothly and
confidentially as h can, hoding th ope letter in on hand, and
restig the broad knuckl of the other on his thigh; “a good lot of
money has passed betw us, and we are face to face at th
present mt, and are both we aware of the understandig
there has alays be. I am prepared to do the usual thg w I
have do regularly, and to kep this matter going. I nver got a
ltter lke this from you before, and I have be a little put about
by it this morning; beause here’s my friend Matthew Bagnet,
who, you know, had no of the moy—”
“I don’t kn it, you kn,” says the old man, quietly.
“Why, confound you—it, I mean—I te you so; don’t I?”
“Oh, yes, you tell me so,” returns Grandfathr Smallwed. “But
I don’t kn it.”
“Well!” says the troper, swalg his fire. “
I kn it.”
Mr Smald repl with exct temper, “Ah! that’s quite
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another thing!” And adds, “but it do’t matter. Mr Bagnet’s
tuation i al one, whether or no”
The unfortunate George make a great effort to arrange the
affair comfortably, and to propitiate Mr Smallwed by taking h
upon his own terms
“That’s just what I mean. A you say, Mr Smaleed, here’s
Matthew Bagnet labl to be fixed whether or no. No, you see,
that makes his god lady very unasy in her mind, and me to; for,
whereas I’m a harum-sarum srt of a good-for-nought, that more
kicks than halfpen come natural to, wy h’s a steady family
man, do’t you see? No, Mr Smaleed,” says the trooper,
gaining confidence as he prods in th soldierly mode of doing
business; “althugh you and I are god friends eugh in a certain
sort of a way, I am we aware that I can’t ask you to let my friend
Bagnet off entirey.”
“O dear, you are to modest. You can ask me anythng, Mr
George.” (Thre is an Ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfathr
Smald today.) “And you can refus, you mean, eh? Or not you
so much, perhaps, as your friend in th city? Ha ha ha!”
“Ha ha ha!” ecs Grandfathr Smallwed. In such a very
hard maner, and with eyes s partiularly green, that Mr
Bagnt’s natural gravity is much deeped by th conteplation
f that verable man.
“Come!” says the sangui George, “I am glad to find w can be
pleasant, becaus I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here’s my
fried Bagnet, and here am I. We’ll settle the matter on the spot, if
you please, Mr Smallwed, in th usual way. And you’ll ease my
friend Bagnet’s mind, and his famy’s mind, a god deal, if you’l
just mention to him what our understandig is.”
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Here some shri spetre cries out in a mockig manr, “O
god gracious! O!”—unless, indeed, it be th sportive Judy, wh is
found to be silent wh th startld visitors look round, but w
chin has received a recent toss, expressive of derision and
contept. Mr Bagnt’s gravity bemes yet more profound.
“But I think you asked me, Mr George;” old Smallwed, wh all
this time had th pipe in his hand, is th speaker now; “I thk you
asked me, what did th letter mean?”
“Why, yes, I did,” return the troper, in hs offhand way: “but I
don’t care to know particularly, if it’s all correct and plasant.”
Mr Smallwed, purpoy balking himself in an aim at th
troper’s head, thro th pipe on th ground and breaks it to
pieces.
“That’s wat it means, my dear friend. I’ll smash you. I’ll
rumble you. I’l powder you. Go to the devi!”
The two frieds ris and look at one another. Mr Bagnet’s
gravity has now attaid its profoundest point.
“Go to th devil!” repeats th old man. “I’ll have no more of
your pipe-smoking and swaggerings. What? You’re an
independet drago, to! Go to my lawyer (you remember wre;
you have been there before), and show your indepede no,
wll you? Come, my dear friend, thre’s a chance for you. Open th
treet door, Judy; put the blusterers out! Cal i help if they
do’t go. Put ’e out!”
He vociferate this so loudly, that Mr Bagnt, laying his hands
th shoulders of his comrade, before th latter can rever fro
is amazemt, gets him on th outside of th stret-dor; which is
instantly sammed by th triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded,
Mr George aw stands lookig at the knocker. Mr Bagnet, in a
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perfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the lttle
parlour window, lke a setry, and looks in every tim he pas;
apparently revolving something in his mind.
