"It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes," said I, "if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which you are engaged with him."
Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even that.
"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit that the young lady who has taken Mr. C.'s name upon herself in so ill-advised a manner--you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.'s connexions--is a highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mixing much with general society in any but a professional character; still I trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never did give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young lady is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests--"
"Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"

"It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better marriage," said I, "if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which you are engaged with him."
Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough - or rather gasp - into one of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute it.
"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit that the young lady is a highly genteel young lady, and is considered a beauty (I have heard) among the clerks in the Inn. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests-"
"Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"


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

"In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, that Mr. C. wished to watch his own interests, and that it devolved upon me to carry out his wish. I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. As open as I was to Mr. Jarndyce, I am to you. I openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.'s affairs in a very bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage.


Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I have to thank you very much, sir!"
He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he came into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr. Vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client's progress.
We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing Richard, anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took off his gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for I doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host's face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenly in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot use the expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youth and youthful beauty had all fallen away.

Thank you very much, sir!"
He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he came into the room. We sat down to dinner, and I observed Richard anxiously. I thought him thin and languid, slovenly in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits up now and then, and at other times relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot say that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youthful beauty had all fallen away.


He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself to be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me from the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.
Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his office.
"Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.

He ate little and seemed indifferent to his food, was more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all gone, but it shone out of him sometimes, just as occasionally little momentary glimpses of my own face looked out from the mirror. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like the echo of a joyful sound.
Yet he was as glad as ever to have me there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and said he would retire to his office.
"Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.


"Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying myself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C."
Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes was a good fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.
Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I put things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lamp being first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting his eyes.

"Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be neglected, sir."
Richard saw him out. On his return he told us that Vholes was a good fellow, a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.
Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I tidied up. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lamp being first removed, as he complained of its hurting his eyes.


I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time, rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when Mr. Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night; and Richard readily consenting, they went out together.
They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm round her waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that side), but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without striking any note.
"Esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, "Richard is never so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."

I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time when Mr. Woodcourt came in. He sat down by Richard and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in a short walk, as it was a moonlight airy night; and they went out together.
They left my dear girl sitting at the piano with me beside her. I drew my arm round her waist. She put her left hand in mine, but kept her right upon the keys, without striking any note.
"Esther, my dearest," she said, "Richard is never so well as when he is with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."


I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr. Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house and had known us all there, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard had always liked him, and--and so forth.
"All true," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we owe to you."
I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no more about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I felt her trembling.
"Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife indeed. You shall teach me."
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak, that it was she who had something to say to me.

I pointed out how this could scarcely be, because Mr. Woodcourt had always liked Richard, and Richard had always liked him.
"True," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we owe to you."
I thought it best to say no more about it. I felt her trembling.
"Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife. You shall teach me."
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering over the keys, and I knew she had something more to say to me.


"When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther."
"I know, I know, my darling."
"When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake--as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!"
In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--a firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying away with them--I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.
"You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely know Richard better than my love does."

"When I married Richard I was aware of what was before him. I had never known any trouble or anxiety, but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther."
"I know, my darling."
"When we were married I hoped that I might be able to convince him of his mistake, that he might not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake. But if I had not had that hope, I would have married him just the same! My dearest Esther, I see what you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely know Richard better than my love does."


She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear, dear girl!
"I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me."

She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear, dear girl!
"I see him at his worst every day. I know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I grieved for what he did and so make him more unhappy. I want him to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me."


I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I now thought I began to know what it was.
"And something else supports me, Esther."
She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in motion.
"I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him back."
Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her in mine.

I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I now thought I began to know what it was.
"And something else supports me, Esther."
She stopped a minute.
"In a little while, I don't know what great aid may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him back."
Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her in mine.


"If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, 'I thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored through me!'"
Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against me!
"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will. Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I look at Richard."
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child."

"I look forward through years and years, Esther, and think that a beautiful daughter may be a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head!"
Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against me!
"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther - though sometimes even they depart before a dread that arises when I look at Richard."
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child."


