Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from one who has never been welcome to your ladyship but I hope when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will not find fault with me. Do so. Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship, that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I formerly mentioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my ’eart until erased by circumstances over which I had no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Summerson’s wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over which I have no control), I consequently never expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on your ladyship again. And yet I am here now. My object being to communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am here. Nor can I, too particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that it’s no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred—I, in point of fact, shouldn’t have darkened these doors again, but should have seen ’em further first. Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely difficult for me to be sure that I hadn’t inadvertently led up to something contrary to Miss Summerson’s wishes. Self-praise is no recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man of business neither. Indeed, it has been made so hard, to have any idea what that party was up to in combination with others that until the loss which we all deplore I was gravelled—an expression which your ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise—a name by which I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship is not acquainted with—got to be so close and double-faced that at times it wasn’t easy to keep one’s hands off his ’ead. However, what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic turn and has your ladyship’s portrait always hanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, will your ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? I don’t mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary’s old servant, or as a person without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?


No!


Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and waited at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an hour’s turn afterwards to avoid them.


What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not understand you. What do you mean?


Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that those letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be blown upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded to have been here this morning to make money of it. And that the money is made, or making. Your ladyship, you know best whether there’s anything in what I say or whether there’s nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted up to Miss Summerson’s wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that’s sufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in putting your ladyship on your guard when there’s no necessity for it, you will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and I shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take my farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there’s no danger of your ever being waited on by me again.


Where is Sir Leicester? Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?


if some mortal stroke would but fall on this old man and take him from my way!


If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I am wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent of nothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge. He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. After he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking in the garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him and make one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful suspense on which I have been racked by him, you do not know how long, but would mercifully strike next morning. I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, but there was no reply, and I came home. I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous devotion—who avoids you only with a deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself—and who writes this last adieu.


Chesney Wold?


It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester. You will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All the gentlemen say so.


My Lady.


My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and don’t know of your illness yet.


My Lady. For God’s sake, where?


Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I’m sorry to see you like this. I hope you’ll cheer up. I’m sure you will, on account of the family credit. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I understand you.


Full forgiveness. Find—


Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I’ll find her. But my search after her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost. Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Open it with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TO be sure. Take the notes out? So I will. Count ’em? That’s soon done. Twenty and thirty’s fifty, and twenty’s seventy, and fifty’s one twenty, and forty’s one sixty. Take ’em for expenses? That I’ll do, and render an account of course. Don’t spare money? No I won’t. You’re George’s mother, old lady; that’s about what you are, I believe?


Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother.


So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now. Well, then, I’ll tell you something. You needn’t be distressed no more. Your son’s all right. Now, don’t you begin a-crying, because what you’ve got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you won’t do that by crying. As to your son, he’s all right, I tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you’re the same. He’s discharged honourable; that’s about what HE is; with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one, I’LL bet a pound. You may trust me, for I took your son. He conducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he’s a fine-made man, and you’re a fine-made old lady, and you’re a mother and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you’ve trusted to me I’ll go through with. Don’t you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in search of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, and these family affairs smoothed over—as, Lord, many other family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of time.


A spicy boudoir, this. Must have cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; she must have been hard put to it! One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and getting myself up for Almack’s. I begin to think I must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it. Hum! Let’s have a look at YOU. What should YOU be kept by yourself for? What’s YOUR motive? Are you her ladyship’s property, or somebody else’s? You’ve got a mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose? Oh! Come, I’ll take YOU.


Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I’ll be back.


I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, my lad. I haven’t a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a woman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died—that was the name, I know—all right—where does she live? You won’t repent it, George. Good night! Don’t be alarmed, sir. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before. Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss Esther Summerson’s. Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady Dedlock’s, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?


Yes.


There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have come out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit—apoplexy or paralysis—and couldn’t be brought to, and precious time has been lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is! I don’t know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there’s more and more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I’d give a hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to follow her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want something else. I want Miss Summerson.


Miss Summerson?


Now, Mr. Jarndyce I speak to you as a gentleman of a humane heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don’t often happen. If ever delay was dangerous, it’s dangerous now; and if ever you couldn’t afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is the time. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred pound apiece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all the rest that’s heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has communicated to me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in company with a young lady, answering to the description of a young lady that she has a tenderness for—I ask no question, and I say no more than that—she will give me credit for being friendly. Let me come up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of putting that young lady for’ard, and I’ll save her and prevail with her if she is alive. Let me come up with her alone—a hard matter—and I’ll do my best, but I don’t answer for what the best may be. Time flies; it’s getting on for one o’clock. When one strikes, there’s another hour gone, and it’s worth a thousand pound now instead of a hundred.


Are you well wrapped up, Miss Summerson? It’s a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be out in. It may be a long job, but so that it ends well, never mind, miss.


I pray to heaven it may end well!


You see, whatever you do, don’t you go and fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for anything that may happen, and it’ll be the better for you, the better for me, the better for Lady Dedlock, and the better for Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Now, Miss Summerson, we are off, if you please!


Don’t you be alarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming down here. I only want to have everything in train and to know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get on, my lad!


An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson,


Yes. Have you gathered any intelligence?


None that can be quite depended on as yet, but it’s early times as yet. Get on, my lad! Drink it, Miss Summerson, it’ll do you good. You’re beginning to get more yourself now, ain’t you? You was what you may call stunned at first, and Lord, no wonder! Don’t speak loud, my dear. It’s all right. She’s on ahead. Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. I heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but couldn’t make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off. Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she’s before us now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler. Now, if you wasn’t brought up to the butter trade, look out and see if you can catch half a crown in your t’other hand. One, two, three, and there you are! Now, my lad, try a gallop! As this is your regular abode, Miss Summerson, you see. I should like to know whether you’ve been asked for by any stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarndyce has. I don’t much expect it, but it might be. When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know. That was me. I drove down in a gig that afternoon to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheels when you came out to look after him yourself, for I was aware of you and your little maid going up when I was walking the horse down. Making an inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heard what company he was in and was coming among the brick-fields to look for him when I observed you bringing him home here.