“Ce, Mat!” says Mr George, when he has recovered hielf,
“we must try the lawyer. No, what do you thk of this rascal?”
Mr Bagnet, stoppig to take a farewell lk ito the parlour,
replies, with on shake of hi head directed at th interir, “If my
od girl had be here—I’d have told him!” Having so discharged
hmself of th subjet of his cogitatis, he falls into step, and
marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.
When they present themsves i Lioln’s Inn Fids, Mr
Tulkinghrn is egaged, and not to be see He is nor at all wiing
to see them: for when they have waited a full hour, and the cerk,
o his be being rung, takes th opportunity of mentioning as
muc, he brigs n more enuragig meage than that Mr
Tulkighorn has nthing to say to them, they had better not wait.
Thy do wait, hver with th persverance of military tactics;
and at last th be rings again and th client i possession comes
out of Mr Tulkighorn’s room.
Th client is a handsome old lady; no othr than Mrs
Rounc, housekeeper at Chesny Wod. She co out of th
sanctuary with a fair old-fashioned curtsey, and softly shuts th
door. She is treated with some distiction thre; for th clerk steps
out of hi pew to show her through the outer offic, and to lt her
out. The old lady is thankig him for his attenti, when s
bserve th comrade in waiting.
“I beg your pardo, sir, but I think those gentl are
litary?”
The clrk referring the question to them with hi eye, and Mr
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George nt turnig round from the alanack over the fireplac,
Mr Bagnet takes upo himself to reply, “Yes, ma’am. Formerly.”
“I thught so. I was sure of it. My hart warms, gentlemen, at
th sight of you. It always doe at th sight of such. God blss you,
gentlemen! You’l excuse an old woman; but I had a son once wh
went for a soldir. A fin hands youth he was, and good i hi
bod way, though so peopl did diparage him to hi poor
mothr. I ask your pardo for troubling you, sir. God blss you,
gentlemen!”
“Same to you, ma’am!” returns Mr Bagnet, with right good wil
There i sthing very touchig in the earnetne of the old
lady’s voic, and i the trembl that goes through the quait old
figure. But Mr George is so occupied with th almanack over th
fireplac (calculating th coming month by it, perhaps), that he
do nt look round until s has gone away, and the door is
osed upon her.
“George,” Mr Bagnt gruffly whispers, wh he doe turn fro
th almanack at last. “Do’t be cast dow! ‘Why soldiers, why—
should we be melany boys?’ Cheer up, my hearty!”
The crk having now agai gone in to say that they are sti
there, and Mr Tulkighorn beg heard to return with s
rasbity, “Let ’e c i then!” they pas ito the great room
wth th painted ceiling, and find him standing before th fire
“No you men, wat do you want? Serjeant, I told you th last
time I saw you that I don’t desire your company here.”
Serjeant replies—dashed with th last fe minutes as to hi
usual manr of speech, and even as to hi usual carriage—that he
has received th letter, has be to Mr Smallwed about it, and
has be referred there
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“I have nothing to say to you,” rejoin Mr Tulkighorn. “If you
get into debt, you must pay your debts, or take the consequen
You have no occasion to come here to learn that, I suppose?”
Serjeant is sorry to say that he is nt prepared with the moy.
“Very wel! then the other man—this man, if this i he—must
pay it for you.”
Serjeant is sorry to add that the other man is nt prepared with
the moy either.
“Very wel! Then you must pay it betwee you, or you must
both be sued for it, and both suffer. You have had th money and
must refund it. You are not to pocket othr people’s pounds,
shillings, and pen, and esape scot fre”
Th lawyer sits dow in his easy chair and stirs th fire. Mr
George hopes he wil have the goodn to—“I tell you, Serjeant, I
have nothing to say to you. I don’t like your asate, and do’t
want you here. This matter is not at al in my course of practice,
and is nt in my offic Mr Smald is good enough to offer
thes affairs to m, but they are not in my way. You must go to
Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn.”
“I must make an apogy to you, sir,” says Mr George, “for
presing myself upo you with so littl enuraget—wich is
alt as unplasant to me as it can be to you; but would you let
me say a private word to you?”