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

From the spreading oaks of the Dedlock property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and dust of London. His manner of coming and going between the two places is a mystery. He walks into Chesney Wold as if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers as if he had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neither changes his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards. He melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he melts into his own square.
Like a dingy London bird, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without experience of genial youth, comes sauntering home. In the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he is dryer than usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his mellowed port-wine half a century old.
The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr. Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields when the lawyer ascends his door-steps. Gliding into the dusky hall he encounters a bowing and propitiatory little man.
"Is that Snagsby?"


"Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up, sir, and going home."
"Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?"
"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head in his deference towards his best customer, "I was wishful to say a word to you, sir."
"Can you say it here?"
"Perfectly, sir."

"Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was wishful to say a word to you, sir."


"Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the court-yard.
"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "it is relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner, sir!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "What foreigner?"
"The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am not acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly foreign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night."

"Say it then."
"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "to the foreigner, sir!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "What foreigner?"
"The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the honour of meeting you with the sweeping-boy that night."


"Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense."
"Indeed, sir?" Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that." Mr. Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.
"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulkinghorn, "about her?"

"Oh! Yes. Mademoiselle Hortense. And what about her, Snagsby?"


"Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication with his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is very great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure--but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strong expression if I could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court--you know it is--now ain't it? I only put it to yourself, sir."
Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.
"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Well, sir," returns the stationer, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is very great, but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. And you see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and hovering, sir - in the court - you know it is - now ain't it? I only put it to you, sir."
Mr. Snagsby says this in a very plaintive manner.
"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel it yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see, the foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, with quite a native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby that night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direction and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner's looks--which are fierce--and at a grinding manner that she has of speaking--which is calculated to alarm a weak mind--gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such fits as I do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours. Consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. When she DID say that Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his employer (which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at my place until she was let in here. Since then she has been, as I began by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--Mr. Snagsby repeats the word with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. The effects of which movement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn't wonder if it might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even in the neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was possible) my little woman. Whereas, goodness knows," says Mr. Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreign female, except as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms and a baby, or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings. I never had, I do assure you, sir!"

"You see, sir, the foreign female caught up the word Snagsby that night, and made inquiry, and got the address and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner's looks - which are fierce - tumbled down the kitchen stairs. Consequently there was luckily ample occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. When the foreigner said that because she was always refused admission to see Mr. Tulkinghorn, she would call continually until she was let in here. Since then she has been, as I said, hovering, sir" - Mr. Snagsby repeats the word with pathetic emphasis - "in the court. I shouldn't wonder if it might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes in the neighbours' minds, not to mention my little woman, sir!"


Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires when the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?"
"Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a cough that plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me."
"I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unless she is mad," says the lawyer.
"Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it wouldn't be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a foreign dagger planted in the family."
"No," says the other. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. I am sorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send her here."

Mr. Tulkinghorn has listened gravely. "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?"
"Why yes, sir," says Mr. Snagsby.
"I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unless she is mad," says the lawyer. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. If she comes again, send her here."


Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takes his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying to himself, "These women were created to give trouble the whole earth over. The mistress not being enough to deal with, here's the maid now! But I will be short with THIS jade at least!"
So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to see much of the Allegory overhead there, but that importunate Roman, who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention, Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. He is going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knock comes.

Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing, takes his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying to himself, "These women were created to give trouble the whole earth over. The mistress not being enough to deal with, here's the maid now! But I will be short with this jade at least!"
So saying, Mr. Tulkinghorn unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky rooms and lights his candles. Then he takes up his cellar-key, with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. He is going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knock comes.


"Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at a good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you want?"
He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall and taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with her lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly closes the door before replying.
"I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir."
"HAVE you!"

"Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? I have just been hearing about you. Now! What do you want?"
He addresses these words to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage softly closes the door before replying.
"I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir.


"I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me, he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for you."
"Quite right, and quite true."
"Not true. Lies!"
At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's case at present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and shaking her head.
"Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the chimney-piece. "If you have anything to say, say it, say it."

It has always been said to me, he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for you."
"Quite right, and quite true."
"Not true. Lies!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn involuntarily starts and falls back, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes almost shut, is only smiling contemptuously and shaking her head.
"Now, mistress," says the lawyer, "If you have anything to say, say it."


"Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby."
"Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with the key.


"Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have attrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have asked me to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night, you have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it not?" Mademoiselle Hortense makes another spring.
"You are a vixen, a vixen!" Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as he looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "Well, wench, well. I paid you."

You have attrapped me - catched me - to give you information; you have asked me to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night, you have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it not?"
"You are a vixen!" Mr. Tulkinghorn looks distrustfully at her. "I paid you."


"You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! I have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them from me!" Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom as she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor that they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into corners and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.
"Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again. "You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains herself with a sarcastic laugh.

"You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! I refuse them, I despise them, I throw them from me!" Which she does, flinging them with such violence on the floor that they spin vehemently before rolling away into corners.
Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head.


"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to throw money about in that way!"
"I AM rich," she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate my Lady, of all my heart. You know that."
"Know it? How should I know it?"
"Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was en-r-r-r-raged!" It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll the letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and setting all her teeth.

"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to throw money about in that way!"
"I am rich," she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate my Lady, of all my heart. You know that."
"Know it? How should I know it?"
"Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was en-r-r-r-raged!"


"Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wards of the key.
"Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me because you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her." Mademoiselle Hortense folds her arms and throws this last remark at him over one of her shoulders.
"Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?"

"Have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?"


"I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well, and with a good will. It is what YOU do. Do I not know that?"
"You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.

"I am not yet placed in a situation. Find me a good one! If you cannot, then employ me to pursue her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well, with a good will. It is what you do. Do I not know that?"
"You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.


"Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, that I come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy only to decide a little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!" In this reply, down to the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly shut and staringly wide open.
"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands."
"Ah! Let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight nods of her head.
"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again."

"I am not so weak as to believe, like a child, that I come here in that dress only to decide a little bet, a wager!" Mademoiselle says this with bitterest and most defiant scorn.
"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the cellar-key, "how this matter stands. You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, and if it is not conceded, you will come again."


"And again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. "And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!"
"And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Snagsby's too, perhaps? That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?"

"And again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. "And yet again. And yet again!"
"And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Snagsby's too, perhaps?"


"And again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination. "And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!"
"Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder."
She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground with folded arms.
"You will not, eh?"

"And again," repeats mademoiselle. "And yet again. And yet again. In effect, for ever!"
"Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to pick up that money of yours."
She merely laughs and stands her ground with folded arms.
"You will not, eh?"


"No, I will not!"
"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction (where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you think?"
"I think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear, obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."
"Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. "But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of the prison."

"No, I will not!"
"So much the poorer you! Look, mistress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of prisons are larger, and their gates are very strong and heavy. I am afraid you would find it an inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon you for any length of time. What do you think?"
"I think," mademoiselle replies in a clear voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."
"Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, "But I ask what you think of prison."


"Nothing. What does it matter to me?"
"Why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; "the law is so despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits against his desire. And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress." Illustrating with the cellar-key.
"Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That is droll! But--my faith!--still what does it matter to me?"

"Nothing. What does it matter to me?"
"Why, mistress, the law in England interferes to prevent any of our good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits. And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison. Turns the key upon her, mistress." Illustrating with the cellar-key.
"Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That is droll! But still, what does it matter to me?"


"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn."
"In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her do it.
"In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or there--again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench."
"I will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand, "I will try if you dare to do it!"
"And if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "I place you in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time before you find yourself at liberty again."
"I will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.

"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, and you shall learn. If you ever present yourself uninvited here again, I will hand you over to the police. They carry troublesome people through the streets strapped down on a board, my good wench."
"I will test you," whispers mademoiselle. "I will see if you dare to do it!"


"And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had better go. Think twice before you come here again."
"Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!"
"You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and what I threaten, I will do, mistress."
She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she is gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents, now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.

"And now," proceeds the lawyer, without minding her, "you had better go. Think twice before you come here again. You were dismissed by your lady, you know, as the most unmanageable of women. Turn over a new leaf and take warning. For what I say, I mean; and what I threaten, I will do."
She goes out and down the stairs without answering.
When she is gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle, sits back in his chair, and devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents.