Had he committed any crime?


None was charged against him, but I suppose he wasn’t over-particular. No. What I wanted him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of Lady Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue more free than welcome as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn’t do, at any sort of price, to have him playing those games. So having warned him out of London, I made an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it now he WAS away, and go farther from it, and maintain a bright look-out that I didn’t catch him coming back again.


Poor creature!


Poor enough, and trouble enough, and well enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly turned on my back when I found him taken up by your establishment, I do assure you. Why, my dear? Naturally there was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have been born with a yard and a half of it, and a remnant over. Ah! Here we are, and a nice retired place it is. Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-tapping, that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled. They’re early with the kitchen fire, and that denotes good servants. But what you’ve always got to be careful of with servants is who comes to see ’em; you never know what they’re up to if you don’t know that. And another thing, my dear. Whenever you find a young man behind the kitchen-door, you give that young man in charge on suspicion of being secreted in a dwelling-house with an unlawful purpose. Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room when he’s on a visit here, Miss Summerson?


You know Mr. Skimpole!


What do you call him again? Skimpole, is it? I’ve often wondered what his name might be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet Jacob?


Harold,


Harold. Yes. He’s a queer bird is Harold,


He is a singular character,


No idea of money. He takes it, though! Why, now I’ll tell you, Miss Summerson. Your mind will be all the better for not running on one point too continually, and I’ll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed out to me where Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come to the door and ask for Toughey, if that was all; but willing to try a move or so first, if any such was on the board, I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold opens it and I have had a look at him, thinks I, you’re the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to disturb the family after they was gone to bed and about its being a thing to be regretted that charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and then, when I pretty well understood his ways, I said I should consider a fypunnote well bestowed if I could relieve the premises of Toughey without causing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way, ‘It’s no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my friend, because I’m a mere child in such matters and have no idea of money.’ Of course I understood what his taking it so easy meant; and being now quite sure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round a little stone and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and looks as innocent as you like, and says, ‘But I don’t know the value of these things. What am I to DO with this?’ ‘Spend it, sir,’ says I. ‘But I shall be taken in,’ he says, ‘they won’t give me the right change, I shall lose it, it’s no use to me.’ Lord, you never saw such a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me where to find Toughey, and I found him. It’s no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my friend, because I’m a mere child in such matters and have no idea of money. But I don’t know the value of these things. What am I to DO with this? Spend it, sir. But I shall be taken in, they won’t give me the right change, I shall lose it, it’s no use to me. Bounds, my dear? Bounds? Now, Miss Summerson, I’ll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful when you are happily married and have got a family about you. Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as can be in all concerning money, look well after your own money, for they are dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a person proclaims to you ‘In worldly matters I’m a child,’ you consider that that person is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you have got that person’s number, and it’s Number One. Now, I am not a poetical man myself, except in a vocal way when it goes round a company, but I’m a practical one, and that’s my experience. So’s this rule. Fast and loose in one thing, fast and loose in everything. I never knew it fail. No more will you. Nor no one. With which caution to the unwary, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and so go back to our business. Then, Miss Summerson, we can’t be too soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most inquiries there I leave to you, if you’ll be so good as to make ’em. The naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your own way.


Liz. I have come a long way in the night and through the snow to inquire after a lady—


Who has been here, you know, that’s the lady the young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know.


And who told YOU as there was anybody here?


A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons,


He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,


He’s out of employment, I believe, and so gets talking.


I should like to have seen Jenny very much, for I am sure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I am very anxious indeed—you cannot think how anxious—to overtake. Will Jenny be here soon? Where is she?


I’m not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you’ve heerd me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and it’s curious they can’t let my place be. There’d be a pretty shine made if I was to go a-wisitin THEM, I think. Howsoever, I don’t so much complain of you as of some others, and I’m agreeable to make you a civil answer, though I give notice that I’m not a-going to be drawed like a badger. Will Jenny be here soon? No she won’t. Where is she? She’s gone up to Lunnun.


Did she go last night?


Did she go last night? Ah! She went last night,


But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say to her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind as to tell me, for I am in great distress to know.


If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm—


Your master, will break your neck if you meddle with wot don’t concern you. Wos Jenny here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when the lady come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I’ll tell you wot the lady said to her. She said, ‘You remember me as come one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had left?’ Ah, she remembered. So we all did. Well, then, wos that young lady up at the house now? No, she warn’t up at the house now. Well, then, lookee here. The lady was upon a journey all alone, strange as we might think it, and could she rest herself where you’re a setten for a hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then she went—it might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain’t got no watches here to know the time by, nor yet clocks. Where did she go? I don’t know where she go’d. She went one way, and Jenny went another; one went right to Lunnun, and t’other went right from it. That’s all about it. Ask this man. He heerd it all, and see it all. He knows. You remember me as come one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had left?


That’s all about it.


Was the lady crying?


Devil a bit. Her shoes was the worse, and her clothes was the worse, but she warn’t—not as I see.


I hope so. I hope you will not object to my asking your wife, how the lady looked.


Come, then! You hear what she says. Cut it short and tell her.


Bad. Pale and exhausted. Very bad.


Did she speak much?


Not much, but her voice was hoarse.


Was she faint? Did she eat or drink here?


Go on! Tell her and cut it short.


She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread and tea. But she hardly touched it.


And when she went from here,


When she went from here, she went right away nor’ard by the high road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn’t so. Now, there’s the end. That’s all about it.


Now, Miss Summerson. They’ve got her ladyship’s watch among ’em. That’s a positive fact.


You saw it?