Mr Tulkinghrn ris with his hands in hi pockets, and walks
into on of th wido recesses. “No! I have no time to waste”
In th midst of his perfet assumpti of indifference, he directs a
sharp look at th troper; taking care to stand with hs on back
to the light, and to have the other with his fac towards it.
“Well, sr,” says Mr George, “this man with me is the othr
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party implicated in this unfortunate affair—nomally, oly
nominally—and my sole object is to prevet hi getting into
troubl on my account. He is a most respectable man wth a wfe
and family; formrly in th Royal Artillery—”
“My fried, I do’t care a pih of snuff for the whole Royal
Artillery establishment—officers, men, tumbri, wago, horses,
guns, and ammunti.”
“‘Tis likely, sir. But I care a god deal for Bagnt and his wfe
and family beg injured on my account. And if I could bring th
through this matter, I should have no help for it but to give up
without any other cderati, what you wanted of m the other
day.”
“Have you got it here?”
“I have got it here, sir.”
“Serjeant,” th lawyer prods in his dry passions manr,
far more hopeles in dealg with than any amount of vehemee,
“make up your mind wh I speak to you, for this is final. After I
have fined speakig I have closed the subject, and I wo’t
reope 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 onc, if you choose. In cas you choose to leave it here, I
can do this for you—I can replac this matter on its old foting,
and I can go so far bede as to give you a written undertakig
that this man Bagnt shall never be troubled in any way until you
have been proceeded agait to the utmt—that your mean shal
be exhausted before th creditor looks to his. This is in fact al but
freng him. Have you decided?”
Th troper puts his hand into hi breast, and answers wth a
lg breath, “I must do it, sir.”
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So Mr Tulkinghrn, putting on his spectacles, sits dow and
write th undertaking; which he slly reads and explains to
Bagnt, wh has all this time be staring at th ceiling, and w
puts his hands on his bald head again, under this new verbal
shower-bath, and seems excedigly in ned of the old girl
through whom to expre his setits. The trooper then take
fro his breast-poket a folded paper, which he lays with an
unwillg hand at the lawyer’s elbo “‘Ti ony a letter of
instruction, sir. Th last I ever had fro him.”
Lok at a misto, Mr Gerge, for some change in its
xpression, and you wi find it quite as soo as in th face of Mr
Tulkighorn when he ope and reads the letter! He refolds it,
and lays it in his desk, with a countean as imperturbabl as
Death.
Nor has he anything more to say or do, but to nd onc i the
same frigid and discourteus manr, and to say briefly, “You can
go. Show thes me out, there!” Beig shown out, they repair to
Mr Bagnet’s resdence to di
Boiled beef and greens cotitute the day’s variety on th
former repast of bod pork and gree; and Mrs Bagnt srves
out the mal i the sam way, and seasons it with the bet of
temper: beg that rare sort of old girl that sh recve Good to
her arm without a hint that it mght be Better; and catches lght
fro any littl spot of darkness near hr. Th spot o this ocasion
the darkened brow of Mr George; he is unusualy thoughtful and
depred. At first Mrs Bagnet trusts to the cobid
edearments of Quebe and Malta to restore him; but finding
those young ladi sebl that their exitig Bluffy is nt the
Bluffy of their usual froli acquaitan, she wiks off the
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light infantry, and leave him to deply at leisure on th ope
ground of the doti hearth.
But he do not. He remai in close order, couded and
depressed. During th lengthy cleaning up and pattening pro,
w he and Mr Bagnt are supplied with thr pipes, he is no
better than he was at dir. He forgets to soke, looks at the fire
and ponders, lets his pipe out, fis th breast of Mr Bagnt with
perturbation and diay, by showing he has n enjoymet of
tobacco.
Therefore when Mrs Bagnet at last appears, roy from th
vigorating pai, and sits down to her work, Mr Bagnet growls
“Old girl!” and winks mnitions to her to find out what’s the
matter.
“Why, George!” says Mrs Bagnet, quietly threadig her ndl
“How lo you are!”
“Am I? Not god company? Well, I am afraid I am not.”
“He ain’t at all like Bluffy, mothr!” cries littl Malta.
“Beause he ain’t we, I thk, mothr!” adds Quebe
“Sure that’s a bad sign nt to be like Bluffy, too!” returns the
troper, kissing th young damsels. “But it’s true,” with a sigh—
“true, I am afraid. The little one are alays right!”
