I believe--at least I know--that he was not rich. All his widowed mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very little influence in London; and although he was, night and day, at the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of gentleness and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. He was seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly seems to belong to anything.
I think--I mean, he told us--that he had been in practice three or four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his art among those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it had a high opinion of him.

I believe that he was not rich. All his widowed mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his profession. Although he was, night and day, at the service of numerous poor people and did wonders of gentleness and skill for them, he gained very little money by it. He was seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly seems to belong to anything.
I think - I mean, he told us - that he had been in practice three or four years and that if he could have managed three or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a pity he should go away, because he was distinguished in his art.


When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes, but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a long time ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan ap-Kerrig--of some place that sounded like Gimlet--who was the most illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations were a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his life in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it, Mewlinnwillinwodd.
Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in India who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be picked up with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line without birth, which must ever be the first consideration. She talked so much about birth that for a moment I half fancied, and with pain--But what an idle fancy to suppose that she could think or care what MINE was!
Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours--he called them the very happy hours--he had passed with us. The recollection of them, he said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always treasured. And so we gave him our hands, one after another--at least, they did--and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada's hand--and to mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!

When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes, but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a long time ago, an eminent ancestor, of the name of Morgan ap-Kerrig - of some place that sounded like Gimlet - whose relations were a sort of royal family. This ancestor appeared to have passed his life in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it, Mewlinnwillinwodd.
Mrs. Woodcourt, after telling us of the fame of her great kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would remember his pedigree, and would never form an alliance below it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in India who were looking for a husband, but that high birth must ever be the first consideration. She talked so much about birth that for a moment I half fancied, and with pain - but what an idle fancy to suppose that she could care what mine was!
Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her talk, but he was too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring the conversation round to thanking my guardian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours he had passed with us. The recollection of them, he said, would go with him and would be always treasured.
And so we gave him our hands, one after another; and so he put his lips to Ada's hand - and to mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!


I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and another. I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had no expectation of seeing!
"Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, "what beautiful flowers!"
She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.
"Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. "They are the loveliest I ever saw."
"Prince, my dear?" said I in a whisper.
"No," answered Caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me to smell. "Not Prince."

I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal. I was still busy, singing and working by the window, when who should come in but Caddy Jellyby, whom I had no expectation of seeing!
"Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, "what beautiful flowers!" She had an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.
"Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. "They are the loveliest I ever saw."
"Prince, my dear?" said I in a whisper.
"No," answered Caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me to smell. "Not Prince."


"Well, to be sure, Caddy!" said I. "You must have two lovers!"
"What? Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Caddy.
"Do they look like that sort of thing?" I repeated, pinching her cheek.
Caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come for half an hour, at the expiration of which time Prince would be waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the window, every now and then handing me the flowers again or trying how they looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, she took me into my room and put them in my dress.

"Well, to be sure, Caddy!" said I. "You must have two lovers!"
Caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come for half an hour, until Prince would be waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the window, every now and then handing me the flowers again. At last, when she was going, she took me into my room and put them in my dress.


"For me?" said I, surprised.
"For you," said Caddy with a kiss. "They were left behind by somebody."
"Left behind?"
"At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. "Somebody who has been very good to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these flowers behind. No, no! Don't take them out. Let the pretty little things lie here," said Caddy, adjusting them with a careful hand, "because I was present myself, and I shouldn't wonder if somebody left them on purpose!"

"For me?" said I, surprised.
"For you," said Caddy with a kiss. "They were left behind by somebody."
"Left behind?"
"At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. "Somebody who has been very good to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these flowers behind. No, no! Don't take them out. Let the pretty little things lie here," she said, adjusting them carefully, "because I was present myself, and I shouldn't wonder if somebody left them on purpose!"


"Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Ada, coming laughingly behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. "Oh, yes, indeed they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sort of thing. Oh, very like it indeed, my dear!"


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

I lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life became like an old remembrance in the helpless inaction of a sick-room. Before many days, everything else seemed to have retired into a remote distance where there was little or no separation between the various stages of my life. In falling ill, I seemed to have crossed a dark lake and to have left all my experiences, mingled together by the great distance, on the healthy shore.
My housekeeping duties were soon as far off as the summer afternoons when I went home from school to my godmother's house. I had never known before how short life really was and into how small a space the mind could put it.
While I was very ill, the way in which these different times became confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. At once a child, an older girl, and a woman, I was not only oppressed by the cares of each stage, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile them. I suppose that few who have not been in such a condition can quite understand this.


For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my disorder--it seemed one long night, but I believe there were both nights and days in it--when I laboured up colossal staircases, ever striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knew perfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, that I was in my bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt her touch, and knew her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, "Oh, more of these never-ending stairs, Charley--more and more--piled up to the sky', I think!" and labouring on again.
Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when my only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?
Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make others unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in remembering them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions we might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.
The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for myself and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying, with no other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left behind--this state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this state when I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once more, and knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough that I should see again.

For the same reason I am almost afraid to say that in my disorder I laboured up colossal staircases, ever striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knew perfectly at intervals that I was in my bed; and I talked with Charley, and knew her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, "Oh, more of these never-ending stairs, Charley - piled up to the sky!"
Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or starry circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when my only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?
I do not recall these experiences to make others unhappy or because I am now unhappy in remembering them. If we knew more of such strange afflictions we might be better able to alleviate their intensity.
The repose that followed, the long delicious sleep, the blissful rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to care even if I was dying, apart from feeling a pitying love for those I left behind - this state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this state when I first shrunk from the light, and knew with a boundless joy that I should see again.


I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to leave my bedside no more; but I had only said, when I could speak, "Never, my sweet girl, never!" and I had over and over again reminded Charley that she was to keep my darling from the room whether I lived or died. Charley had been true to me in that time of need, and with her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.
But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that my dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to my lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. I could see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about the two rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to Ada from the open window again. I could understand the stillness in the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who had always been so good to me. I could weep in the exquisite felicity of my heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my strength.
By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, with so strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were done for some one else whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it a little, and so on to a little more and much more, until I became useful to myself, and interested, and attached to life again.

