He IS ours, Jobling, and I AM acquainted with him. Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted with him through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of his in private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer in argument. They may—or they may not—have some reference to a subject which may—or may not—have cast its shadow on my existence. Such things may be, or they may not be. They are no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has, in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all Tulkinghorn’s, and an excellent business besides. I believe if our mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this? Now, gentlemen of the jury, —I mean, now, Jobling—you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted. But it’s better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want time. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for Snagsby.


Hem! Shakspeare!


There are two branches to this subject, Jobling. That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, the Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling. I think you know Krook, the Chancellor, across the lane?


I know him by sight,


You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?


Everybody knows her,


Everybody knows her. VERY well. Now it has been one of my duties of late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence of instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in her presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook and into a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let. You may live there at a very low charge under any name you like, as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He’ll ask no questions and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me—before the clock strikes, if you chose. And I tell you another thing, Jobling, he’s an extraordinary old chap—always rummaging among a litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. I don’t know but what it might be worth a fellow’s while to look him up a bit.


You don’t mean—


I mean, that I can’t make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend Smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can’t make him out.


A few!


I have seen something of the profession and something of life, Tony, and it’s seldom I can’t make a man out, more or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret (though I don’t believe he is ever sober), I never came across. Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender—all of which I have thought likely at different times—it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I don’t see why you shouldn’t go in for it, when everything else suits. If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony! But there are chords in the human mind— For never shall it be said, that William Guppy turned his back upon his friend!


Guppy, my trump, your fist!


Jobling, my boy, there it is!


Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!


Jobling, we have.


Thank you, Guppy, I don’t know but what I WILL take another glass for old acquaintance sake.


Krook’s last lodger died there,


Did he though! I don’t mind it; but he might as well have died somewhere else. It’s devilish odd that he need go and die at MY place! There are places enough to die in, I should think! He wouldn’t have liked my dying at HIS place, I dare say!


Then I’ll pay, and we’ll go and see him. Small, what will it be?


Four veals and hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four half-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!


Hold up here! Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir! Did you ever see such a stupor as he falls into, between drink and sleep?


it’ll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking.


It’s always more like a fit than a nap. Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fifty times over! Open your eyes! He is alive, at any rate. How are you, my Lord Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter of business. How do you do, Mr. Krook? How do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope you are pretty well? Your servant, gentlemen; I’ve been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake, odd times. Rather so, indeed, sir,


What? You’ve been a-trying to do it, have you?


Only a little,


I say! Somebody’s been making free here!


I assure you we found it so. Would you allow me to get it filled for you?


Yes, certainly I would! Certainly I would! Don’t mention it! Get it filled next door—Sol’s Arms—the Lord Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know ME!


I thought you might like that better,


You’re a nobleman, sir. You’re a baron of the land. You’d like to see the room, young man? Ah! It’s a good room! Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. Hi! It’s worth twice the rent, letting alone my company when you want it and such a cat to keep the mice away.


Mark my words, Mrs. Perkins, ma’am, and don’t you be surprised, Lord bless you, if that young man comes in at last for old Krook’s money!


And where’s Bart?


He an’t come in yet,


It’s his tea-time, isn’t it?


No.


How much do you mean to say it wants then?


Ten minutes.


Hey?


Ho! Ten minutes.


Ten ten-pound notes!


Drat you, be quiet!


Charley, do you mean?


Over the water! Charley over the water, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley!


Ha! If that’s her name. She eats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep. No? Why not?


She’d want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less,


Sure?


You, Charley, where are you? What work are you about now?


I’m a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss,


Mind you do it thoroughly, and don’t loiter. Shirking won’t do for me. Make haste! Go along! You girls are more trouble than you’re worth, by half.


Aye, aye, Bart! Here you are, hey?


Here I am,


Been along with your friend again, Bart? Dining at his expense, Bart? That’s right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning by his foolish example. That’s the use of such a friend. The only use you can put him to. Yes, yes. That’s such advice as your father would have given you, Bart. You never saw your father. More’s the pity. He was my true son. He was my true son, a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago.


Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!


If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money—you brimstone chatterer! but just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for, through many a year—you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean! he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of business care—I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and I will too if you make such a confounded fool of yourself! and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after you and Judy were born—you are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You’re a head of swine! But your father and me were partners, Bart, and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there is. It’s rare for you both that you went out early in life—Judy to the flower business, and you to the law. You won’t want to spend it. You’ll get your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy will go back to the flower business and you’ll still stick to the law.


Now, if everybody has done. I’ll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen. Now, don’t stare about you all the afternoon, but take your victuals and get back to your work.


Yes, miss,


Don’t say yes, for I know what you girls are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you.


See who it is, and don’t chew when you open it! Now! Who is it, and what’s wanted?


Whew! You are hot here. Always a fire, eh? Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one.


Ho! It’s you! How de do? How de do?


Middling. Your granddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss.


This is my grandson. You ha’n’t seen him before. He is in the law and not much at home.


My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his sister. He is devilish like his sister. Pretty much as usual. Like a football.


Do you rub your legs to rub life into ’em?


Why, it’s partly a habit, Mr. George, and—yes—it partly helps the circulation,


The cir-cu-la-tion! Not much of that, I should think.


Truly I’m old, Mr. George. But I can carry my years. I’m older than HER, and see what she is? You’re a brimstone chatterer!


Unlucky old soul! Don’t scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her poor cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Hold up, ma’am. That’s better. There we are! Think of your mother, Mr. Smallweed, if your wife an’t enough.


I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?


Why no. I wasn’t.


I am astonished at it.


So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to have been one. But I wasn’t. I was a thundering bad son, that’s the long and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody.


Surprising!


However, the less said about it, the better now. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two months’ interest! (Bosh! It’s all correct. You needn’t be afraid to order the pipe. Here’s the new bill, and here’s the two months’ interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my business.)


Afraid to order the pipe? We are not so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy-and-water for Mr. George.


How do you come here! You haven’t got the family face.


I goes out to work, sir,


You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of youth as much as it wants fresh air. So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?


I think he might—I am afraid he would. I have known him do it, twenty times. Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty— You’re a brimstone idiot. You’re a scorpion—a brimstone scorpion! You’re a sweltering toad. You’re a chattering clattering broomstick witch that ought to be burnt! My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?


O Lord! That’ll do. Thank you, my dear friend, that’ll do. Oh, dear me, I’m out of breath. O Lord! The name of your friend in the city begins with a D, comrade, and you’re about right respecting the bond.


Did you speak, Mr. George?


I take it, that I am the only man alive (or dead either) that gets the value of a pipe out of YOU?


Well, it’s true that I don’t see company, Mr. George, and that I don’t treat. I can’t afford to it. But as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition—


Why, it’s not for the value of it; that’s no great thing. It was a fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money.