Just as good as saw it. Else why should he talk about his ‘twenty minutes past’ and about his having no watch to tell the time by? Twenty minutes! He don’t usually cut his time so fine as that. If he comes to half-hours, it’s as much as HE does. Now, you see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or he took it. I think she gave it him. Now, what should she give it him for? What should she give it him for? If time could be spared, which is the only thing that can’t be spared in this case, I might get it out of that woman; but it’s too doubtful a chance to trust to under present circumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and any fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband that ill uses her through thick and thin. There’s something kept back. It’s a pity but what we had seen the other woman. It’s possible, Miss Summerson, that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word for you, and it’s possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It don’t come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it’s on the cards. Now, I don’t take kindly to laying out the money of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don’t see my way to the usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss Summerson, is for’ard—straight ahead—and keeping everything quiet!


Get on, my lad! Keep up your spirits. It’s certainly true that she came on here, Miss Summerson. There’s not a doubt of the dress by this time, and the dress has been seen here.


Still on foot?


Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be the point she’s aiming at, and yet I don’t like his living down in her own part of the country neither.


I know so little. There may be some one else nearer here, of whom I never heard.


That’s true. But whatever you do, don’t you fall a-crying, my dear; and don’t you worry yourself no more than you can help. Get on, my lad!


Get on, my lad!


What is it? Is she here?


No, no. Don’t deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody’s here. But I’ve got it! Now, Miss Summerson, don’t you be disappointed at what I’m a-going to do. You know me. I’m Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We’ve come a long way; never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick! Up, I tell you! Up! Ain’t it English? Up!


Up? To London! Are we going back?


Miss Summerson, back. Straight back as a die. You know me. Don’t be afraid. I’ll follow the other, by G——


The other? Who?


You called her Jenny, didn’t you? I’ll follow her. Bring those two pair out here for a crown a man. Wake up, some of you!


You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I know her to be in!


You are right, my dear, I won’t. But I’ll follow the other. Look alive here with them horses. Send a man for’ard in the saddle to the next stage, and let him send another for’ard again, and order four on, up, right through. My darling, don’t you be afraid! My dear, —you’ll excuse me if I’m too familiar—don’t you fret and worry yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else at present; but you know me, my dear; now, don’t you?


I know he was far more capable than I of deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right? Could I not go forward by myself in search of—I grasped his hand again in my distress and whispered it to him—of my own mother.


My dear. I know, I know, and would I put you wrong, do you think? Inspector Bucket. Now you know me, don’t you?


What could I say but yes!


Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon me for standing by you, no less than by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Now, are you right there?


All right, sir!


Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads!


Our people, Mr. Jones, our people, sir, are sheep—mere sheep. Where two or three marked ones go, all the rest follow. Keep those two or three in your eye, Mr. Jones, and you have the flock.


Why yes, sir, there certainly ARE reports concerning Lady Dedlock, very current indeed among my high connexion, sir. You see, my high connexion must talk about something, sir; and it’s only to get a subject into vogue with one or two ladies I could name to make it go down with the whole. Just what I should have done with those ladies, sir, in the case of any novelty you had left to me to bring in, they have done of themselves in this case through knowing Lady Dedlock and being perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too, sir. You’ll find, sir, that this topic will be very popular among my high connexion. If it had been a speculation, sir, it would have brought money. And when I say so, you may trust to my being right, sir, for I have made it my business to study my high connexion and to be able to wind it up like a clock, sir.


she was the best-groomed woman in the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter.


Order at the bar!


No, he has not come back yet, Sir Leicester. It was late last night when he went. He has been but a little time gone yet.


For I dread, George. I dread, my dear, that my Lady will never more set foot within these walls.


That’s a bad presentiment, mother.


Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear.


That’s worse. But why, mother?


When I saw my Lady yesterday, George, she looked to me—and I may say at me too—as if the step on the Ghost’s Walk had almost walked her down.


Come, come! You alarm yourself with old-story fears, mother.


No I don’t, my dear. No I don’t. It’s going on for sixty year that I have been in this family, and I never had any fears for it before. But it’s breaking up, my dear; the great old Dedlock family is breaking up.


I hope not, mother.


I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester in this illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old nor too useless to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my place would be. But the step on the Ghost’s Walk will walk my Lady down, George; it has been many a day behind her, and now it will pass her and go on.


Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not.


Ah, so do I, George. But if my fears come true, and he has to know it, who will tell him!


Are these her rooms?


These are my Lady’s rooms, just as she left them.


Why, now. I begin to understand how you come to think as you do think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when they are fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in them, and that person is away under any shadow, let alone being God knows where.


He is asleep.


I am not.


Miss Dedlock don’t speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but my youngest. I have found him. He has come home.


George? Your son George come home, Mrs. Rouncewell?


Thank God. Yes, Sir Leicester.


Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Rouncewell?


It happened only yesterday, Sir Leicester, and I doubted your being well enough to be talked to of such things.


Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell?


in London.


Where in London? Bring him here to my room. Bring him directly.


Good heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell! Do you remember me, George?


I must have a very bad memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I failed to remember you.


When I look at you, George Rouncewell. I see something of a boy at Chesney Wold—I remember well—very well.


I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester, but would you accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, Sir Leicester, if you would allow me to move you.


If you please, George Rouncewell; if you will be so good. Thank you. You have your mother’s gentleness, and your own strength. Thank you. Why did you wish for secrecy?


Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I—I should still, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed—which I hope you will not be long—I should still hope for the favour of being allowed to remain unknown in general. That involves explanations not very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not very creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on a variety of subjects, I should think it would be universally agreed, Sir Leicester, that I am not much to boast of.


You have been a soldier, and a faithful one.


As far as that goes, Sir Leicester, I have done my duty under discipline, and it was the least I could do.


You find me, far from well, George Rouncewell.


I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester.