I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night, calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me; but I had only said, when I could speak, "Never, my sweet girl, never!" and had reminded Charley that she was to keep my darling from the room whether I lived or died. Charley had been true to me and had kept the door fast.
But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every day more brightly on me, I could read the letters that my dear wrote daily to me and could put them to my lips and lay my cheek upon them. I could see my little maid, so tender and careful, setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to Ada from the open window. I could understand the stillness in the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who had always been so good to me. I could weep in my exquisite joy and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my strength.
By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying and watching what was done for me, as if it were done for some one else, I helped it a little, and a little more, until I became useful to myself, and attached to life again.


How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with Charley! The little creature--sent into the world, surely, to minister to the weak and sick--was so happy, and so busy, and stopped so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she was so glad, that I was obliged to say, "Charley, if you go on in this way, I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought I was!" So Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face here and there across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shade, while I watched her peacefully. When all her preparations were concluded and the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies to tempt me, and its white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so lovingly and beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was ready at the bedside, I felt sure I was steady enough to say something to Charley that was not new to my thoughts.
First I complimented Charley on the room, and indeed it was so fresh and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe I had been lying there so long. This delighted Charley, and her face was brighter than before.
"Yet, Charley," said I, looking round, "I miss something, surely, that I am accustomed to?"
Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her head as if there were nothing absent.
"Are the pictures all as they used to be?" I asked her.

How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed with pillows for the first time to take tea with Charley! The little creature was so happy, and so busy, and stopped so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and cry with joyful tears, that I was obliged to say, "Charley, if you go on in this way, I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought!"
So Charley became as quiet as a mouse about her preparations. When the pretty tea-table with its tempting delicacies, and its white cloth, and its flowers, beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was ready at the bedside, I felt steady enough to say something to Charley that had been in my thoughts.
First I complimented Charley on the room, which was airy and neat. This delighted her.
"Yet, Charley," said I, looking round, "I miss something, surely?"
Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her head.
"Are the pictures all as they used to be?" I asked her.


"Every one of them, miss," said Charley.
"And the furniture, Charley?"
"Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss."
"And yet," said I, "I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what it is, Charley! It's the looking-glass."
Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.

"Every one of them, miss," said Charley.
"And the furniture, Charley?"
"Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss."
"And yet," said I, "I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know, Charley! It's the looking-glass."
Charley got up from the table as if she had forgotten something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob.


I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I could thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called Charley back, and when she came--at first pretending to smile, but as she drew nearer to me, looking grieved--I took her in my arms and said, "It matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do without my old face very well."
I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room too, but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.

I was now certain. I could thank God that it was not a shock to me. I called Charley back, and when she came, looking grieved - I took her in my arms and said, "It matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do without my old face very well."
I was presently able to sit up in a great chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place, but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.


My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He came one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me in his embrace and say, "My dear, dear girl!" I had long known--who could know better?--what a deep fountain of affection and generosity his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering and change to fill such a place in it? "Oh, yes!" I thought. "He has seen me, and he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder of me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!"
He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. For a little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been, there never can be, a pleasanter manner.

My guardian had throughout wished earnestly to visit me, and there was now no good reason why I should deny him. He came in one morning, and at first could only hold me in his embrace and say, "My dear, dear girl!"
I had long known what a deep fountain of affection and generosity his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering to fill such a place in it?
"Oh, yes!" I thought. "He has seen me, and is even fonder of me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!"
He sat down by me on the sofa. For a little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed it, fell into his usual pleasant manner.


"My little woman," said he, "what a sad time this has been. Such an inflexible little woman, too, through all!"
"Only for the best, guardian," said I.
"For the best?" he repeated tenderly. "Of course, for the best. But here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early; here has every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has even poor Rick been writing--to ME too--in his anxiety for you!"
I had read of Caddy in Ada's letters, but not of Richard. I told him so.

"My little woman," said he, "Ada and I have been perfectly forlorn and miserable; your friend Caddy has been coming and going; everyone about the house has been utterly lost and dejected; even poor Rick has been writing - to me too - in his anxiety for you!"


"Why, no, my dear," he replied. "I have thought it better not to mention it to her."
"And you speak of his writing to YOU," said I, repeating his emphasis. "As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as if he could write to a better friend!"

"You speak of his writing to you," said I. "As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as if he could write to a better friend!"


"He thinks he could, my love," returned my guardian, "and to many a better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while unable to write to you with any hope of an answer--wrote coldly, haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his eyes. I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would change their nature."
"It has not changed yours, guardian."

"He thinks he could, my love," returned my guardian, "to many a better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while unable to write to you - wrote coldly, haughtily, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we must forgive him. He is not to blame. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has warped him and perverted me in his eyes. I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two angels were caught up in it, I believe it would change their nature."
"It has not changed yours, guardian."


"Oh, yes, it has, my dear," he said laughingly. "It has made the south wind easterly, I don't know how often. Rick mistrusts and suspects me--goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect me. Hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his and what not. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out of the mountains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has been so long bestowed (which I can't) or could level them by the extinction of my own original right (which I can't either, and no human power ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have we got), I would do it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature than be endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart and soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the Accountant-General--and that's money enough, my dear, to be cast into a pyramid, in memory of Chancery's transcendent wickedness."
"IS it possible, guardian," I asked, amazed, "that Richard can be suspicious of you?"
"Ah, my love, my love," he said, "it is in the subtle poison of such abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and objects lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not HIS fault."