As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which I have given an account, Richard communicated the state of his mind to Mr. Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprise when he received the representation, though it caused him much uneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were often closeted together, late at night and early in the morning, and passed whole days in London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge, and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While they were thus employed, my guardian, though he underwent considerable inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbed his head so constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested in its right place, was as genial with Ada and me as at any other time, but maintained a steady reserve on these matters. And as our utmost endeavours could only elicit from Richard himself sweeping assurances that everything was going on capitally and that it really was all right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him.
We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application was made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf as an infant and a ward, and I don't know what, and that there was a quantity of talking, and that the Lord Chancellor described him in open court as a vexatious and capricious infant, and that the matter was adjourned and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about until Richard began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or eighty years of age. At last an appointment was made for him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his private room, and there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him for trifling with time and not knowing his mind--"a pretty good joke, I think," said Richard, "from that quarter!"--and at last it was settled that his application should be granted. His name was entered at the Horse Guards as an applicant for an ensign's commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an agent's; and Richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a violent course of military study and got up at five o'clock every morning to practise the broadsword exercise.

As soon as Richard and I had talked together, Richard communicated the state of his mind to Mr. Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were taken by surprise, though the news made him uneasy and disappointed. He and Richard were often closeted together, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge, and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While they were thus employed, my guardian, though he suffered from the state of the wind and rubbed his head constantly, was as genial with Ada and me as at any other time, but did not speak. And since Richard would only say that everything was going on capitally and that it really was all right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him.
We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application was made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf as a ward, and that there was a quantity of talking, and that the Lord Chancellor described him in open court as a vexatious and capricious infant. The matter was adjourned and referred until Richard began to doubt whether he would enter the army before the age of seventy. At last an appointment was made for him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his private room, and there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him for trifling with time and not knowing his mind; but it was settled that his application should be granted.
His name was entered at the Horse Guards as an applicant for an ensign's commission; the purchase-money was paid; and Richard, in his characteristic way, plunged into a violent course of military study and got up at five o'clock every morning to practise the broadsword exercise.


Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. We sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce as being in the paper or out of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to be spoken to; and it came on, and it went off. Richard, who was now in a professor's house in London, was able to be with us less frequently than before; my guardian still maintained the same reserve; and so time passed until the commission was obtained and Richard received directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.
He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had a long conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed before my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were sitting and said, "Come in, my dears!" We went in and found Richard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece looking mortified and angry.
"Rick and I, Ada," said Mr. Jarndyce, "are not quite of one mind. Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!"

Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. We sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce; the case came on, and it went off. Richard, who was now in an instructor's house in London, was able to be with us less frequently than before; and so time passed until the commission was obtained and Richard received directions to join a regiment in Ireland.
He arrived with the news one evening, and had a long conference with my guardian. After an hour my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were sitting and said, "Come in, my dears!" We went in and found Richard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece looking mortified and angry.
"Rick and I," said Mr. Jarndyce, "are not quite of one mind. Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!"


"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "The harder because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects and have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never could have been set right without you, sir."
"Well, well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "I want to set you more right yet. I want to set you more right with yourself."
"I hope you will excuse my saying, sir," returned Richard in a fiery way, but yet respectfully, "that I think I am the best judge about myself."
"I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick," observed Mr. Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, "that it's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. I must do my duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and I hope you will always care for me, cool and hot."

"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "The harder, because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects. I never could have been set right without you, sir."
"Well, well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "I want to set you more right yet. I want to set you right with yourself."
"I hope you will excuse my saying, sir," returned Richard, "that I think I am the best judge about myself."
"I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick," observed Mr. Jarndyce with good humour, "that it's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. I must do my duty, Rick."


Ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down in his reading-chair and sat beside her.
"It's nothing, my dear," he said, "it's nothing. Rick and I have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming."
"I am not indeed, cousin John," replied Ada with a smile, "if it is to come from you."
"Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute's calm attention, without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My dear girl," putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of the easy-chair, "you recollect the talk we had, we four when the little woman told me of a little love affair?"
"It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your kindness that day, cousin John."

Ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down beside him.
"It's nothing, my dear," he said, "Rick and I have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming."
"I am not, cousin John," replied Ada with a smile, "if it is to come from you."
"Thank you, my dear." Putting his hand on hers, he said, "Do you recollect the talk we had, we four, when the little woman told me of a little love affair?"
"It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your kindness that day, cousin John."


"I can never forget it," said Richard.
"And I can never forget it," said Ada.
"So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the easier for us to agree," returned my guardian, his face irradiated by the gentleness and honour of his heart. "Ada, my bird, you should know that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. All that he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. He has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforward to the tree he has planted."
"Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir," said Richard, "is not all I have."

"So much the easier for us to agree," returned my guardian gently. "Ada, my bird, you should know that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. He has exhausted his money and is bound henceforward to the tree he has planted."
"Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, sir," said Richard, "but that is not all I have."


"Rick, Rick!" cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he would have stopped his ears. "For the love of God, don't found a hope or expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to beg, better to die!"
We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit his lip and held his breath, and glanced at me as if he felt, and knew that I felt too, how much he needed it.

"Rick, Rick!" cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner. "For the love of God, don't found a hope on the family curse! Never give one glance towards the horrible phantom that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, beg, or die!"
We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit his lip and held his breath.


"Ada, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness, "these are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House and have seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had to start him in the race of life is ventured. I recommend to him and you, for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. I must go further. I will be plain with you both. You were to confide freely in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship."
"Better to say at once, sir," returned Richard, "that you renounce all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same."
"Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don't mean it."

"Ada, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness, "these are strong words of advice, but enough of that. All Richard had to start him in the race of life is ventured. I recommend, for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the understanding that there is no contract between you. I must go further. I ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship as cousins."
"Better to say at once, sir," returned Richard, "that you renounce all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same."
"Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don't mean it."


"You think I have begun ill, sir," retorted Richard. "I HAVE, I know."
"How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when we spoke of these things last," said Mr. Jarndyce in a cordial and encouraging manner. "You have not made that beginning yet, but there is a time for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather, it is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young, my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. What more may come must come of being worked out, Rick, and no sooner."
"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "Harder than I could have supposed you would be."

"You think I have begun ill, sir," retorted Richard. "I have, I know."
"You have not made that beginning yet, but there is a time for all things," said Mr. Jarndyce in an encouraging manner, "and yours is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young, my dears) are cousins; as yet, nothing more. What more may come must come of being worked out, Rick."
"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard.


"My dear boy," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am harder with myself when I do anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your own hands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that there should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is better for her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you will do what is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves."
"Why is it best, sir?" returned Richard hastily. "It was not when we opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then."

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


"I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick, but I have had experience since."
"You mean of me, sir."
"Well! Yes, of both of you," said Mr. Jarndyce kindly. "The time is not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not right, and I must not recognize it. Come, come, my young cousins, begin afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to write your lives in."
Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada but said nothing.

"I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick, but I have had experience since."
"You mean of me, sir."
"Well! Yes, of both of you," said Mr. Jarndyce kindly. "The time is not come for your being pledged to one another. Come, come, my young cousins, begin afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to write your lives in."
Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada but said nothing.


"I have avoided saying one word to either of you or to Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, "until now, in order that we might be open as the day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I now most earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here. Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you together."
A long silence succeeded.

"I now affectionately advise you two to part as you came here," said Mr. Jarndyce. "Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you together."
A long silence succeeded.


"Cousin Richard," said Ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to his face, "after what our cousin John has said, I think no choice is left us. Your mind may be quite at ease about me, for you will leave me here under his care and will be sure that I can have nothing to wish for--quite sure if I guide myself by his advice. I--I don't doubt, cousin Richard," said Ada, a little confused, "that you are very fond of me, and I--I don't think you will fall in love with anybody else. But I should like you to consider well about it too, as I should like you to be in all things very happy. You may trust in me, cousin Richard. I am not at all changeable; but I am not unreasonable, and should never blame you. Even cousins may be sorry to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry, Richard, though I know it's for your welfare. I shall always think of you affectionately, and often talk of you with Esther, and--and perhaps you will sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard. So now," said Ada, going up to him and giving him her trembling hand, "we are only cousins again, Richard--for the time perhaps--and I pray for a blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!"