“George,” says Mrs Bagnet, workig busy, “if I thught you
cross enugh to think of anythng that a shri od soldier’s wfe—
who culd have bitten her tongue off afterwards, and ought to
have done it almost—said th morning, I don’t kn what I
should say to you no”
“My kid soul of a darlg,” returns the troper. “Not a morsel
of it.”
“Beause really and truly, George, what I said and meant to
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say, was that I trusted Lignum to you, and was sure you’d bring
hi through it. And you have brought him through it, nobl!”
“Thank’ee, my dear,” says George. “I am glad of your god
opinion.”
In giving Mrs Bagnet’s hand, with her work in it, a friedly
shake—for she tok her seat beside hm—th troper’s attention is
attracted to her fac After lookig at it for a lttle whil as s
plies her needle, he looks to young Wooich, sitting on his sto in
th cornr, and beckons that fifer to him.
“Se there, my boy,” says George, very gently soothing the
mther’s hair with his hand, “there’s a good loving forehead for
you! All bright with love of you, my boy. A littl toucd by th sun
and the weather through follwing your father about and takig
care of you, but as fresh and wholese as a ripe apple on a tree.”
Mr Bagnt’s face expresses, so far as in its wde material lies,
th hight approbation and acquiescence.
“Th time wi come, my boy,” pursues the troper, “wh this
hair of your mothr’s will be grey, and this foread all crod
and recrossed wth wrinkl—and a fi old lady she’l be th
Take care, while you are young, that you can thk in th days, ‘
I
nver whited a hair of her dear head, I never marked a
sorroful line in her face!’ For of all th many things that you can
think of wh you are a man, you had better have
that by you,
Woolwic!”
Mr George concludes by rising fro his chair, seatig th boy
besides hs mothr in it, and saying, with something of a hurry
about him, that he’ll smoke his pipe in th stret a bit.
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Chapter 35
I
lay ill through several weks, and th usual tenor of my life
became like an old remembrance. But this was not th effect
of time, so much as of th change in all my habits, made by
the helpl and inactio of a sik room. Before I had been
cfied to it many days, everythig els seed to have retired
into a remote distance, whre thre was littl or no separati
between the various stages of my life wh had be realy
divided by years. In falg ill, I seed to have crossed a dark
lake, and to have left all my experices, mingled togethr by th
great ditanc, on the healthy shore.
My housekepig dutie, though at first it causd m great
anxiety to think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off
as the oldet of the old duti at Greenlaf, or the sumer
afternoons when I went home from shool with my portfolio under
my arm, and my chidish shadow at my side, to my godmothr’s
house I had nver known before how short life realy was, and
into ho smal a spac th mind could put it.
While I was very ill, th way in which th divis of time
became confusd with on anthr, distressed my mind
exceedigly. At on a chd, an elder girl, and the lttle wan I
had be so happy as, I was not only oppressed by cares and
difficulti adapted to eac statin, but by the great perplxity of
edly trying to rencil th. I suppose that fe w have
not be in such a condition can quite understand wat I mean, or
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wat painful unrest aro fro this source.
For th sam reas I am alt afraid to hit at that ti in
y dirder—it seemed one log night, but I beeve there wre
both nights and days in it—whn I laboured up colossal staircases,
ever strivig to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have sen a
wrm in a garde path, by some obstruction, and labouring again.
I knew perfetly at intervals, and I thk vaguey at most times,
that I was i my bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt her touc,
and kn her very well; yet I would find myself complaing “O
mre of the never-endig stairs, Charly,—more and more—
pid up to the sky, I think!” and labouring on agai
Dare I hit at that worse tim when, strung together
sere in great black space, there was a flamg neklac, or
ring, or starry circle of some kind, of wich I was one of the beads!
And wh my only prayer was to be taken off fro th rest, and
w it was such inexplicabl agoy and miry to be a part of th
dreadful thing?
Perhaps th les I say of th sick experices, th less tedius
and the more intelgible I shal be. I do not recall them to make
others unhappy, or beause I am now the least unhappy in
rememberig th. It may be that if we kn more of such
strange afflti, we mght be better abl to alviate their
intesity.