"Oh, yes, it has, my dear," he said laughingly. "It has made the south wind easterly, I don't know how often. Rick goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect me. He hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out of those legal mountains of wiglomeration (which I can't) or could level them (which I can't either), I would do it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature than be endowed with all the unclaimed money in Chancery."
"Is it possible, guardian," I asked, amazed, "that Richard can be suspicious of you?"
"Ah, my love," he said, "the subtle poison of such abuses breeds such diseases. It is not his fault."


"But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian."
"It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. By little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed, and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything around him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patient with poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine fresh hearts like his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!"
I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.

"But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian."
"It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. But he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed, and it transmits rottenness to everything around him. We must be patient with poor Rick."
I expressed my wonder and regret that his benevolent intentions had prospered so little.


"We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully replied; "Ada is the happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both these young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it. But it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce was the curtain of Rick's cradle."
"But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach him what a false and wretched thing it is?"

"We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully replied; "Ada is happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both these young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that we might prove stronger than the lawsuit. But it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce was the curtain round Rick's cradle."
"But, guardian, may we not hope that experience will teach him what a false and wretched thing it is?"


"We WILL hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and that it may not teach him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him. There are not many grown and matured men living while we speak, good men too, who if they were thrown into this same court as suitors would not be vitally changed and depreciated within three years--within two--within one. How can we stand amazed at poor Rick? A young man so unfortunate," here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking aloud, "cannot at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is what it is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his interests and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates, disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine hopes and patience, thread by thread; but he still looks to it, and hankers after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. Well, well, well! Enough of this, my dear!"

"We will hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce. "In any case we must not be hard on him. There are not many grown men, good men too, who if they were thrown into this same court would not be changed for the worse within a year. How can we stand amazed at poor Rick? A young man cannot at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is what it is. He looks to it to do something with his interests and bring them to a settlement. It procrastinates, disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his hopes and patience, thread by thread; but he still hankers after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. Well, well! Enough of this, my dear!"


He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind in this little pause, by some means, to see Richard when I grew strong and try to set him right.
"There are better subjects than these," said my guardian, "for such a joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. And I had a commission to broach one of them as soon as I should begin to talk. When shall Ada come to see you, my love?"
I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the absent mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would be changed by no change in my looks.
"Dear guardian," said I, "as I have shut her out so long--though indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me--"
"I know it well, Dame Durden, well."

I leaned my head upon his shoulder and loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind to see Richard when I grew strong, and try to set him right.
"There are better subjects than these," said my guardian, "for such a joyful time. When shall Ada come to see you, my love?"
I had been thinking of that too. I knew my loving girl would be changed by no change in my looks.
"Dear guardian," said I, "as I have shut her out so long - though indeed, she is like the light to me-"
"I know it well, Dame Durden."


He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my heart that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. "Yes, yes, you are tired," said he. "Rest a little."
"As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a short while, "I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian. It would be best to be away from here before I see her. If Charley and I were to go to some country lodging as soon as I can move, and if I had a week there in which to grow stronger and to be revived by the sweet air and to look forward to the happiness of having Ada with me again, I think it would be better for us."
I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more used to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I longed so ardently to see, but it is the truth. I did. He understood me, I was sure; but I was not afraid of that. If it were a poor thing, I knew he would pass it over.

He was so good, his touch expressed such compassion and affection, that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on.
"As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a short while, "I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian. It would be best to be away from here before I see her. If Charley and I were to go to some country lodging when I am strong enough, and if I had a week there to recover and to be revived by the sweet air before seeing Ada again, I think it would be better for us."
I hope it was not weak to wish to be a little more used to my altered self before I met the dear girl I longed so ardently to see, but it is the truth. He understood me, I was sure.


"Our spoilt little woman," said my guardian, "shall have her own way even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of tears downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart of chivalry, breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on paper before, that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, he having already turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave one brick standing on another!"
And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary beginning such as "My dear Jarndyce," but rushing at once into the words, "I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and take possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at one o'clock, P.M.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing heartily over it, and we settled that I should send him a letter of thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. It was a most agreeable one to me, for all the places I could have thought of, I should have liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.
"Now, little housewife," said my guardian, looking at his watch, "I was strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not be tired too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. I have one other petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumour that you were ill, made nothing of walking down here--twenty miles, poor soul, in a pair of dancing shoes--to inquire. It was heaven's mercy we were at home, or she would have walked back again."

"Our spoilt little woman," said my guardian, "shall have her own way, though at the price, I know, of tears downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart of chivalry, vowing that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, by heaven and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave one brick standing!"
My guardian handed me a letter without any ordinary beginning such as "My dear Jarndyce," but rushing at once into the words, "I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and take possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at one o'clock," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had quoted. We settled that I should send Mr. Boythorn a letter of thanks and accept his offer. It was a most agreeable one to me, for there was nowhere I should have liked to go so well as Chesney Wold.
"Now, little housewife," said my guardian, looking at his watch, "you must not be tired too soon; I have only one last minute. I have another petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing that you were ill, made nothing of walking down here - twenty miles, poor soul, in dancing shoes - to inquire. It was heaven's mercy we were at home, or she would have walked back again."


The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!
"Now, pet," said my guardian, "if it would not be irksome to you to admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save Boythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe you would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than I--though my eminent name is Jarndyce--could do in a lifetime."
I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple image of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I could not tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her. I had always pitied her, never so much as now. I had always been glad of my little power to soothe her under her calamity, but never, never, half so glad before.

I could not tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive poor Miss Flite.


We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach and share my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my face away upon my couch and prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded by such blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that I had to undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had aspired to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good to some one and win some love to myself if I could came back into my mind with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed and all the affectionate hearts that had been turned towards me. If I were weak now, what had I profited by those mercies? I repeated the old childish prayer in its old childish words and found that its old peace had not departed from it.
My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could walk about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet the courage to look at the dear face, though I could have done so easily without her seeing me.