I am sure you are. No. In addition to my older malady, I have had a sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens, and confuses,


Thank you, George. You are another self to me. You have often carried my spare gun at Chesney Wold, George. You are familiar to me in these strange circumstances, very familiar. I was about to add. I was about to add, respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with a slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself. I do not mean that there was any difference between us (for there has been none), but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circumstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a little while, of my Lady’s society. She has found it necessary to make a journey—I trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I make myself intelligible? The words are not quite under my command in the manner of pronouncing them. Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence—and in the presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whose truth and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her son George, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth in the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold—in case I should relapse, in case I should not recover, in case I should lose both my speech and the power of writing, though I hope for better things— Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witness—beginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly—that I am on unaltered terms with Lady Dedlock. That I assert no cause whatever of complaint against her. That I have ever had the strongest affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished. Say this to herself, and to every one. If you ever say less than this, you will be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me.


I will observe his injunctions to the letter.


Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master. I must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness watching and waiting and dragging through the time. Let me draw the curtains, and light the candles, and make things more comfortable about you. The church-clocks will strike the hours just the same, Sir Leicester, and the night will pass away just the same. My Lady will come back, just the same.


I know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am weak—and she has been so long gone.


Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet.


But that is a long time. Oh, it is a long time! As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse for being confessed. It is getting late, and they are not come. Light the room!


of anything happening


How is Sir Leicester now, Mr. George?


Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low and ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes.


Has he asked for me?


Why, no, I can’t say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is to say.


This is a truly sad time, Mr. George.


It is indeed, miss. Hadn’t you better go to bed?


You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock,


if anything was to happen


Hadn’t you better go to bed, miss?


You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock!


Do with me what you think best!


All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell?


Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester.


No word of any kind? No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?


Look what I am bringing you who watch there!


Who will tell him!


Get on, my lads!


Why, my dear! How wet you are! Now, my dear. We’re a-going to mark this person down. It may take a little time, but you don’t mind that. You’re pretty sure that I’ve got a motive. Ain’t you? So you may have, my dear. And I tell you what! If you only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you after what I’ve experienced of you, that’ll do. Lord! You’re no trouble at all. I never see a young woman in any station of society—and I’ve seen many elevated ones too—conduct herself like you have conducted yourself since you was called out of your bed. You’re a pattern, you know, that’s what you are, you’re a pattern. My dear, when a young lady is as mild as she’s game, and as game as she’s mild, that’s all I ask, and more than I expect. She then becomes a queen, and that’s about what you are yourself.


Now, Miss Summerson, you won’t be alarmed whatever comes off, I know. It’s not necessary for me to give you any further caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down and that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I don’t like to ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way? It ain’t so easy to keep your feet, but take time.


Are we in Holborn?


Yes. Do you know this turning?


It looks like Chancery Lane.


And was christened so, my dear,


My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour, and in such weather!


Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt we are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket. That’s a good move, too, a very good move.


May I go with you?


Why, Lord! Of course you may.


I have just left Richard. I have been sitting with him since ten o’clock last night.


Oh, dear me, he is ill!


No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed and faint—you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes—and Ada sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and came straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a little while, and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is now, I hope!


I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!


Mr. Woodcourt, our business takes us to a law-stationer’s here, a certain Mr. Snagsby’s. What, you know him, do you?


Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place.


Indeed, sir? Then you will be so good as to let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have half a word with him?


Don’t be alarmed, miss. It’s Snagsby’s servant.


Why, you see. Why, you see, the girl’s subject to fits, and has ’em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to reason somehow.


At all events, they wouldn’t be up yet if it wasn’t for her, Mr. Bucket,


She’s been at it pretty well all night, sir.


Well, that’s true. My light’s burnt out. Show yours a moment.


Miss Summerson, if without obtruding myself on your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.


You are truly kind. I need wish to keep no secret of my own from you; if I keep any, it is another’s.


I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as I can fully respect it.


I trust implicitly to you. I know and deeply feel how sacredly you keep your promise.


Please to come in, Miss Summerson, and sit down by the fire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I particularly want. It’s not in her box, and I think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle without hurting.


Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket. The lady will excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. The back is Guster’s bedroom, and in it she’s a-carrying on, poor thing, to a frightful extent! My little woman, to wave—not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear—hostilities for one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady. My little woman, it is not unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, at the present hour. I don’t know. I have not the least idea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I’d rather not be told.


Now, Mr. Snagsby, the best thing you can do is to go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster—


My Guster, Mr. Bucket! Go on, sir, go on. I shall be charged with that next.


And to hold the candle, or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you’re asked. Which there’s not a man alive more ready to do, for you’re a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you’ve got the sort of heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can? Don’t you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she’s under a mistake altogether. She’ll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I’m a-going to explain it to her. Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, you know—‘Believe Me, if All Those Endearing,’ and cetrer—you’re well acquainted with the song, because it’s in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are strangers—charms—attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence in yourself—is, that you’ve done it.


what did Mr. Bucket mean.


What does Mr. Bucket mean? I’ll tell you what he means, ma’am. Go and see Othello acted. That’s the tragedy for you.


why


Why? Because you’ll come to that if you don’t look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your mind’s not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you’re what I call an intellectual woman—with your soul too large for your body, if you come to that, and chafing it—and you know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don’t you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady. And Toughey—him as you call Jo—was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it by this time.) Is that all? No. See what happens. Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do you do? You hide and you watch ’em, and you pounce upon that maid-servant—knowing what she’s subject to and what a little thing will bring ’em on—in that surprising manner and with that severity that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be hanging upon that girl’s words! Now, Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make, is to let me speak a word to this young lady in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one thing that’s likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your swiftest and best! Now my dear, you’re steady and quite sure of yourself?


Quite,


Whose writing is that? You know the hand, and if you are firm enough to read it to me, do! But be particular to a word.