Ha! You’re prudent, prudent, sir!


Very. I always was. It’s a sure sign of my prudence that I ever found the way here. Also, that I am what I am. I am well known to be prudent. I rose in life that way.


Don’t be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet. Ha’n’t you no relations, now, who would pay off this little principal or who would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha’n’t you no such relations, Mr. George?


If I had, I shouldn’t trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day. It MAY be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he never was a credit to and live upon them, but it’s not my sort. The best kind of amends then for having gone away is to keep away, in my opinion.


But natural affection, Mr. George,


For two good names, hey? No. That’s not my sort either.


Ha! If you could have traced out the captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you. If when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisement in the newspapers—when I say ‘our,’ I’m alluding to the advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance—if at that time you could have helped us, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you.


I was willing enough to be ‘made,’ as you call it, but on the whole, I am glad I wasn’t now.


Why, Mr. George? In the name of—of brimstone, why?


For two reasons, comrade.


And what two reasons, Mr. George? In the name of the—


Of our friend in the city?


Aye, if you like. What two reasons?


In the first place, you gentlemen took me in. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to the saying ‘Once a captain, always a captain’) was to hear of something to his advantage.


Well?


Well! It wouldn’t have been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and judgment trade of London.


How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paid his debts or compounded for ’em. Besides, he had taken US in. He owed us immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled him than had no return. If I sit here thinking of him. I want to strangle him now.


I don’t need to be told, that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon him after he had run through everything and broken down everything beneath him—when he held a pistol to his head.


I wish he had let it off, and blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!


That would have been a smash indeed, any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone by, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead to a result so much to his advantage. That’s reason number one.


I hope number two’s as good?


Why, no. It’s more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must have gone to the other world to look. He was there.


How do you know he was there?


He wasn’t here.


How do you know he wasn’t here?


Don’t lose your temper as well as your money. He was drowned long before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship’s side. Whether intentionally or accidentally, I don’t know. Perhaps your friend in the city does. Do you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed?


Tune! No. We never have tunes here.


That’s the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it, so it’s the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty granddaughter—excuse me, miss—will condescend to take care of this pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good evening, Mr. Smallweed!


My dear friend!


So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I fall in a payment?


My dear friend, I am afraid he will. You’re a damned rogue. But I’ll lime you, you dog, I’ll lime you!


Phil!


All right!


Anything been doing?


Flat as ever so much swipes. Five dozen rifle and a dozen pistol. As to aim!


Shut up shop, Phil!


Phil! You were found in a doorway, weren’t you?


Gutter. Watchman tumbled over me.


Then vagabondizing came natural to YOU from the beginning.


As nat’ral as possible,


Good night!


Good night, guv’ner.


Now, Snagsby, to go over this odd story again.


If you please, sir. For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might—just—wish—to— I must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.


Not at all. You told me, Snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it’s not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned.


Well, sir, you see, my little woman is—not to put too fine a point upon it—inquisitive. She’s inquisitive. Poor little thing, she’s liable to spasms, and it’s good for her to have her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it—I should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not—especially not. My little woman has a very active mind, sir. Dear me, very fine wine indeed!


Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night? And to-night too?


Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in—not to put too fine a point on it—in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite favourable to his style myself. That’s neither here nor there. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner.


Fill your glass, Snagsby.


Thank you, sir, I am sure. This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!


It is a rare wine now. It is fifty years old.


Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It might be—any age almost.


Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?


With pleasure, sir. Dear me, sir, I wasn’t aware there was any other gentleman present!


Don’t mind this gentleman. This is only Mr. Bucket.


It’s very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and he’s not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don’t object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone’s and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours’ time. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.


Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby,


Is he indeed, sir?


And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question, I shall feel obliged to you if you will do so.


Don’t you be afraid of hurting the boy. You won’t do that. It’s all right as far as the boy’s concerned. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he’ll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It’ll be a good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don’t you be afraid of hurting him; you an’t going to do that.


Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!


You’re a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That’s what YOU are.


I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion, but—


That’s what YOU are, you know. Now, it an’t necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in your business once)—it an’t necessary to say to a man like you that it’s the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don’t you see? Quiet!


Certainly, certainly,


I don’t mind telling YOU, that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn’t entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn’t been up to some games respecting that property, don’t you see?


Oh!


Now, what YOU want, is that every person should have their rights according to justice. That’s what YOU want.


To be sure,


On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a—do you call it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used to call it.


Why, I generally say customer myself,


You’re right! —On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone’s and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That’s about your intentions, if I understand you?


You are right, sir. You are right,


Then here’s your hat, and if you’re ready, I am. You don’t happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of Gridley, do you?


No. I don’t know anybody of that name. Why?


Nothing particular, only having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have got against him—which it’s a pity that a man of sense should do.


Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby. Here’s the fever coming up the street! Are those the fever-houses, Darby?


all them are, have been down by dozens like sheep with the rot.


And who have we got here to-night? Two drunken men, eh? And two women? The men are sound enough. Are these your good men, my dears?


Yes, sir. They are our husbands.


Brickmakers, eh?


Yes, sir.


What are you doing here? You don’t belong to London.


No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire.


Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?


Saint Albans.


Come up on the tramp?


We walked up yesterday. There’s no work down with us at present, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect.


That’s not the way to do much good,


It an’t indeed. Jenny and me knows it full well.


Why, what age do you call that little creature? It looks as if it was born yesterday.


He is not three weeks old yet, sir.


Is he your child?


Mine.


You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself,


I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.


Ah, Jenny, Jenny!


Better so. Much better to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!


Why, you an’t such an unnatural woman, I hope, as to wish your own child dead?


God knows you are right, master. I am not. I’d stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any pretty lady.


Then don’t talk in that wrong manner. Why do you do it?


It’s brought into my head, master, when I look down at the child lying so. If it was never to wake no more, you’d think me mad, I should take on so. I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers—warn’t I, Jenny?—and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this place. Look at them. Look at the boy you’re waiting for, who’s gone out to do me a good turn. Think of the children that your business lays with often and often, and that YOU see grow up!


Well, well, you train him respectable, and he’ll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know.


I mean to try hard. But I have been a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with the ague, of all the many things that’ll come in his way. My master will be against it, and he’ll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much, and ever so hard, there’s no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad ‘spite of all I could do, and the time should come when I should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an’t it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died as Jenny’s child died!


There, there! Liz, you’re tired and ill. Let me take him. It’s my dead child, that makes me love this child so dear, and it’s my dead child that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken away from her now. While she thinks that, I think what fortune would I give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!


Now, what do you say to Toughy? Will HE do?


That’s Jo,


I have squared it with the lad, and it’s all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we’re ready for you.


it’s to be all took d’rectly.