We arranged a time for her to come out by the coach and share my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded by such blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial I had to undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had aspired to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted, and to do good to some one and win some love to myself, came back into my mind with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed. I repeated the old childish prayer and found that its old peace had not departed from it.
My guardian now came every day. In a week more I could walk about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet the courage to look at the dear face, though I could have done so easily without her seeing me.


On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creature ran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying from her very heart of hearts, "My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" fell upon my neck and kissed me twenty times.
"Dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, "I have nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow a pocket handkerchief."
Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of it, for she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding tears for the next ten minutes.

On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. She ran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying "My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" fell upon my neck and kissed me twenty times. Then she sat shedding tears for the next ten minutes, and had to ask Charley for a pocket handkerchief.


"With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce," she was careful to explain. "Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at having the honour of being admitted to see you. I am so much fonder of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. Though I DO attend court regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning pocket handkerchiefs--"
Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her at the place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and looked unwilling to pursue the suggestion.

"Tears of pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce," she was careful to explain. "Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at having the honour of being admitted to see you. By the by, my dear, mentioning pocket handkerchiefs-"
Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her off the coach. Charley glanced at me and looked unwilling to pursue the suggestion.


"Ve-ry right!" said Miss Flite, "Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highly indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I am afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn't think it) a little--rambling you know," said Miss Flite, touching her forehead. "Nothing more."
"What were you going to tell me?" said I, smiling, for I saw she wanted to go on. "You have roused my curiosity, and now you must gratify it."
Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis, who said, "If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," and therein gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.

"Ve-ry right!" said Miss Flite, "Highly indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I am afraid I am at times a little - rambling, you know."
"What were you going to tell me?" said I, smiling, for I saw she wanted to go on.
Miss Flite looked at Charley, who said, "If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," gratifying Miss Flite beyond measure.


"So sagacious, our young friend," said she to me in her mysterious way. "Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it's a pretty anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who should follow us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very ungenteel bonnet--"
"Jenny, if you please, miss," said Charley.

"So sagacious, our young friend," said she to me. "Well, my dear, it's a pretty anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who should follow us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very ungenteel bonnet-"
"Jenny, if you please, miss," said Charley.


"Just so!" Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity. "Jenny. Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend but that there has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear Fitz Jarndyce's health and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little keepsake merely because it was my amiable Fitz Jarndyce's! Now, you know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!"
"If you please, miss," said Charley, to whom I looked in some astonishment, "Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the baby's little things. I think, if you please, partly because it was yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby."

"Just so!" Miss Flite agreed. "Jenny. And she tells our young friend that there has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after your health, and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little keepsake merely because it was yours! Now, you know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!"
I looked at Charley in some astonishment.
"If you please, miss," said Charley, "Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a handkerchief there, and that she kept it with the baby's little things. I think partly because it was yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby."


"Diminutive," whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of motions about her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. "But exceedingly sagacious! And so dear! My love, she's clearer than any counsel I ever heard!"
"Yes, Charley," I returned. "I remember it. Well?"
"Well, miss," said Charley, "and that's the handkerchief the lady took. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have made away with it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and left some money instead. Jenny don't know her at all, if you please, miss!"

"Exceedingly sagacious!" whispered Miss Flite.
"Well, miss," said Charley, "that's the handkerchief the lady took. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have sold it for herself but that the lady took it and left some money. Jenny don't know her at all, if you please, miss!"


"Why, who can she be?" said I.
"My love," Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear with her most mysterious look, "in MY opinion--don't mention this to our diminutive friend--she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. He's married, you know. And I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws his lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if he won't pay the jeweller!"
I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an impression that it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention was diverted by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and looked hungry and who, our dinner being brought in, required some little assistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in a pitiable old scarf and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she had brought down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, too, over the entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state and ceremony she did honour to it, that I was soon thinking of nothing else.

"Why, who can she be?" said I.
"My love," Miss Flite suggested with her most mysterious look, "in my opinion she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws his lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if he won't pay the jeweller!"
I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an impression that it might be Caddy. Besides, dinner was brought in, and I had to preside over a dish of fish, roast fowl, sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant to see how Miss Flite enjoyed it, that I was soon thinking of nothing else.


When we had finished and had our little dessert before us, embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the superintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Flite was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began by saying "You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss Flite?"
"Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment. Shortly."
There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would say no more about it.

When we had finished, Miss Flite was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began by saying, "You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss Flite?"
"Oh, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment. Shortly." There was some anxiety in her tone.


"My father expected a judgment," said Miss Flite. "My brother. My sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect."
"They are all--"
"Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear," said she.
As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.
"Would it not be wiser," said I, "to expect this judgment no more?"

"My father expected a judgment. My brother. My sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect."
"They are all-"
"Dead, of course, my dear," said she.
"Would it not be wiser," said I, "to expect this judgment no more?"


"Why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it would!"
"And to attend the court no more?"
"Equally of course," said she. "Very wearing to be always in expectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce! Wearing, I assure you, to the bone!"
She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.

"Why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it would!"
"And to attend the court no more?"
"Equally of course," said she. "Very wearing to be always in expectation of what never comes! Wearing, I assure you, to the bone!"
She showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.


"But, my dear," she went on in her mysterious way, "there's a dreadful attraction in the place. Hush! Don't mention it to our diminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With good reason. There's a cruel attraction in the place. You CAN'T leave it. And you MUST expect."
I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.

"But, my dear," she went on, "there's a dreadful attraction in the place. You can't leave it. And you must expect."
I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently and smilingly, but


"Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve-ry absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been there many years, and I have noticed. It's the mace and seal upon the table."
What could they do, did she think? I mildly asked her.

answered, "Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. But, my dear, I have been there many years, and I have noticed. It's the mace and seal upon the table. They


"Draw," returned Miss Flite. "Draw people on, my dear. Draw peace out of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Good qualities out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest away in the night. Cold and glittering devils!"
She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly as if she were anxious I should understand that I had no cause to fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided these awful secrets to me.

 draw people on. Draw peace and sense out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest away in the night. Cold and glittering devils!"
She tapped me upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly.