Th repose that succeeded, th long delicious slp, th blssful
rest, w in my weakne I was to calm to have any care for
myself, and could have heard (or so I thk now) that I was dying;
wth no othr emtion than with a pitying love for th I left
bed—this state can be perhaps more widely understod. I was
this state when I first srunk from the lght as it twinkld on me
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oce more, and kn with a boundls joy for wich no wrds are
rapturous enough, that I should see again.
I had hard my Ada crying at th door, day and night; I had
hard hr calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had
heard her prayig and imploring to be lt in to nurse and cfort
me, and to leave my bedside no more: but I had only said, wh I
culd speak, “Never, my sweet girl, nver!” and I had over and
over agai reded Charly that she was to keep my darlg from
the room, whether I lved or died. Charly had be true to me in
that tim of ned, and with her little hand and her great heart had
kept th door fast.
But nw, my sight strengtheng, and the glorious lght cog
every day more fully and brightly on me, I could read th letters
that my dear wrote to me every morng and evenig, and culd
put them to my lps and lay my chk upo them with no fear of
hurting her. I could se my littl maid, so teder and so careful,
going about the two rooms setting everything in order, and
speakig cherfully to Ada fro th ope window again. I could
understand the stilne in the house, and the thoughtfuln it
expresd on the part of all those who had always been s good to
me. I could wp in th exquisite felicity of my heart, and be as
appy in my weakness as ever I had be in my strength
By-and-bye, my strength began to be restored. Intead of lyig,
wth so strange a calmness, watcng what was done for me, as if it
were do for so on el whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped
it a littl, and so on to a littl more, and much more, unti I became
useful to mysf, and iterested, and attachd to life again
How we I reber the pleasant afternoon when I was raid
i bed with piows for the first tim, to enjoy a great tea-drikig
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with Carly! The lttle creature—st into the world, surely, to
minister to th weak and sick—was so happy, and so busy, and
stopped so ofte in her preparations to lay her head upo my
bosom, and fodle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad,
she was so glad! that I was obliged to say, “Charly, if you go on i
th way, I must l do agai, my darlg, for I am weaker than I
thought I was!” So Charly beam as quiet as a mouse, and took
her bright fac here and there, across and across the two rooms,
out of the shade into the divin sun, and out of the sun
into th shade, while I watcd her peacfully. Whe all her
preparati were concluded and the pretty tea-tabl with its lttle
delicaci to tempt me, and its white clth, and its flrs, and
everythng so lovingly and beautifully arranged for me by Ada
dowstairs, was ready at th bed-side, I felt sure I was steady
eough to say sothing to Charly that was not nw to my
thoughts.
First, I complimented Charley on th ro; and indeed, it was
so fre and airy, so spotls and neat, that I could scarce believe I
had be lyig there so log. This deghted Charly, and her fac
as brighter than before
“Yet, Carley,” said I looking round, “I miss somthing, surely,
that I am accustod to?”
Poor lttle Charly loked round too, and preteded to shake
her head, as if there were nothing abst.
“Are th picture all as thy usd to be?” I asked her.
“Every one of them, miss,” said Charly.
“And the furnture, Charly?”
“Except where I have moved it about, to make more room,
miss.”
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“And yet,” said I, “I miss some famar object. Ah, I kn what
it is, Charley! It’s th lookig-glass.”
Carly got up from the tabl, makig as if s had forgotten
thing, and went ito the next room; and I heard her sob
there.
I had thought of this very often. I was now certai of it. I culd
thank God that it was not a shok to me now I called Carley
back; and w she came—at first preteding to smile, but as she
dre nearer to me, lookig grieved—I tok her in my arms, and
said, “It matters very little, Charly. I hope I can do without my
od face very we”
I was pretly so far advanced as to be able to sit up i a great
cair, and eve giddiy to walk ito the adjoig room, lanig on
Carley. Th mirror was go fro its usual place i that ro
too; but what I had to bear, was n the harder to bear for that.
My Guardian had throughut be earnt to visit me, and
thre was now no god reas why I should deny myself that
happine. He came on morng; and w

BLEAK HOUSE

Transcription

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