What’s the matter?


There she is!


Who!


The lady!


Now, tell me, how you know that to be the lady.


I know the wale, and the bonnet, and the gownd.


Be quite sure of what you say, Tough. Look again.


I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look, and that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.


What about those rings you told me of?


A-sparkling all over here,


Now, what do you say to that?


Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like that.


What are you talking of?


Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller,


Why, you’ll tell me I’m my own mother next. Do you recollect the lady’s voice?


I think I does,


Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this voice?


Not a bit!


Then, what, did you say it was the lady for?


Cos, cos that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. It is her and it an’t her. It an’t her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they’re wore the same way wot she wore ’em, and it’s her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it.


Well! we haven’t got much good out of YOU. But, however, here’s five shillings for you. Take care how you spend it, and don’t get yourself into trouble.


Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense. I will give you no further trouble about this little wager.


You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present placed?


Certainly, certainly!


And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?


By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.


A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.


It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.


Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.


Good night. It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an’t a doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dress on. The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don’t say it wasn’t done! You have kept your word, sir,


and if I can be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman will be getting anxious—


Thank you, Snagsby, no further use. I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already.


Not at all, sir. I wish you good night.


You see, Mr. Snagsby, what I like in you is that you’re a man it’s of no use pumping; that’s what YOU are. When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it’s done with and gone, and there’s an end of it. That’s what YOU do.


That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,


No, you don’t do yourself justice. It an’t what you endeavour to do, it’s what you DO. That’s what I estimate in a man in your way of business.


Mademoiselle. I have taken a great liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so amiable, mademoiselle.


No excuse is necessary, if you wish to speak to me.


That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?


Certainly,


Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. I have left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high, so very high. Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right! It is not for me to come here to complain of my Lady. But I say she is so high, so very high. I will not say a word more. All the world knows that.


Go on, if you please,


Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness. Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good, accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the honour of being your domestic!


I am sorry—


Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle! Let me hope a moment! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more retired than that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know this service would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that, I know that I should win less, as to wages here. Good. I am content.


I assure you, that I keep no maid—


Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one so devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would be so true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Mademoiselle, I wish with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money at present. Take me as I am. For nothing!


Prince, as Miss Summerson— Esther. As Esther is decidedly of that opinion, Prince, and has expressed it to me, and always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared to disclose the truth to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think, Prince, that Esther thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more honourable position altogether if you did the same to your papa. So I was right, you see! Well! This troubled Prince a good deal, not because he had the least doubt about it, but because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr. Turveydrop; and he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Turveydrop might break his heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting manner or other if he made such an announcement. He feared old Mr. Turveydrop might consider it undutiful and might receive too great a shock. For old Mr. Turveydrop’s deportment is very beautiful, you know, Esther, and his feelings are extremely sensitive.


Are they, my dear?


Oh, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused my darling child—I didn’t mean to use the expression to you, Esther, but I generally call Prince my darling child. This has caused him, Esther—


Caused whom, my dear?


Oh, you tiresome thing! My darling child, if you insist upon it! This has caused him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day to day, in a very anxious manner. At last he said to me, ‘Caddy, if Miss Summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could be prevailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think I could do it.’ So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my mind, besides, that if you consented, I would ask you afterwards to come with me to Ma. This is what I meant when I said in my note that I had a great favour and a great assistance to beg of you. And if you thought you could grant it, Esther, we should both be very grateful.


Let me see, Caddy. Really, I think I could do a greater thing than that if the need were pressing. I am at your service and the darling child’s, my dear, whenever you like.


Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby. Charmed! Enchanted! Permit me! Be seated! Overjoyed! My little retreat is made a paradise. Again you find us, Miss Summerson, using our little arts to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us and rewards us by the condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in these times (and we have made an awfully degenerating business of it since the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent—my patron, if I may presume to say so) to experience that deportment is not wholly trodden under foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask in the smile of beauty, my dear madam. My dear son, you have four schools this afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich.


Thank you, father. I will be sure to be punctual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for what I am going to say?


Good heaven! What is this? Is this lunacy! Or what is this?


Father. I love this young lady, and we are engaged.


Engaged! An arrow launched at my brain by my own child!


We have been engaged for some time, father, and Miss Summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should declare the fact to you and was so very kind as to attend on the present occasion. Miss Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, father.


No, pray don’t! Pray don’t, father,


Miss Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, and our first desire is to consider your comfort.


Boy, it is well that your sainted mother is spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike home, sir, strike home!


Pray don’t say so, father. It goes to my heart. I do assure you, father, that our first wish and intention is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not forget our duty—what is my duty is Caroline’s, as we have often said together—and with your approval and consent, father, we will devote ourselves to making your life agreeable.


Strike home. Strike home!


My dear father, we well know what little comforts you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it will always be our study and our pride to provide those before anything. If you will bless us with your approval and consent, father, we shall not think of being married until it is quite agreeable to you; and when we ARE married, we shall always make you—of course—our first consideration. You must ever be the head and master here, father; and we feel how truly unnatural it would be in us if we failed to know it or if we failed to exert ourselves in every possible way to please you.


My son! My children! I cannot resist your prayer. Be happy! My children. My son and daughter, your happiness shall be my care. I will watch over you. You shall always live with me this house is henceforth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. May you long live to share it with me! For myself, my children. I am falling into the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long the last feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in this weaving and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty to society and will show myself, as usual, about town. My wants are few and simple. My little apartment here, my few essentials for the toilet, my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner will suffice. I charge your dutiful affection with the supply of these requirements, and I charge myself with all the rest. My son, for those little points in which you are deficient—points of deportment, which are born with a man, which may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated—you may still rely on me. I have been faithful to my post since the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and I will not desert it now. No, my son. If you have ever contemplated your father’s poor position with a feeling of pride, you may rest assured that he will do nothing to tarnish it. For yourself, Prince, whose character is different (we cannot be all alike, nor is it advisable that we should), work, be industrious, earn money, and extend the connexion as much as possible.


That you may depend I will do, dear father,


I have no doubt of it. Your qualities are not shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. And to both of you, my children, I would merely observe, in the spirit of a sainted wooman on whose path I had the happiness of casting, I believe, SOME ray of light, take care of the establishment, take care of my simple wants, and bless you both!


Ah! Miss Summerson! I was thinking of something so different! I hope you are well. I am happy to see you. Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Clare quite well? Why, not quite, my dear. He has been unfortunate in his affairs and is a little out of spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no time to think about it. We have, at the present moment, one hundred and seventy families, Miss Summerson, averaging five persons in each, either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger. You have brought Caddy back, I see. It has become quite a novelty to see her here. She has almost deserted her old employment and in fact obliges me to employ a boy.


I am sure, Ma—


Now you know, Caddy, that I DO employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of your contradicting?