"Let me see," said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before they ever drew me--before I had ever seen them--what was it I used to do? Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sister worked at tambour work. Our father and our brother had a builder's business. We all lived together. Ve-ry respectably, my dear!

"Let me see," said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before I had ever seen them - what was it I used to do? Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sister did tambour embroidery. Our father and our brother had a builder's business.


First, our father was drawn--slowly. Home was drawn with him. In a few years he was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kind word or a kind look for any one. He had been so different, Fitz Jarndyce. He was drawn to a debtors' prison. There he died. Then our brother was drawn--swiftly--to drunkenness. And rags. And death. Then my sister was drawn.

First, our father was drawn - slowly. In a few years he was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kind word for anyone. He had been so different, Fitz Jarndyce. He was drawn to a debtors' prison. There he died. Then our brother was drawn - swiftly - to drunkenness. And rags. And death. Then my sister was drawn.


Hush! Never ask to what! Then I was ill and in misery, and heard, as I had often heard before, that this was all the work of Chancery. When I got better, I went to look at the monster. And then I found out how it was, and I was drawn to stay there."
Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of which she had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were fresh upon her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiable importance.

Hush! Never ask to what! Then I was ill and in misery, and heard that this was all the work of Chancery. When I got better, I went to look at the monster. And then I was drawn to stay there.


"You don't quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, some day. I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seen many new faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace and seal in these many years. As my father's came there. As my brother's. As my sister's. As my own.


I hear Conversation Kenge and the rest of them say to the new faces, 'Here's little Miss Flite. Oh, you are new here; and you must come and be presented to little Miss Flite!' Ve-ry good. Proud I am sure to have the honour! And we all laugh. But, Fitz Jarndyce, I know what will happen. I know, far better than they do, when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them begin in Gridley. And I saw them end.

Fitz Jarndyce, I know what will happen. I know when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them


Fitz Jarndyce, my love," speaking low again, "I saw them beginning in our friend the ward in Jarndyce. Let some one hold him back. Or he'll be drawn to ruin."
She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradually softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had been too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said politely as she sipped her glass of wine, "Yes, my dear, as I was saying, I expect a judgment shortly. Then I shall release my birds, you know, and confer estates."
I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard and by the sad meaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that made its way through all her incoherence. But happily for her, she was quite complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles.

," speaking low, "I saw them beginning in our friend the ward in Jarndyce. Let some one hold him back. Or he'll be drawn to ruin."
She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradually softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had been too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said politely, "Yes, my dear, I expect a judgment shortly. Then I shall release my birds, you know, and confer estates."
Now she was quite complacent again and beamed with nods and smiles.


"But, my dear," she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it upon mine. "You have not congratulated me on my physician. Positively not once, yet!"
I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.
"My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly attentive to me. Though his services were rendered quite gratuitously. Until the Day of Judgment. I mean THE judgment that will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal."
"Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, "that I thought the time for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite."
"But, my child," she returned, "is it possible that you don't know what has happened?"

"But, my dear," she said, gaily, "you have not congratulated me on my physician!"
I said that I did not quite know what she meant.
"My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly attentive to me."
"Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, "that I thought the time for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite."
"But, my child," she returned, "is it possible that you don't know what has happened?"


"No," said I.
"Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Jarndyce!"
"No," said I. "You forget how long I have been here."
"True! My dear, for the moment--true. I blame myself. But my memory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I mentioned. Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian seas."

"No," said I.
"Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Jarndyce!"
"No," said I. "You forget how long I have been here."
"True! Well, my dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian seas."


"Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death in all shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and darkness. Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. There, and through it all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and brave through everything. Saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed them what to do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors safely off at last!

"Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death in all shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and darkness. Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. Through it all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and brave through everything. Saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, took the lead, showed them what to do, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors safely off at last!


My dear, the poor emaciated creatures all but worshipped him. They fell down at his feet when they got to the land and blessed him. The whole country rings with it. Stay! Where's my bag of documents? I have got it there, and you shall read it, you shall read it!"
And I DID read all the noble history, though very slowly and imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay down the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I felt so triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generous and gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, I so admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-worn people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their preserver. I could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed him in my rapture that he should be so truly good and brave. I felt that no one--mother, sister, wife--could honour him more than I. I did, indeed!

My dear, the creatures fell down at his feet when they got to land and blessed him. The whole country rings with it. Stay! Where's my bag of documents? I have got it there, and you shall read it!"
And I did read all the noble history, though very slowly and imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay down the cutting from the newspaper. I felt so triumphant to have known the man who had done such generous and gallant deeds, I so admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-worn people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him. I could myself have kneeled down then, and blessed him for being so truly good and brave. I felt that no one could honour him more than I.


My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when as the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was still full of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufficiently composed myself to understand in all its details.
"My dear," said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and gloves, "my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. And no doubt he will. You are of that opinion?"
That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.
"Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?" she asked rather sharply.
I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unless occasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some very large amount of money.

My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and rose to take her leave, lest she should miss her coach.
"My dear," said she, "my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. And no doubt he will. You are of that opinion?"
That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.
"Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?" she asked rather sharply.
I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unless occasionally when they consisted of making very large amounts of money.


"Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say that? Surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of England in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement of every sort are added to its nobility! Look round you, my dear, and consider. YOU must be rambling a little now, I think, if you don't know that this is the great reason why titles will always last in the land!"
I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments when she was very mad indeed.
And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved me and that if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he loved me before he went away. I had thought, sometimes, that if he had done so, I should have been glad of it. But how much better it was now that this had never happened! What should I have suffered if I had had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had known as mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released him from his bondage to one whom he had never seen!

"Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say that? The greatest men of England in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement of every sort are added to its nobility!"
I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments when she was very mad indeed.
And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved me and that if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he loved me before he went away. I had thought, sometimes, that if he had done so, I should have been glad of it.
But how much better it was now that this had never happened! What should I have suffered if I had had to write to him, and tell him that the poor face he had known was quite gone from me, and that I released him from his bondage!


Oh, it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully spared me, I could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be all he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to be undone: no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I could go, please God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he could go his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were apart upon the journey, I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, innocently, better far than he had thought me when I found some favour in his eyes, at the journey's end.

Oh, it was so much better as it was! There was nothing to be undone: no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I could go, please God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he could go his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were apart upon the journey, I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, innocently, at the journey's end.


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

The name of Mr. Vholes is inscribed upon a door-post in Symond's Inn, Chancery Lane - a little, pale, wall-eyed, woebegone building. Mr. Vholes's office is squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall. Three feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to Mr. Vholes's jet-black door.
Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so small a scale that one clerk can open the door without getting off his stool, while the other has equal facilities for poking the fire. An unwholesome smell of mutton is due to the nightly consumption of candles and to the keeping of parchment skins in greasy drawers. The two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose surface of soot everywhere, and the dull cracked windows are always dirty and always shut.


Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He has not a large business, but he is a very respectable man. He is allowed by the greater attorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a most respectable man. He never misses a chance in his practice, which is a mark of respectability. He never takes any pleasure, which is another mark of respectability. He is reserved and serious, which is another mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly respectable. And he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for his three daughters. And his father is dependent on him in the Vale of Taunton.

Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He never takes any pleasure, which is a mark of respectability. He is reserved and serious, which is another mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly respectable. And he has three daughters. And his father is dependent on him in the Vale of Taunton.


The one great principle of the English law is to make business for itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.

The one great principle of the English law is to make business for itself. There is no other principle so consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze most people think it. If they perceive that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their expense, surely they will cease to grumble.


But not perceiving this quite plainly--only seeing it by halves in a confused way--the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, with a bad grace, and DO grumble very much. Then this respectability of Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play against them. "Repeal this statute, my good sir?" says Mr. Kenge to a smarting client. "Repeal it, my dear sir? Never, with my consent. Alter this law, sir, and what will be the effect of your rash proceeding on a class of practitioners very worthily represented, allow me to say to you, by the opposite attorney in the case, Mr. Vholes? Sir, that class of practitioners would be swept from the face of the earth. Now you cannot afford--I will say, the social system cannot afford--to lose an order of men like Mr. Vholes. Diligent, persevering, steady, acute in business.

But not perceiving this quite plainly, most people do grumble. Then this respectability of Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play. "The social system cannot afford," Mr. Kenge will say, "to lose an order of men like Mr. Vholes. Diligent, persevering, steady, acute in business.


My dear sir, I understand your present feelings against the existing state of things, which I grant to be a little hard in your case; but I can never raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like Mr. Vholes." The respectability of Mr. Vholes has even been cited with crushing effect before Parliamentary committees, as in the following blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's evidence. "Question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine): If I understand you, these forms of practice indisputably occasion delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question: And great expense? Answer: Most assuredly they cannot be gone through for nothing. Question: And unspeakable vexation? Answer: I am not prepared to say that. They have never given ME any vexation; quite the contrary. Question: But you think that their abolition would damage a class of practitioners?

My dear sir, I understand your feelings; but I can never raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like Mr. Vholes."


Answer: I have no doubt of it. Question: Can you instance any type of that class? Answer: Yes. I would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Vholes. He would be ruined. Question: Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession, a respectable man? Answer:"--which proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years--"Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession, a MOST respectable man."


So in familiar conversation, private authorities no less disinterested will remark that they don't know what this age is coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here is something else gone, that these changes are death to people like Vholes--a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the Vale of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more in this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes's father? Is he to perish? And of Vholes's daughters? Are they to be shirt-makers, or governesses? As though, Mr. Vholes and his relations being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to abolish cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus: Make man-eating unlawful, and you starve the Vholeses!
In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters and his father in the Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber, to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a nuisance. And with a great many people in a great many instances, the question is never one of a change from wrong to right (which is quite an extraneous consideration), but is always one of injury or advantage to that eminently respectable legion, Vholes.

Some authorities will remark that they don't know what this age is coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that these changes are death to people like Vholes - a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the Vale of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more in this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes's father? Is he to perish? And what of Vholes's daughters? In a word, Mr. Vholes is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber, to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a nuisance.


The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the long vacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags hastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the official den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he were scalping himself, and sits down at his desk. The client throws his hat and gloves upon the ground--tosses them anywhere, without looking after them or caring where they go; flings himself into a chair, half sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and looks the portrait of young despair.
"Again nothing done!" says Richard. "Nothing, nothing done!"
"Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes. "That is scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!"

The Chancellor is "up" for the long vacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags hastily stuffed, have returned to the official den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved in his respectability, takes off his close black gloves as if he were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat and sits down at his desk. The client throws his hat and gloves anywhere, without caring where they go; flings himself into a chair, half sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and looks the portrait of young despair.
"Again nothing done!" says Richard.
"Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes. "That is scarcely fair, sir!"


"Why, what IS done?" says Richard, turning gloomily upon him.
"That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes, "The question may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?"
"And what is doing?" asks the moody client.
Vholes, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing the tips of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers, and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking at his client, replies, "A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round."
"Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four or five accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising from his chair and walking about the room.

"Why, what is done?" says Richard gloomily.
"That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes. "The question may be, what is doing?"
"And what is doing?" asks the moody client.
"A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round."
"How am I to get through the next four or five accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising from his chair and walking about the room.