‘I came.’ That was written,


Take courage. There’s only a few words more. Cheer up! Don’t think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready.


My poor girl, it seems cruel to trouble you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter than I could tell you in an hour.


Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I’ll tell true, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby.


I am sure of that. And how was it?


I had been out on an errand, dear lady—long after it was dark—quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here. And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about here, but had lost her way and couldn’t find them. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! They won’t believe me! She didn’t say any harm to me, and I didn’t say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!


She could not find those places,


No! Couldn’t find them. And she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you’d have given her half a crown, I know!


I hope I should.


And yet she was so well spoken, that it made a person’s heart bleed. And so she said to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground. And so I told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate. What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff—that you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby—that frightened me so, Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!


You are so much better now. Pray, pray tell me more.


Yes I will, yes I will! But don’t be angry with me, that’s a dear lady, because I have been so ill. There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no—no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and went. Yes. Yes! She went the way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened.


Don’t leave me now!


You’ll be better with us, we may want you; don’t lose time!


Miss Summerson, you’ll understand me, if you think a moment. They changed clothes at the cottage. And one returned, and one went on. And the one that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!


Shall she go?


She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her. They have a higher right than ours.


Dame Trot, welcome to the growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time—as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short.


And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?


Aye, my dear? Bleak House, must learn to take care of itself. Bleak House, must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you.


It’s like you, guardian, to have been taking that into consideration for a happy surprise to both of us.


Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow.


Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?


I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden.


Does he still say the same of Richard?


Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about him; who CAN be?


Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard. When will he awake from his delusion!


He is not in the way to do so now, my dear. The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made me the principal representative of the great occasion of his suffering.


So unreasonably!


Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot, what shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason and injustice from beginning to end—if it ever has an end—how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than older men did in old times. I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors. When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be astonished too! Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. Therefore I have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month, next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can wait. So he tells me. Very good. He has made his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do you like her, my dear? I think so too. Less pedigree? Not so much of Morgan ap—what’s his name?


That was what I meant,


Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains. I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?


No.


You see, our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt’s way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you.


Yes. It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do better.


Sure, little woman?


Quite sure.


Good. It shall be done. Carried unanimously.


Carried unanimously. You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another country. Have you been advising him since?


Yes, little woman, pretty often.


Has he decided to do so?


I rather think not.


Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?


Why—yes—perhaps. About half a year hence or so, there is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated—streams and streets, town and country, mill and moor—and seems to present an opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men’s sometimes do, I dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care for. It is Woodcourt’s kind.


And will he get this appointment?


Why, little woman, not being an oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has the best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.


The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian.


You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will.


My dear! So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? TO be sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you.


Then Richard is not come in yet? I am glad of that, for I was afraid of being a little late.


No, he is not come in. He has had a long day in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don’t like Vholes, I hope? DON’T like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!


I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now,


My dearest, daily and hourly. You know what I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor’s table? My dear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not? In short, my valued friend. I must tell you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted, and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es.


Indeed?


Ye-es, my executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.) I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance. I did at one time mean, to nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular, my charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out, poor man, so I have appointed his successor. Don’t mention it. This is in confidence. Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds.


Really, Miss Flite?


Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach!


A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official one,


There is not much to see here,


Nor to hear, miss. A little music does occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish him?


I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.


I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his friends myself, and I am aware that the gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?


He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious.


Just so. Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?


Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend,


But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance.


That can do little for an unhappy mind,


Just so. Miss Summerson, this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr. C.’s.


I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been engaged when they were both very young, I told him (a little indignantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now darkened his life.


Just so. Still, with a view to everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission, Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.’s connexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself, but also to my own reputation—dear to myself as a professional man aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for whom I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, I will even say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support.”


It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes, if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which you are engaged with him.


Miss Summerson, it may be so; and I freely admit that the young lady who has taken Mr. C.’s name upon herself in so ill-advised a manner—you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.’s connexions—is a highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mixing much with general society in any but a professional character; still I trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never did give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young lady is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.’s pursuit of his interests—


Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!


Pardon me. Mr. C. takes certain interests under certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In reference to Mr. C,’s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, in my desire that everything should be openly carried on—I used those words, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is producible at any time—I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid down the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a client of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral (that is to say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out. I HAVE carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over to any connexion of Mr. C.’s on any account. As open as I was to Mr. Jarndyce, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.’s affairs in a very bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir? Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I have to thank you very much, sir!”


Always devoted to business, Vholes!


Yes, Mr. C., the interests of clients are never to be neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying myself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C.”


Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes out.


Esther, my dearest. Richard is never so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that. All true, but that he is such a devoted friend to us we owe to you. Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife indeed. You shall teach me. When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther.”


I know, I know, my darling.


When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake—as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have married him just the same, Esther. Just the same! You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely know Richard better than my love does. I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me. And something else supports me, Esther. I look forward a little while, and I don’t know what great aid may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him back. If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, ‘I thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored through me!’ These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will. Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I look at Richard. That he may not live to see his child.


My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course, of course it’s not business. Then it’s pleasure! Then, my dear Miss Summerson, don’t allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT a pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter creature, in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an unpleasant matter, how much less should you! So that’s disposed of, and we will talk of something else.


I should think it a mistake,


if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I don’t!


Mr. Skimpole. I have so often heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of life—


Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who’s the junior partner? D? Not an idea of them!


—That perhaps, you will excuse my boldness on that account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is poorer than he was.


Dear me! So am I, they tell me.


And in very embarrassed circumstances.


Parallel case, exactly!