I was not going to contradict, Ma. I was only going to say that surely you wouldn’t have me be a mere drudge all my life.


I believe, my dear, that you have a business example before you in your mother. Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy with the destinies of the human race, it would raise you high above any such idea. But you have none. I have often told you, Caddy, you have no such sympathy.


Not if it’s Africa, Ma, I have not.


Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much engaged, Miss Summerson, this would distress and disappoint me. But I have so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha and it is so necessary I should concentrate myself that there is my remedy, you see. Perhaps, you will wonder what has brought me here to interrupt you. I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson. Though I wish, she was more interested in the Borrioboolan project.


I have come with Caddy, because Caddy justly thinks she ought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies I shall encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don’t know how) in imparting one.


Caddy, you are going to tell me some nonsense.


Ma, I am engaged.


Oh, you ridiculous child! what a goose you are!


I am engaged, Ma, to young Mr. Turveydrop, at the academy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly man indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you’ll give us yours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never, never could!


You see again, Miss Summerson, what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am and to have this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Caddy engaged to a dancing-master’s son—mixed up with people who have no more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has herself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the first philanthropists of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be interested in her!


Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!


Caddy, Caddy! I have no doubt you did. How could you do otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with which he overflows! Now, if my public duties were not a favourite child to me, if I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale, these petty details might grieve me very much, Miss Summerson. But can I permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy (from whom I expect nothing else) to interpose between me and the great African continent? No. No. No, indeed.


I hope, Ma, you are not angry?


Oh, Caddy, you really are an absurd girl, to ask such questions after what I have said of the preoccupation of my mind.


And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?


You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind, and a degenerate child, when you might have devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step is taken, and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said. Now, pray, Caddy, don’t delay me in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batch of papers before the afternoon post comes in!


You won’t object to my bringing him to see you, Ma?


Oh, dear me, Caddy, have you begun again? Bring whom?


Him, Ma.


Caddy, Caddy! Then you must bring him some evening which is not a Parent Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night. You must accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. My dear Miss Summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to help out this silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the details of the native and coffee-cultivation question this morning, I need not apologize for having very little leisure.


Come in!


If you please, miss. I am Charley.


Why, so you are. How glad am I to see you, Charley!


If you please, miss. I’m your maid.


Charley?


If you please, miss, I’m a present to you, with Mr. Jarndyce’s love. And oh, miss,


Come in, my dears! Rick and I, Ada, are not quite of one mind. Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!


You are very hard with me, sir. The harder because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects and have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never could have been set right without you, sir.


I want to set you more right yet. I want to set you more right with yourself.


I hope you will excuse my saying, sir, that I think I am the best judge about myself.


I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick, that it’s quite natural in you to think so, but I don’t think so. I must do my duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and I hope you will always care for me, cool and hot. It’s nothing, my dear, it’s nothing. Rick and I have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are the theme. Now you are afraid of what’s coming.


I am not indeed, cousin John, if it is to come from you.


Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute’s calm attention, without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My dear girl, you recollect the talk we had, we four when the little woman told me of a little love affair?


It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your kindness that day, cousin John.


I can never forget it.


And I can never forget it.


Ada, my bird, you should know that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. All that he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. He has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforward to the tree he has planted.


Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir, is not all I have.


Rick, Rick! For the love of God, don’t found a hope or expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to beg, better to die! Ada, my dear, these are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House and have seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had to start him in the race of life is ventured. I recommend to him and you, for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. I must go further. I will be plain with you both. You were to confide freely in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship.


Better to say at once, sir, that you renounce all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same.


Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don’t mean it.


You think I have begun ill, sir. I HAVE, I know.


How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when we spoke of these things last. You have not made that beginning yet, but there is a time for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather, it is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young, my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. What more may come must come of being worked out, Rick, and no sooner.


You are very hard with me, sir. Harder than I could have supposed you would be.


My dear boy, I am harder with myself when I do anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your own hands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that there should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is better for her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you will do what is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves.


Why is it best, sir? It was not when we opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then.


I have had experience since. I don’t blame you, Rick, but I have had experience since.


You mean of me, sir.


Well! Yes, of both of you. The time is not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not right, and I must not recognize it. Come, come, my young cousins, begin afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to write your lives in. I have avoided saying one word to either of you or to Esther until now, in order that we might be open as the day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I now most earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here. Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you together.


Good morning, Mr. George. Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile, Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down. You are as punctual as the sun,


Military time, sir. Force of habit. A mere habit in me, sir. I am not at all business-like.


Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?


Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a one.


And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of Mr. Carstone?


Pretty good, sir. If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good.


But he don’t, I suppose?


He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it—some young lady, perhaps.


He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George, though you seem to suspect me.


No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs.


Not at all. I take it as a compliment.


I beg your pardon, sir, but you did me the honour to mention the young lady’s name—


Miss Summerson.


Miss Summerson,


Do you know the name?


No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen you somewhere.


I think not. I remember faces very well.


So do I, miss! Humph! What set me off, now, upon that!


Have you many pupils, Mr. George?


They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they’re but a small lot to live by.


And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?


All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to ’prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of course, but THEY go everywhere where the doors stand open.


People don’t come with grudges and schemes of finishing their practice with live targets, I hope?


Not much of that, sir, though that HAS happened. Mostly they come for skill—or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. I beg your pardon, but I believe you’re a Chancery suitor, if I have heard correct?


I am sorry to say I am.


I have had one of YOUR compatriots in my time, sir.


A Chancery suitor? How was that?


Why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured by being knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post, that he got out of sorts. I don’t believe he had any idea of taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of resentment and violence that he would come and pay for fifty shots and fire away till he was red hot. One day I said to him when there was nobody by and he had been talking to me angrily about his wrongs, ‘If this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good; but I don’t altogether like your being so bent upon it in your present state of mind; I’d rather you took to something else.’ I was on my guard for a blow, he was that passionate; but he received it in very good part and left off directly. We shook hands and struck up a sort of friendship.


What was that man?


Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer before they made a baited bull of him,


Was his name Gridley?


It was, sir. I don’t know, what it is that sets me off again—but—bosh! What’s my head running against!


I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this Gridley into new troubles and that he is in hiding,


So I am told, sir. So I am told.


You don’t know where?


No, sir. I can’t say anything about him. He will be worn out soon, I expect. You may file a strong man’s heart away for a good many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last.


I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone, and Miss Summerson’s also, but there’s a lady here, a friend of mine, who knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands.


How do you do, Esther? Do you recollect me? I wonder you remember those times, Esther. They are changed now. Well! I am glad to see you, and glad you are not too proud to know me.


Proud, Mrs. Rachael!


I am married, Esther, and am Mrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you’ll do well.