"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, following him close with his eyes wherever he goes, "your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on your account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much, not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should have more patience. You should sustain yourself better."
"I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?" says Richard, sitting down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil's tattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet.
"Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he were making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his professional appetite. "Sir," returns Vholes with his inward manner of speech and his bloodless quietude, "I should not have had the presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or any man's. Let me but leave the good name to my three daughters, and that is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you mention me so pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like to impart to you a little of my--come, sir, you are disposed to call it insensibility, and I am sure I have no objection--say insensibility--a little of my insensibility."

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, following him with his eyes wherever he goes, "your spirits are hasty. Excuse me if I recommend you not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should have more patience."
"I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?" says Richard, sitting down again with an impatient laugh.
"Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he were making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his professional appetite, "Sir, I should not have the presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation. But I will acknowledge that I should like to impart to you a little of my - come, sir, you call it insensibility, and I have no objection - a little of my insensibility."


"Mr. Vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "I had no intention to accuse you of insensibility."
"I think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equable Vholes. "Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your interests with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your excited feelings I may appear, at such times as the present, insensible. My daughters may know me better; my aged father may know me better. But they have known me much longer than you have, and the confiding eye of affection is not the distrustful eye of business. Not that I complain, sir, of the eye of business being distrustful; quite the contrary. In attending to your interests, I wish to have all possible checks upon me; it is right that I should have them; I court inquiry. But your interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr. Carstone; and I cannot be otherwise--no, sir, not even to please you."

"Mr. Vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "I did not mean to accuse you of insensibility."
"I think you did, sir, very naturally," returns the equable Vholes. "It is my duty to attend to your interests with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your excited feelings I may appear insensible. My daughters may know me better; my aged father may know me better. But they have known me much longer than you have. Your interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr. Carstone."


Mr. Vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently watching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young client and proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as if there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor speak out, "What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the vacation. I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. If you had asked me what I was to do during the vacation, I could have answered you more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I am to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests. That is my duty, Mr. C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference to me. If you wish to consult me as to your interests, you will find me here at all times alike. Other professional men go out of town. I don't. Not that I blame them for going; I merely say I don't go.

Mr. Vholes fixes his charmed gaze again on his young client and proceeds in his half-audible voice, "What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the vacation? I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means of amusing yourselves. If you had asked me what I was to do during the vacation, I could have answered you readily. I am to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests. That is my duty, Mr. C. Other professional men go out of town. I don't."


This desk is your rock, sir!"
Mr. Vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. Not to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound to him. Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.
"I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard, more familiarly and good-humouredly, "that you are the most reliable fellow in the world and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man of business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in my case, dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse in myself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and you will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do."

"I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard, more good-humouredly, "that you are the most reliable fellow in the world. But put yourself in my case, dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually disappointed, with no change for the better, and you will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do."


"You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir. I told you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularly in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I gave hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when you say there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter of fact, deny that."
"Aye?" returns Richard, brightening. "But how do you make it out?"
"Mr. Carstone, you are represented by--"
"You said just now--a rock."

"You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir. I told you that from the first, Mr. C. Particularly in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of the estate, I never give hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when you say there is no change for the better, I must deny that."
"Aye?" returns Richard, brightening.


"Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust on dust, "a rock. That's something. You are separately represented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. THAT'S something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk it about. THAT'S something. It's not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as in name. THAT'S something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir. And THAT'S something, surely."

"Mr. Carstone, you are separately represented now, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. That's something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we walk it about. That's something. It's not all Jarndyce. That's something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir. And that's something, surely."


Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his clenched hand.
"Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John Jarndyce's house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he seemed--that he was what he has gradually turned out to be--I could have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I could not have defended him too ardently. So little did I know of the world! Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodiment of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is John Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him; that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new injury from John Jarndyce's hand."
"No, no," says Vholes. "Don't say so. We ought to have patience, all of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage."

Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his clenched hand.
"Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John Jarndyce's house that he was anything but a disinterested friend - I could have found no words strong enough to repel the slander. So little did I know of the world! Whereas now he has become to me the embodiment of the suit; the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him; every new delay and disappointment is only a new injury from John Jarndyce's hand."
"No, no," says Vholes. "Don't say so. We ought to have patience. Besides, I never disparage, sir."


"Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client. "You know as well as I that he would have strangled the suit if he could."
"He was not active in it," Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance of reluctance. "He certainly was not active in it. But however, but however, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the heart, Mr. C.!"
"You can," returns Richard.
"I, Mr. C.?"

"Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client. "You know as well as I that he would have strangled the suit if he could."
"He certainly was not active in it," Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance of reluctance. "However, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the heart, Mr. C.!"


"Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not our interests conflicting? Tell--me--that!" says Richard, accompanying his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.

"Are not our interests conflicting? Tell me that!" says Richard.


"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never winking his hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as your professional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to your interests, if I represented those interests as identical with the interests of Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I never impute motives; I both have and am a father, and I never impute motives. But I must not shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in families. I understand you to be now consulting me professionally as to your interests? You are so? I reply, then, they are not identical with those of Mr. Jarndyce."
"Of course they are not!" cries Richard. "You found that out long ago."

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, never winking his hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as your adviser, if I said your interests are identical with the interests of Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir."
"Of course they are not!" cries Richard. "You found that out long ago."


"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third party than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied, together with any little property of which I may become possessed through industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, and Caroline. I also desire to live in amity with my professional brethren. When Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir--I will not say the very high honour, for I never stoop to flattery--of bringing us together in this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer no opinion or advice as to your interests while those interests were entrusted to another member of the profession. And I spoke in such terms as I was bound to speak of Kenge and Carboy's office, which stands high. You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping nevertheless and to offer them to me. You brought them with clean hands, sir, and I accepted them with clean hands. Those interests are now paramount in this office. My digestive functions, as you may have heard me mention, are not in a good state, and rest might improve them; but I shall not rest, sir, while I am your representative. Whenever you want me, you will find me here.