This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that—if you would—not—


Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most assuredly not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I don’t go anywhere for pain, because I was made for pleasure. Pain comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very little pleasure at our dear Richard’s lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, ‘This is a man who wants pounds.’ So I am; I always want pounds; not for myself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our young friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, ‘This is the man who HAD pounds, who borrowed them,’ which I did. I always borrow pounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure to me. Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd! Besides, if I don’t go anywhere for pain—which would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing to do—why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be disagreeable. They might say, ‘This is the man who had pounds and who can’t pay pounds,’ which I can’t, of course; nothing could be more out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn’t go near them—and I won’t. Nothing but Miss Summerson’s fine tact,


Mr. Skimpole. I must take the liberty of saying before I conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much surprised.


No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?


Greatly surprised.


You know what a child I am. Why surprised?


I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations.


No. No, really? You know I don’t intend to be responsible. I never could do it. Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me—or below me. I don’t even know which; but as I understand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do you know? Ah! Then you see. I am hopeless of understanding it.


I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my guardian’s confidence for a bribe.


My dear Miss Summerson. I can’t be bribed.


Not by Mr. Bucket?


Not by anybody. I don’t attach any value to money. I don’t care about it, I don’t know about it, I don’t want it, I don’t keep it—it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?


I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the capacity for arguing the question.


On the contrary,


Mr. Skimpole,


I am exactly the man to be placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above the rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with philosophy in such a case as that. I am not warped by prejudices, as an Italian baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. I feel myself as far above suspicion as Caesar’s wife. Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. The boy being in bed, a man arrives—like the house that Jack built. Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is a bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well. Should the Skimpole have refused the note? WHY should the Skimpole have refused the note? Skimpole protests to Bucket, ‘What’s this for? I don’t understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.’ Bucket still entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why Skimpole, not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Skimpole perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is a tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception and execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer and intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket’s weapons; shall I positively paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And again. If it is blameable in Skimpole to take the note, it is blameable in Bucket to offer the note—much more blameable in Bucket, because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think well of Bucket; Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the general cohesion of things, that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The state expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that’s all he does!


I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took my leave.


He entertained me on the way with a variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at parting, that he should never forget the fine tact with which I had found that out for him about our young friends.


When I returned, when I came back, no richer than when I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish thought—


Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear! I do not deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that time, many!


Heaven knows, beloved of my life, that my praise is not a lover’s praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around you see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins.


Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, it is a great thing to win love, it is a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and sorrow—joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not deserved it better; but I am not free to think of yours.


I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who will evermore be as dear to me as now if, after her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, I urged it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I have always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have said enough.


Dear Mr. Woodcourt, before we part to-night, something is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish—I never shall—but— —I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall make me better. If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together—in tending Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life—you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that while my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been beloved by you.


I am induced by what you said just now, to hope that you have succeeded in your endeavour. I have. With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have succeeded.


Heaven bless him for it, and heaven bless you in all you do!


I shall do it better for the wish, it will make me enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.


Ah! Richard! What will he do when you are gone!


I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss Summerson, even if I were.


Mr. Woodcourt, you will be glad to know from my lips before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or desire. From my childhood I have been, the object of the untiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day.


I share those feelings,


You know his virtues well, but few can know the greatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and best qualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your highest homage and respect had not been his already—which I know they are—they would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for my sake. Good night. Good-bye.


The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this theme between us for ever. Yes. Good night; good-bye.


Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!


I am like a mountain with the sun upon it.


Well, Dame Durden? You want money?


No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.


There never was such a Dame Durden for making money last.


Dear guardian. I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss in anything?


Remiss in anything, my dear!


Have I not been what I have meant to be since—I brought the answer to your letter, guardian?


You have been everything I could desire, my love.


I am very glad indeed to hear that. You know, you said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes.


Yes,


Since then, we have never spoken on the subject except once.


And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my dear.


And I said, but its mistress remained. Dear guardian. I know how you have felt all that has happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please.


See, what a sympathy there must be between us! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted—it’s a large exception—in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?


When you please.


Next month?


Next month, dear guardian.


The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life—the day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than any other man in the world—the day on which I give Bleak House its little mistress—shall be next month then,


Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, with all apologies for intruding, WILL you allow me to order up a person that’s on the stairs and that objects to being left there in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? Thank you. Be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will you? Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce, you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentleman likewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting line is his line principally, and he’s what you may call a dealer in bills. That’s about what YOU are, you know, ain’t you? Now, moral, you know! Don’t you contradict when there ain’t no occasion, and you won’t be took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you. I’ve been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I’ve been in and out and about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises formerly occupied by Krook, marine store dealer—a relation of this gentleman’s that you saw in his lifetime if I don’t mistake?


Yes.


Well! You are to understand, that this gentleman he come into Krook’s property, and a good deal of magpie property there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord bless you, of no use to nobody! Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don’t you see?


To which? Say that again,


To rummage. Being a prudent man and accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage among the papers as you have come into; don’t you?


Of course I do,


Of course you do, and much to blame you would be if you didn’t. And so you chance to find, you know, and so you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce to it. Don’t you? what do you find it to be but a will, you see. That’s the drollery of it, what do you find it to be but a will?


I don’t know that it’s good as a will or as anything else,


Notwithstanding which, you get a little doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of your own.


Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?


A very tender mind.


Ho! Well, go on,


And as you’ve heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with ’em, and always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think—and you never was more correct in your born days—‘Ecod, if I don’t look about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.’


Now, mind how you put it, Bucket. Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!


So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises, you take me into your confidence, don’t you? and I go into the business with you—very pleasant we are over it; and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get yourself into a most precious line if you don’t come out with that there will, and accordingly you arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr. Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you trusting yourself to him for your reward; that’s about where it is, ain’t it?


That’s what was agreed,


In consequence of which, you’ve got that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing that remains for you to do is just to out with it!


Hadn’t settled how to make their market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out twenty pound upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they split on one another. Lord! There ain’t one of the family that wouldn’t sell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady—and she’s only out of it because she’s too weak in her mind to drive a bargain.