George! You are well met, sir. And you, miss. Could you point a person out for me, I want? I don’t understand these places. There’s a little cracked old woman, that— You remember, miss, that we passed some conversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley,


Yes,


He is hiding at my place. I couldn’t mention it. Hadn’t his authority. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her. He says they can feel for one another, and she has been almost as good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for her, for when I sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear the roll of the muffled drums.


Shall I tell her?


Would you be so good? It’s a providence I met you, miss; I doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady.


My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself! Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him with the greatest pleasure.


He is living concealed at Mr. George’s. Hush! This is Mr. George.


In—deed! Very proud to have the honour! A military man, my dear. You know, a perfect general!


not to desert him


Fitz Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of course.


Gridley’s mind had run on Mr. Jarndyce all the afternoon after hearing of their interview in the morning,


where we were gone and why.


I ask your pardon, my good friend, but is this George’s Shooting Gallery? It is, sir. My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell. No, sir. You have the advantage of me. Oh, indeed? Then it was your young man who came for me. I am a physician and was requested—five minutes ago—to come and visit a sick man at George’s Shooting Gallery. The muffled drums. It’s quite correct, sir. Will you please to walk in.


Now lookee here, George. You know me, and I know you. You’re a man of the world, and I’m a man of the world. My name’s Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a peace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way a long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit. Now, George, you’re a sensible man and a well-conducted man; that’s what YOU are, beyond a doubt. And mind you, I don’t talk to you as a common character, because you have served your country and you know that when duty calls we must obey. Consequently you’re very far from wanting to give trouble. If I required assistance, you’d assist me; that’s what YOU’D do. Phil Squod, don’t you go a-sidling round the gallery like that because I know you and won’t have it.


Phil!


Yes, guv’ner.


Be quiet.


Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll excuse anything that may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name’s Inspector Bucket of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. George, I know where my man is because I was on the roof last night and saw him through the skylight, and you along with him. He is in there, you know, that’s where HE is—on a sofy. Now I must see my man, and I must tell my man to consider himself in custody; but you know me, and you know I don’t want to take any uncomfortable measures. You give me your word, as from one man to another (and an old soldier, mind you, likewise), that it’s honourable between us two, and I’ll accommodate you to the utmost of my power.


I give it. But it wasn’t handsome in you, Mr. Bucket.


Gammon, George! Not handsome? I don’t say it wasn’t handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I? Be equally good-tempered to me, old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the Life Guardsman! Why, he’s a model of the whole British army in himself, ladies and gentlemen. I’d give a fifty-pun’ note to be such a figure of a man!


on the chance, of being able to do any little thing for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself.


Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir. You are a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I honour you. It may seem strange to you, sir. I should not have liked to see you if this had been the first time of our meeting. But you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood up with my single hand against them all, you know I told them the truth to the last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me; so I don’t mind your seeing me, this wreck.


You have been courageous with them many and many a time,


Sir, I have been. I told you what would come of it when I ceased to be so, and see here! Look at us—look at us! This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken.


Accept my blessing, Gridley. Accept my blessing!


I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr. Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe that I could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they were until I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. How long I have been wearing out, I don’t know; I seemed to break down in an hour. I hope they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybody here will lead them to believe that I died defying them, consistently and perseveringly, as I did through so many years.


Come, come! Don’t go on in that way, Mr. Gridley. You are only a little low. We are all of us a little low sometimes. I am. Hold up, hold up! You’ll lose your temper with the whole round of ’em, again and again; and I shall take you on a score of warrants yet, if I have luck. Don’t shake your head, nod it; that’s what I want to see you do. Why, Lord bless your soul, what times we have had together! Haven’t I seen you in the Fleet over and over again for contempt? Haven’t I come into court, twenty afternoons for no other purpose than to see you pin the Chancellor like a bull-dog? Don’t you remember when you first began to threaten the lawyers, and the peace was sworn against you two or three times a week? Ask the little old lady there; she has been always present. Hold up, Mr. Gridley, hold up, sir!


What are you going to do about him?


I don’t know yet. Worn out, Mr. Gridley? After dodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roof here like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? That ain’t like being worn out. I should think not! Now I tell you what you want. You want excitement, you know, to keep YOU up; that’s what YOU want. You’re used to it, and you can’t do without it. I couldn’t myself. Very well, then; here’s this warrant got by Mr. Tulkinghorn of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and backed into half-a-dozen counties since. What do you say to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and having a good angry argument before the magistrates? It’ll do you good; it’ll freshen you up and get you into training for another turn at the Chancellor. Give in? Why, I am surprised to hear a man of your energy talk of giving in. You mustn’t do that. You’re half the fun of the fair in the Court of Chancery. George, you lend Mr. Gridley a hand, and let’s see now whether he won’t be better up than down.


He is very weak,


Is he? I only want to rouse him. I don’t like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. It would cheer him up more than anything if I could make him a little waxy with me. He’s welcome to drop into me, right and left, if he likes. I shall never take advantage of it.


Oh, no, Gridley! Not without my blessing. After so many years!


Peace, my friends. Peace be with us! My friends, why with us? Because, it cannot be against us, because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes home unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us! My human boy, come forward!


You let me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let me alone.


No, my young friend. I will not let you alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am a toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are become as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I so employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your profit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! My young friend, sit upon this stool. My friends!


We have here among us, my friends, a Gentile and a heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone’s and a mover-on upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends, a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of these possessions? Why? Why is he?


I don’t know, I’m sure, sir.


For shame!


I hear a voice, is it a still small voice, my friends? I fear not, though I fain would hope so—


Ah—h!


Which says, ‘I don’t know.’ Then I will tell you why. I say this brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask you, what is that light? It is, the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth. Of Terewth. Say not to me that it is NOT the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say to you, a million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that I will proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the less you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With a speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be flawed, you shall be smashed. My friends, to pursue the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to which I have alluded. For, my young friends, if I am told by the doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturally ask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to be informed of that before I dose myself with either or with both. Now, my young friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in a spirit of love), what is the common sort of Terewth—the working clothes—the every-day wear, my young friends? Is it deception?


Is it suppression? Is it reservation? No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names belongs to it. When this young heathen now among us—who is now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being set upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that I should have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for his sake—when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a cock, and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was THAT the Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly and entirely? No, my friends, no! Or, my juvenile friends, if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto him the mistress of this house, and was to say, ‘Sarah, rejoice with me, for I have seen an elephant!’ would THAT be Terewth? Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and returning said ‘Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,’ would THAT be Terewth?


sobbing loudly


Or put it, my juvenile friends, that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen—for parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt—after casting him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and the young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings and had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher’s meat and poultry, would THAT be Terewth?


It an’t no good my waiting here no longer. Mr. Snagsby an’t a-going to say nothink to me to-night.