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third party than is necessary. When Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir, of bringing us together, I mentioned to you that I could offer no advice while your interests were entrusted to another member of the profession. You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests from Kenge and Carboy's office and to offer them to me. Those interests are now paramount in this office.


Summon me anywhere, and I will come. During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying your interests more and more closely and to making arrangements for moving heaven and earth (including, of course, the Chancellor) after Michaelmas term; and when I ultimately congratulate you, sir," says Mr. Vholes with the severity of a determined man, "when I ultimately congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on your accession to fortune--which, but that I never give hopes, I might say something further about--you will owe me nothing beyond whatever little balance may be then outstanding of the costs as between solicitor and client not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. I pretend to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but for the zealous and active discharge--not the languid and routine discharge, sir: that much credit I stipulate for--of my professional duty. My duty prosperously ended, all between us is ended."
Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his principles, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment, perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty pounds on account.
"For there have been many little consultations and attendances of late, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary, "and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a man of capital. When we first entered on our present relations I stated to you openly--it is a principle of mine that there never can be too much openness between solicitor and client--that I was not a man of capital and that if capital was your object you had better leave your papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C., you will find none of the advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir. This," Vholes gives the desk one hollow blow again, "is your rock; it pretends to be nothing more."

During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying your interests closely; and when I ultimately congratulate you, sir, on your accession to fortune, you will owe me nothing beyond whatever little balance may be then outstanding of the costs as between solicitor and client not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. I pretend to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but for the zealous and active discharge of my professional duty."
Vholes finally adds that perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty pounds on account.
"For there have been many little consultations of late, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary, "and these things mount up."


The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, not without perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear, implying scant effects in the agent's hands. All the while, Vholes, buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. All the while, Vholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole.
Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes, for heaven's sake and earth's sake, to do his utmost to "pull him through" the Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who never gives hopes, lays his palm upon the client's shoulder and answers with a smile, "Always here, sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always find me here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel." Thus they part, and Vholes, left alone, employs himself in carrying sundry little matters out of his diary into his draft bill book for the ultimate behoof of his three daughters. So might an industrious fox or bear make up his account of chickens or stray travellers with an eye to his cubs, not to disparage by that word the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned-up maidens who dwell with the parent Vholes in an earthy cottage situated in a damp garden at Kennington.

The client, with his vague hopes rekindled, writes the draft, not without perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear. All the while, Vholes looks at him attentively.
Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes to do his utmost to "pull him through" the Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who never gives hopes, answers with a smile, "You will always find me here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel."
Thus they part.


Richard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into the sunshine of Chancery Lane--for there happens to be sunshine there to-day--walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln's Inn, and passes under the shadow of the Lincoln's Inn trees. On many such loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on the like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the lingering step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consuming and consumed, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, but that may come. Chancery, which knows no wisdom but in precedent, is very rich in such precedents; and why should one be different from ten thousand?
Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months together, though he hates it, Richard himself may feel his own case as if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy with corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room for some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit there, how different he, how different all the colours of his mind. But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and being defeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances to combat; from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand, the time for that being long gone by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved him from this ruin and make HIM his enemy. Richard has told Vholes the truth. Is he in a hardened or a softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally at that door; he was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and that purpose could only originate in the one subject that is resolving his existence into itself; besides, it is a justification to him in his own eyes to have an embodied antagonist and oppressor.
Is Richard a monster in all this, or would Chancery be found rich in such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the Recording Angel?

Richard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into the sunshine, walks thoughtfully on to Lincoln's Inn, and passes under the shadow of the trees there. On many such loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees fallen; on the bent head, the bitten nail, the lingering step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, but that may come.
As Richard saunters away, his heart is heavy with corroding care and doubt, yet he may feel some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit there, how different all the colours of his mind. But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows necessitates the setting up of substances to combat; from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved him from this ruin, and make him his enemy.


Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as, biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. He passes close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.
"William," says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, "there's combustion going on there! It's not a case of spontaneous, but it's smouldering combustion it is."

Two pairs of eyes look after him, as, biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed up by shadow. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle have been leaning in conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees.
"William," says Mr. Weevle, "there's combustion going on there! It's not spontaneous, but it's smouldering combustion, it is."


"Ah!" says Mr. Guppy. "He wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce, and I suppose he's over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him. He was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place. A good riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony, that as I was mentioning is what they're up to."
Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the parapet, as resuming a conversation of interest.
"They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still taking stock, still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of rubbish. At this rate they'll be at it these seven years."

"Ah!" says Mr. Guppy. "He wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce, and I suppose he's head over heels in debt. I never knew much of him. Well, Tony, that as I was mentioning is what they're up to."
Mr. Guppy resettles himself against the parapet, resuming a conversation of interest.
"They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still examining papers, still going over the heaps of Krook's rubbish. At this rate they'll be at it these seven years."


"And Small is helping?"
"Small left us at a week's notice. Told Kenge his grandfather's business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself and Small on account of his being so close. But he said you and I began it, and as he had me there--for we did--I put our acquaintance on the old footing. That's how I come to know what they're up to."
"You haven't looked in at all?"

"And Small is helping?"
"Small left us at a week's notice."
"You haven't looked in at all?"


"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unreserved with you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your company, and therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour by the clock! Tony"--Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly eloquent--"it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once more that circumstances over which I have no control have made a melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now in connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the court with your aid as a friend is to let 'em alone and bury 'em in oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the--spontaneous element, do you, Tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that they were not destroyed that night?"
Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly thinks not.

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "I don't greatly relish the house, except in your company, and therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour! Tony-" Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously eloquent - "circumstances over which I have no control have made a melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you. That image is shattered. My only wish now in connexion with those objects which I had an idea of carrying out with your aid is to let 'em alone and bury 'em in oblivion. Do you think it possible, Tony, that he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that they were not destroyed that night?"
Mr. Weevle reflects. Shakes his head.