Mr Bucket, whatever the worth of this paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed remunerated accordingly.


Not according to your merits, you know. According to its value.


That is what I mean. You may observe, Mr. Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all other parties interested.


Mr. Jarndyce can’t say fairer than that, you understand. And it being now made clear to you that nobody’s a-going to be wronged—which must be a great relief to YOUR mind—we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home again.


I hope, that the genial influence of Miss Summerson, may have induced Mr. Jarndyce, to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and towards a court which are—shall I say, which take their place in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession?


I am inclined to think, that Miss Summerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a part of the occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I lay this paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my hands.


It could not, sir, have been stated more plainly and to the purpose if it had been a case at law.


Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the purpose?


Oh, fie! Mr. Jarndyce, you have perused this?


Not I!


But, my dear sir, it is a will of later date than any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator’s handwriting. It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!


Well! What is that to me?


Mr. Guppy! I beg your pardon, Mr. Jarndyce.


Sir.


Mr. Vholes of Symond’s Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Glad to speak with him. You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still leaving it a very handsome one. You would further have seen that the interests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs. Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it.


Kenge, if all the flourishing wealth that the suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?


Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a very great system, a very great system. Really, really!


Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes,


Very much so.


And a very important document, Mr. Vholes,


And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in it,


when is next term?


Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month. Of course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in the paper.


To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention.


Still bent, my dear sir, still bent, even with your enlarged mind, on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community, Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a great country, Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system? Now, really, really!


Why, master, do I know my own name?


’Tis so well known here, is it, comrade?


Rouncewell’s? Ah! You’re right.


And where might it be now?


The bank, the factory, or the house?


Hum! Rouncewell’s is so great apparently, that I have as good as half a mind to go back again. Why, I don’t know which I want. Should I find Mr. Rouncewell at the factory, do you think?


Tain’t easy to say where you’d find him—at this time of the day you might find either him or his son there, if he’s in town; but his contracts take him away.


This is a place to make a man’s head ache too! Who comes here? This is very like me before I was set up. This ought to be my nephew, if likenesses run in families. Your servant, sir.


Yours, sir. Are you looking for any one?


Excuse me. Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe?


Yes.


I was looking for your father, sir. I wish to have a word with him. Steel,


Well, Mr. Rouncewell. I am not without my expectations that in the present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. I have served as a dragoon in my day, and a comrade of mine that I was once rather partial to was, if I don’t deceive myself, a brother of yours. I believe you had a brother who gave his family some trouble, and ran away, and never did any good but in keeping away?


Are you quite sure, that your name is Steel?


You are too quick for me! How do you do, my dear old fellow? I never could have thought you would have been half so glad to see me as all this. How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do you do! So far from it. I had very little idea of making myself known. I thought if you took by any means forgivingly to my name I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing a letter. But I should not have been surprised, brother, if you had considered it anything but welcome news to hear of me.


We will show you at home what kind of news we think it, George. This is a great day at home, and you could not have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. I make an agreement with my son Watt to-day that on this day twelvemonth he shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in all your travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow with one of your nieces for a little polishing up in her education. We make a feast of the event, and you will be made the hero of it.


Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect that he resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Being overborne, however, by his brother and his nephew—concerning whom he renews his protestations that he never could have thought they would have been half so glad to see him—he is taken home to an elegant house in all the arrangements of which there is to be observed a pleasant mixture of the originally simple habits of the father and mother with such as are suited to their altered station and the higher fortunes of their children. Here Mr. George is much dismayed by the graces and accomplishments of his nieces that are and by the beauty of Rosa, his niece that is to be, and by the affectionate salutations of these young ladies, which he receives in a sort of dream. He is sorely taken aback, too, by the dutiful behaviour of his nephew and has a woeful consciousness upon him of being a scapegrace. However, there is great rejoicing and a very hearty company and infinite enjoyment, and Mr. George comes bluff and martial through it all, and his pledge to be present at the marriage and give away the bride is received with universal favour. A whirling head has Mr. George that night when he lies down in the state-bed of his brother’s house to think of all these things and to see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in their floating muslins) waltzing, after the German manner, over his counterpane. Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than brotherly welcome, and a million times more to that for your more than brotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say a word as to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. How, how is my mother to be got to scratch me?


I am not sure that I understand you, George,


I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? She must be got to do it somehow.


Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?


Of course I do. In short. I mean—TO—scratch me!


My dear George, is it so indispensable that you should undergo that process?


Quite! Absolutely! I couldn’t be guilty of the meanness of coming back without it. I should never be safe not to be off again. I have not sneaked home to rob your children, if not yourself, brother, of your rights. I, who forfeited mine long ago! If I am to remain and hold up my head, I must be scratched. Come. You are a man of celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you can tell me how it’s to be brought about.


I can tell you, George, how it is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the purpose as well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion when she recovered you. Do you believe there is a consideration in the world that would induce her to take such a step against her favourite son? Do you believe there is any chance of her consent, to balance against the outrage it would be to her (loving dear old lady!) to propose it? If you do, you are wrong. No, George! You must make up your mind to remain UNscratched, I think. I think you may manage almost as well as if the thing were done, though.


How, brother?


Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you have the misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know.


That’s true! Would you mind mentioning that, brother, to your wife and family?


Not at all.


Thank you. You wouldn’t object to say, perhaps, that although an undoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum-scarum order, and not of the mean sort?


Well,


next and last, those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as to propose to me to fall in here and take my place among the products of your perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. It’s more than brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it. But the truth is, brother, I am a—I am a kind of a weed, and it’s too late to plant me in a regular garden.


My dear George, leave that to me, and let me try.


You could do it, I have not a doubt, if anybody could; but it’s not to be done. Not to be done, sir! Whereas it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am able to be of some trifle of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his illness—brought on by family sorrows—and that he would rather have that help from our mother’s son than from anybody else.