Here’s something to eat, poor boy,


Thank’ee, mum,


Are you hungry?


Jist!


What’s gone of your father and your mother, eh?


I never know’d nothink about ’em,


No more didn’t I of mine,


Jo,


Here I am, Mr. Snagsby!


I didn’t know you were gone—there’s another half-crown, Jo. It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night when we were out together. It would breed trouble. You can’t be too quiet, Jo.


I am fly, master!


And so, Phil, you were dreaming of the country last night?


Yes, guv’ner.


What was it like?


I hardly know what it was like, guv’ner,


How did you know it was the country?


On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it,


What were the swans doing on the grass?


They was a-eating of it, I expect,


The country, why, I suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Phil?


I see the marshes once,


What marshes?


THE marshes, commander,


Where are they?


I don’t know where they are, but I see ’em, guv’ner. They was flat. And miste.


I was born in the country, Phil.


Was you indeed, commander?


Yes. And bred there. There’s not a bird’s note that I don’t know. Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn’t name. Not many a tree that I couldn’t climb yet if I was put to it. I was a real country boy, once. My good mother lived in the country.


She must have been a fine old lady, guv’ner,


Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago. But I’ll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright as me, and near as broad across the shoulders.


Did she die at ninety, guv’ner?


No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her! What set me on about country boys, and runaways, and good-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes upon the country—marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?


N-no, I don’t know as I do, particular,


The town’s enough for you, eh?


Why, you see, commander, I ain’t acquainted with anythink else, and I doubt if I ain’t a-getting too old to take to novelties.


How old ARE you, Phil?


I’m something with a eight in it. It can’t be eighty. Nor yet eighteen. It’s betwixt ’em, somewheres.


Why, what the deuce, Phil—


I was just eight, agreeable to the parish calculation, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand, and I see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to himself wery comfortable, and he says, ‘Would you like to come along a me, my man?’ I says ‘Yes,’ and him and me and the fire goes home to Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was able to count up to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again, I says to myself, ‘Now, old chap, you’re one and a eight in it.’ April Fool Day after that, I says, ‘Now, old chap, you’re two and a eight in it.’ In course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight in it. When it got so high, it got the upper hand of me, but this is how I always know there’s a eight in it.


Ah! And where’s the tinker?


Drink put him in the hospital, guv’ner, and the hospital put him—in a glass-case, I HAVE heerd,


By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Phil?


Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn’t much of a beat—round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell, Smiffeld, and there—poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the kettles till they’re past mending. Most of the tramping tinkers used to come and lodge at our place; that was the best part of my master’s earnings. But they didn’t come to me. I warn’t like him. He could sing ’em a good song. I couldn’t! He could play ’em a tune on any sort of pot you please, so as it was iron or block tin. I never could do nothing with a pot but mend it or bile it—never had a note of music in me. Besides, I was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me.


They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd, Phil!


No, guv’ner. No, I shouldn’t. I was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothing to boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when I was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off, and swallering the smoke, and what with being nat’rally unfort’nate in the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich means, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I got older, almost whenever he was too far gone in drink—which was almost always—my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time. As to since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men was given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident at a gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-filling at the firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on! It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see you, commander. You remember?


I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.


Crawling, guv’ner, again a wall—


True, Phil—shouldering your way on—


In a night-cap!


In a night-cap—


And hobbling with a couple of sticks!


With a couple of sticks. When—


When you stops, you know, and says to me, ‘What, comrade! You have been in the wars!’ I didn’t say much to you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot, ‘What accident have you met with? You have been badly hurt. What’s amiss, old boy? Cheer up, and tell us about it!’ Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander! If a mark’s wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers take aim at me. They can’t spoil MY beauty. I’M all right. Come on! If they want a man to box at, let ’em box at me. Let ’em knock me well about the head. I don’t mind. If they want a light-weight to be throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let ’em throw me. They won’t hurt ME. I have been throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life!


Mr. George, my dear friend, how de do? You’re surprised to see me, my dear friend.


I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend in the city,


I am very seldom out. I haven’t been out for many months. It’s inconvenient—and it comes expensive. But I longed so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?


I am well enough. I hope you are the same.


You can’t be too well, my dear friend. I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn’t keep her away. She longed so much to see you. So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried me here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment! This, is the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by agreement included in his fare. This person, we engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, or we needn’t have employed this person. Judy, my child, give the person his twopence. It’s a great deal for what he has done. My dear Mr. George, would you be so kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire, and I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me! O Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, my stars! My dear friend, your workman is very strong—and very prompt. O Lord, he is very prompt! Judy, draw me back a little. I’m being scorched in the legs. Oh, dear me! O Lord! My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your establishment? It’s a delightful place. It’s a picture! You never find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear friend?


No, no. No fear of that.


And your workman. He—Oh, dear me!—he never lets anything off without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?


He has never hurt anybody but himself,


But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good deal, and he might hurt somebody else. He mightn’t mean it—or he even might. Mr. George, will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away? And you’re doing well, Mr. George? You are prospering, please the Powers?


Go on. You have not come to say that, I know.


You are so sprightly, Mr. George. You are such good company.


Ha ha! Go on!


My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. George. Curse him! He owes me money, and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he’d shave her head off.


Now for it!


Ho! Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?


For a pipe,


I tell you what,


If you want to converse with me, you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can’t go about and about. I haven’t the art to do it. I am not clever enough. It don’t suit me. When you go winding round and round me, damme, if I don’t feel as if I was being smothered! If you have come to give me a friendly call, I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see whether there’s any property on the premises, look about you; you are welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!


You see! It’s her opinion too. And why the devil that young woman won’t sit down like a Christian,


I can’t comprehend.


She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir. I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need some attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot but I need attention, my dear friend.


Well! Now then?


My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with a pupil of yours.


Has he? I am sorry to hear it.


Yes, sir. He is a fine young soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friends came forward and paid it all up, honourable.


Did they? Do you think your friend in the city would like a piece of advice?


I think he would, my dear friend. From you.


I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. There’s no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is brought to a dead halt.


No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir. Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, and he is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his chance in a wife, and—oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for something yet? But to pass from one subject to another. To promote the conversation. To pass, Mr. George, from the ensign to the captain.


What are you up to, now? What captain?


Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon.


Oh! That’s it, is it? You are there! Well? What about it? Come, I won’t be smothered any more. Speak!


My dear friend. I was applied—Judy, shake me up a little!—I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my opinion still is that the captain is not dead.


Bosh!


What was your remark, my dear friend?


Ho! Mr. George, of my opinion you can judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and the reasons given for asking ’em. Now, what do you think the lawyer making the inquiries wants?


A job,


Nothing of the kind!


Can’t be a lawyer, then,


My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see some fragment in Captain Hawdon’s writing. He don’t want to keep it. He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his possession.