Well, my dear George, if you prefer to serve in Sir Leicester Dedlock’s household brigade—


There it is, brother, there it is! You don’t take kindly to that idea; I don’t mind it. You are not used to being officered; I am. Everything about you is in perfect order and discipline; everything about me requires to be kept so. We are not accustomed to carry things with the same hand or to look at ’em from the same point. I don’t say much about my garrison manners because I found myself pretty well at my ease last night, and they wouldn’t be noticed here, I dare say, once and away. But I shall get on best at Chesney Wold, where there’s more room for a weed than there is here; and the dear old lady will be made happy besides. Therefore I accept of Sir Leicester Dedlock’s proposals. When I come over next year to give away the bride, or whenever I come, I shall have the sense to keep the household brigade in ambuscade and not to manoeuvre it on your ground. I thank you heartily again and am proud to think of the Rouncewells as they’ll be founded by you.


You know yourself, George, and perhaps you know me better than I know myself. Take your way. So that we don’t quite lose one another again, take your way.


No fear of that! Now, before I turn my horse’s head homewards, brother, I will ask you—if you’ll be so good—to look over a letter for me. I brought it with me to send from these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name just now to the person it’s written to. I am not much accustomed to correspondence myself, and I am particular respecting this present letter because I want it to be both straightforward and delicate.


A little formal,


But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?


Nothing at all.


This is for next month, my dear.


Would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my pet?


Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have brought you here?


Well, guardian, without thinking myself a Fatima or you a Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it.


Then to ensure your night’s rest, my love,


Tut, tut! You make too much of it, little woman. Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!


It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian—with a heart full of thanks.


Well, well, I am delighted that you approve. I thought you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress of Bleak House.


I know now! I have seen this in your face a long while.


No; have you really, my dear? What a Dame Durden it is to read a face!


You see, my dear, knowing there could be no better plan, I borrowed yours.


My child, come and see. My dear child, don’t you guess the name?


No!


My darling girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been really solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer, I had my own too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under different circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one day, I need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my letter, and you brought your answer. You are following what I say, my child? Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now. When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would really make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I soon had no doubt at all. Lie lightly, confidently here, my child. I am your guardian and your father now. Rest confidently here. Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being contented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret when Dame Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good that could never change in her better far than she did. Well! I have long been in Allan Woodcourt’s confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine. But I would not have my Esther’s bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my dear girl’s virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales! Hush, little woman! Don’t cry; this is to be a day of joy. I have looked forward to it for months on months! A few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say. Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther’s worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. ‘Now, madam,’ said I, ‘I clearly perceive—and indeed I know, to boot—that your son loves my ward. I am further very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so religiously, that you should never suspect it though you watched her night and day.’ Then I told her all our story—ours—yours and mine. ‘Now, madam,’ said I, ‘come you, knowing this, and live with us. Come you, and see my child from hour to hour; set what you see against her pedigree, which is this, and this’—for I scorned to mince it—‘and tell me what is the true legitimacy when you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.’ Why, honour to her old Welsh blood, my dear, I believe the heart it animates beats no less warmly, no less admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own! One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent—but I gave him no encouragement, not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me all that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead—stood beside your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my life! Allan, take from me a willing gift, the best wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I know you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you. You know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has made its namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing. Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. Allan, take my dear. I shall be found about here somewhere. It’s a west wind, little woman, due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I’ll run away and never come back!


How de do, sir?


How do you do, sir?


Thank you, sir, I am tolerable. Will you allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old Street Road, and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friend has gone by the name of Weevle, but his name is really and truly Jobling. Tony. Will you open the case? Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir. I had an idea that I should see Miss Summerson by herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has passed between us on former occasions?


has made a communication to that effect to me.


That makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out of my articles at Kenge and Carboy’s, and I believe with satisfaction to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination that’s enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that he don’t want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it.


Thank you, Mr. Guppy. I am quite willing—I believe I use a legal phrase—to admit the certificate.


I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which takes the form of an annuity and a few pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know. I HAVE some connexion, and it lays in the direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a ’ouse in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent), and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith. It’s a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens, and in the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mention my friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believe has known me, from boyhood’s hour. My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of clerk and will live in the ’ouse. My mother will likewise live in the ’ouse when her present quarter in the Old Street Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there will be no want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristocratic by taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper circles, fully backs me in the intentions I am now developing. Certainly Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the confidence of Miss Summerson, (mother, I wish you’d be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson’s image was formerly imprinted on my ’eart and that I made her a proposal of marriage.


That I have heard,


Circumstances, over which I had no control, but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a time. At which time Miss Summerson’s conduct was highly genteel; I may even add, magnanimous. Now, sir. I have got into that state of mind myself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I wish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth of which perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image which I did suppose had been eradicated from my ’eart is NOT eradicated. Its influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it, I am willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had any control and to renew those proposals to Miss Summerson which I had the honour to make at a former period. I beg to lay the ’ouse in Walcot Square, the business, and myself before Miss Summerson for her acceptance.


Very magnanimous indeed, sir,


Well, sir, my wish is to BE magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that the opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I submit may be taken into account as a set off against any little drawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at.


I take upon myself, sir, to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson. She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good evening, and wishes you well.


Oh! Is that tantamount, sir, to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?


To decided rejection, if you please,


Indeed? Then, Jobling, if you was the friend you represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain’t wanted.


Why, get along with you, what do you mean? Ain’t my son good enough for you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!


My good lady,


Get out with you. If we ain’t good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good enough. Go along and find ’em. Go along and find somebody that’s good enough for you. Get out! Why don’t you get out? What are you stopping here for? Mother. WILL you hold your tongue? No, William. I won’t! Not unless he gets out, I won’t! who began to be quite abusive that we should immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and above all things that we should get out.


Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!


Silence!