Well?


Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement concerning Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given respecting him, he looked it up and came to me—just as you did, my dear friend. WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day! I should have missed forming such a friendship if you hadn’t come! I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him. I have half a million of his signatures, I think! you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand.


Some writing in that hand, may be, I have.


My dearest friend!


May be, I have not.


Ho!


But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would make a cartridge without knowing why. Sir. Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told you why. Not enough. I must know more, and approve it.


Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come and see the gentleman? I told him it was probable I might call upon him between ten and eleven this forenoon, and it’s now half after ten. Will you come and see the gentleman, Mr. George?


Hum! I don’t mind that. Though why this should concern you so much, I don’t know.


Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing anything to light about him. Didn’t he take us all in? Didn’t he owe us immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anything about him concern more than me? Not, my dear friend, that I want YOU to betray anything. Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dear friend?


Aye! I’ll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know.


No, my dear Mr. George; no.


And you mean to say you’re going to give me a lift to this place, wherever it is, without charging for it?


He’s so very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthy man?


What, Mr. Tulkinghorn’s your man, is he?


Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George?


Why, I have heard of him—seen him too, I think. But I don’t know him, and he don’t know me.


Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning! You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant. Sit down, sergeant. Now, I can feel what I am about Mr. Smallweed.


You have brought our good friend the sergeant, I see. Yes, sir,


Well, George—I believe your name is George?


It is so, Sir.


What do you say, George?


I ask your pardon, sir, but I should wish to know what YOU say?


Do you mean in point of reward?


I mean in point of everything, sir.


You’re a brimstone beast!


I supposed, sergeant, that Mr. Smallweed might have sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallest compass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little services, and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That is so, is it not?


Yes, sir, that is so,


Therefore you may happen to have in your possession something—anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders, a letter, anything—in Captain Hawdon’s writing. I wish to compare his writing with some that I have. If you can give me the opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your trouble. Three, four, five, guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say.


Noble, my dear friend!


If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you can demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing, against your inclination—though I should prefer to have it. The question is, first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon’s writing?


First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon’s writing, sir,


Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?


Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it, sir,


Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that,


Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so,


Well? What do you say?


Well, sir. I would rather, if you’ll excuse me, have nothing to do with this.


Why not?


Why, sir. Except on military compulsion, I am not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call in Scotland a ne’er-do-weel. I have no head for papers, sir. I can stand any fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentioned to Mr. Smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that when I come into things of this kind I feel as if I was being smothered. And that is my sensation, at the present moment.


You are the best judge of your own interest, sergeant. Take care you do no harm by this. Please yourself, please yourself. If you know what you mean, that’s quite enough.


I do assure you, sir, not to say it offensively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really am being smothered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not a match for you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain’s hand, in the case that I could find any specimen of it?


No. If you were a man of business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there are confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for many such wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you are afraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest about that.


Aye! He is dead, sir.


IS he?


Well, sir. I am sorry not to have given you more satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one that I should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothing to do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head for business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing to consult with him. I—I really am so completely smothered myself at present, that I don’t know but what it might be a satisfaction to me. I’ll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir, and I’ll take the liberty of looking in again with the final answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to be carried downstairs—


In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let me speak half a word with this gentleman in private?


Certainly, sir. Don’t hurry yourself on my account.


If I wasn’t as weak as a brimstone baby, sir. I’d tear the writing away from him. He’s got it buttoned in his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him put it there. Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there!


Violence will not do for me, my friend,


No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it’s chafing and galling—it’s—it’s worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother, to know he has got what’s wanted and won’t give it up. He, not to give it up! HE! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the most, he has only his own way for a little while. I have him periodically in a vice. I’ll twist him, sir. I’ll screw him, sir. If he won’t do it with a good grace, I’ll make him do it with a bad one, sir! Now, my dear Mr. George. I am ready for your kind assistance, my excellent friend!


She’s as usual, washing greens. I never saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she wasn’t washing greens!


George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away! I never. George, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute when you’re near him. You are that restless and that roving—


Yes! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am.


You know you are! What’s the use of that? WHY are you?


The nature of the animal, I suppose,


Ah! But what satisfaction will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or Australey?


Mrs. Bagnet. I am on my parole with you. Mat will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far.


Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling. Ah, George, George! If you had only settled down and married Joe Pouch’s widow when he died in North America, SHE’D have combed your hair for you.


It was a chance for me, certainly, but I shall never settle down into a respectable man now. Joe Pouch’s widow might have done me good—there was something in her, and something of her—but I couldn’t make up my mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat found! Why, Quebec, my poppet. And little Malta, too! Come and kiss your Bluffy!


And how’s young Woolwich?


Ah! There now! Would you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter, with his father, to play the fife in a military piece.


Well done, my godson!


I believe you! He’s a Briton. That’s what Woolwich is. A Briton!


And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you’re respectable civilians one and all. Family people. Children growing up. Mat’s old mother in Scotland, and your old father somewhere else, corresponded with, and helped a little, and—well, well! To be sure, I don’t know why I shouldn’t be wished a hundred mile away, for I have not much to do with all this!


George. You know me. It’s my old girl that advises. She has the head. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then we’ll consult. Whatever the old girl says, do—do it!


I intend to, Mat. I would sooner take her opinion than that of a college.


College. What college could you leave—in another quarter of the world—with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella—to make its way home to Europe? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did it once!


You are right,


What college, could you set up in life—with two penn’orth of white lime—a penn’orth of fuller’s earth—a ha’porth of sand—and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money? That’s what the old girl started on. In the present business.


I am rejoiced to hear it’s thriving, Mat.


The old girl, saves. Has a stocking somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I know she’s got it. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then she’ll set you up.


She is a treasure!


She’s more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained. It was the old girl that brought out my musical abilities. I should have been in the artillery now but for the old girl. Six years I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the flute. The old girl said it wouldn’t do; intention good, but want of flexibility; try the bassoon. The old girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster of the Rifle Regiment. I practised in the trenches. Got on, got another, get a living by it! The old girl, is a thoroughly fine woman. Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets finer as she gets on. I never saw the old girl’s equal. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained!


That’s the whole of it, is it, George?


That’s the whole of it.


You act according to my opinion?


I shall be guided, entirely by it.


Old girl, give him my opinion. You know it. Tell him what it is.


A family home, however small it is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it’s well I never made that evolution of matrimony. I shouldn’t have been fit for it. I am such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that I couldn’t hold to the gallery a month together if it was a regular pursuit or if I didn’t camp there, gipsy fashion. Come! I disgrace nobody and cumber nobody; that’s something. I have not done that for many a long year!


Who is that? What are you doing there?


I ask your pardon, sir. It’s George. The sergeant.


And couldn’t George, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?


Why, no, sir, I couldn’t. At any rate, I didn’t,


Have you changed your mind? Or are you in the same mind?


In the same mind, sir.


I thought so. That’s sufficient. You can go. So you are the man, in whose hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?


Yes, I AM the man. What then, sir?


What then? I don’t like your associates. You should not have seen the inside of my door this morning if I had thought of your being that man. Gridley? A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow.


A pretty character to bear. A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!


I occasionally meet on my staircase here, one of the prettiest girls, I think, that I ever saw in my life.


A protégée of my Lady’s,


I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty perhaps, but in its way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!


Indeed, if there is any uncommon eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell’s, and not mine. Rosa is her discovery.


Your maid, I suppose?


No. My anything; pet—secretary—messenger—I don’t know what.


You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle—no, not a poodle, though—or anything else that was equally pretty? Yes, how charming now! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have, positively!


You are right, Volumnia,


She has no daughter of her own, has she?


Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had two.


And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions, that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell’s son has been invited to go into Parliament. Yes, indeed. Into Parliament.


I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?


He is called, I believe—an—ironmaster. He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn being always correct and exact; still that does not, that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange considerations—startling considerations, as it appears to me. I must beg you, my Lady, to remain a few moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note I am bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject of this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before retiring. Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in the housekeeper’s apartments, and say I can receive him now.


Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank you, Sir Leicester. In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the flight.


Lady Dedlock has been so kind, as to place near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to their becoming engaged if she will take him—which I suppose she will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence in my son’s good sense—even in love. I find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation.


She in all respects deserves it,


I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her.


That, must be quite unnecessary.


Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once—I am sure, Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me—I should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is.


Am I to understand, sir, and is my Lady to understand am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?


Certainly not, Sir Leicester,


I am glad to hear it.


Pray, Mr. Rouncewell, explain to me what you mean.


Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more. I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those examples—perhaps as good a one as there is—of love, and attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides—on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly. Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn’t have it hastily supposed, that I am ashamed of my mother’s position here, or wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I certainly may have desired—I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock—that my mother should retire after so many years and end her days with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond would be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea. I have been, an apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman’s wages, years and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife was a foreman’s daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station. All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the class to which I belong, that what would be generally called unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first very possibly. It may be that he had other views for his son. However, the chances are that having ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, ‘I must be quite sure you are in earnest here. This is a serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have this girl educated for two years,’ or it may be, ‘I shall place this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time, during which you will give me your word and honour to see her only so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality, you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you happy.’ I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I think they indicate to me my own course now.


Mr. Rouncewell, do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a— a factory?


I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may be justly drawn between them.


Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady—my Lady—has placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside the gates?


Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and handsomely supported by this family.


Then, Mr. Rouncewell, the application of what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.


Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say, that I do not regard the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son’s wife?


My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment! Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education, and our views of—in short, ALL our views—are so diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. This young woman is honoured with my Lady’s notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions—you will allow me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he is not accountable for them to me—who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young woman’s position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms; and here we beg—if you will be so good—to leave the subject. Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night!


Mr. Rouncewell, it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least.


I hope so,


I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time in the morning.


Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?


Oh! My Lady!


Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson?


Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don’t know that I am in love with him—yet.


Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?


I think he likes me a little, my Lady.


Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are attached to me.


Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to show how much.


And I don’t think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even for a lover?


No, my Lady! Oh, no!


Confide in me, my child. Don’t fear me. I wish you to be happy, and will make you so—if I can make anybody happy on this earth.


The man who wrote this article, has a well-balanced mind. Very true indeed. Very properly put. I have frequently made the same remark myself,


The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy.


The young man of the name of Guppy? Pray, what do you mean by announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?


I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would see the young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you were here, Sir Leicester.


It’s quite right. I gave him those directions. Let the young man wait.


By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I will not interrupt you.


That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a little conversation. You are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?


Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescended to favour me with an answer.


And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversation unnecessary? Can you not still? You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after all, that what you have to say does not concern me—and I don’t know how it can, and don’t expect that it will—you will allow me to cut you short with but little ceremony. Say what you have to say, if you please.


With your ladyship’s permission, then,


I will now enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship in my first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have learnt the habit of not committing myself in writing, and therefore I did not mention to your ladyship the name of the firm with which I am connected and in which my standing—and I may add income—is tolerably good. I may now state to your ladyship, in confidence, that the name of that firm is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln’s Inn, which may not be altogether unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.


Now, I may say to your ladyship at once,


it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive—in fact, almost blackguardly.


If it had been Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your ladyship’s solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have the pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn—at least we move when we meet one another—and if it had been any business of that sort, I should have gone to him.


You had better sit down.


Thank your ladyship.


Now, your ladyship—I—Oh, yes!—I place myself entirely in your ladyship’s hands. If your ladyship was to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn of the present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation. That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon your ladyship’s honour.


Thank your ladyship,


quite satisfactory. Now—I—dash it!—The fact is that I put down a head or two here of the order of the points I thought of touching upon, and they’re written short, and I can’t quite make out what they mean. If your ladyship will excuse me taking it to the window half a moment, I—


I beg your pardon, I am sure.


C.S. What’s C.S. for? Oh! C.S.! Oh, I know! Yes, to be sure!


I am not aware,


whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther Summerson.


I saw a young lady of that name not long ago. This past autumn.


Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?


No.


Not like your ladyship’s family?


I think your ladyship,


can hardly remember Miss Summerson’s face?


I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do with me?


Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson’s image imprinted on my ’eart—which I mention in confidence—I found, when I had the honour of going over your ladyship’s mansion of Chesney Wold while on a short out in the county of Lincolnshire with a friend, such a resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson and your ladyship’s own portrait that it completely knocked me over, so much so that I didn’t at the moment even know what it WAS that knocked me over. And now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near (I have often, since that, taken the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your carriage in the park, when I dare say you was not aware of me, but I never saw your ladyship so near), it’s really more surprising than I thought it.


Young man of the name of Guppy! what do you suppose that his taste for likenesses has to do with her?


Your ladyship,


I am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! ‘Mrs. Chadband.’ Yes.


A—stop a minute, though!


E.S. twice? Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on.


Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson’s birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because—which I mention in confidence—I know it in the way of my profession at Kenge and Carboy’s. Now, as I have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss Summerson’s image is imprinted on my ’eart. If I could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship’s family she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might make a sort of a claim upon Miss Summerson to look with an eye of more dedicated favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she hasn’t favoured them at all. Now, it’s a very singular circumstance, your ladyship, though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of us professional men—which I may call myself, for though not admitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me by Kenge and Carboy, on my mother’s advancing from the principal of her little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy—that I have encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge of her. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship. Did your ladyship, ever happen to hear of Miss Barbary?