"Cousin Richard," said Ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to his face, "I think no choice is left us. Your mind may be quite at ease about me, for you will leave me here under his care and will be sure that I can have nothing to wish for. I - I don't doubt, cousin Richard," said she, a little confused, "that you are very fond of me, and I - I don't think you will fall in love with anybody else. But I should like you to consider well about it, as I should like you to be happy. You may trust me, cousin Richard. I am not at all changeable; but I should never blame you. Even cousins may be sorry to part; and in truth I am very sorry, Richard, though I know it's for your welfare. I shall always think of you affectionately, and often talk of you with Esther, and - and perhaps you will sometimes think of me, cousin Richard. So now," said Ada, giving him her trembling hand, "we are only cousins again, Richard - for the time perhaps - and I pray for a blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!"


It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive my guardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. But it was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that from this hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been before. He had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; and solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them.
In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself, and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in Hertfordshire while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to London for a week. He remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of tears, and at such times would confide to me the heaviest self-reproaches. But in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible.
It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long, buying a variety of things of which he stood in need. Of the things he would have bought if he had been left to his own ways I say nothing. He was perfectly confidential with me, and often talked so sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutions, and dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derived from these conversations that I could never have been tired if I had tried.

It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive my guardian for holding the very same opinion of him which he himself had expressed. But it was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that from this hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been before. Solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them.
He, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went to London for a week. In the business of preparation he soon lost himself, and lost even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in Hertfordshire. He remembered her by fits and starts, with bursts of tears and self-reproaches. But in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible.
I trotted about with him all day long, buying things which he needed. Of the things he would have bought if he had been left to himself, I say nothing. He often talked sensibly and feelingly to me about his faults and resolutions, and seemed encouraged by our conversations.


There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our lodging to fence with Richard a person who had formerly been a cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bearing, with whom Richard had practised for some months. I heard so much about him, not only from Richard, but from my guardian too, that I was purposely in the room with my work one morning after breakfast when he came.
"Good morning, Mr. George," said my guardian, who happened to be alone with me. "Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile, Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down."
He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought, and without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across and across his upper lip.
"You are as punctual as the sun," said Mr. Jarndyce.

In that week, there used to come to fence with Richard a former cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bearing, with whom Richard had practised for some months. I heard so much about him, that I was purposely in the room with my work one morning when he came.
"Good morning, Mr. George," said my guardian. "Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile, Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down."
He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought.
"You are as punctual as the sun," said Mr. Jarndyce.


"Military time, sir," he replied. "Force of habit. A mere habit in me, sir. I am not at all business-like."
"Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?" said Mr. Jarndyce.
"Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a one."
"And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of Mr. Carstone?" said my guardian.

"Military time, sir," he replied. "Force of habit, sir. I am not at all business-like."
"Yet you have a large establishment, I am told?" said Mr. Jarndyce.
"I keep a shooting gallery, sir, but not much of a one."
"And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of Mr. Carstone?" said my guardian.


"Pretty good, sir," he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest and looking very large. "If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good."
"But he don't, I suppose?" said my guardian.
"He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it--some young lady, perhaps." His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.
"He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George," said I, laughing, "though you seem to suspect me."

"Pretty good, sir," he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest and looking very large. "If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good."
"But he don't, I suppose?" said my guardian.
"He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it - some young lady, perhaps." His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.
"He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George," said I, laughing.


He reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper's bow. "No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs."
"Not at all," said I. "I take it as a compliment."
If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now in three or four quick successive glances. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said to my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, "but you did me the honour to mention the young lady's name--"
"Miss Summerson."
"Miss Summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again.

He reddened a little and made me a trooper's bow. "No offence, I hope, miss."
"Not at all," said I. "I take it as a compliment."
He looked at me now in three or four quick successive glances. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said to my guardian with a manly diffidence, "but you did me the honour to mention the young lady's name-"
"Miss Summerson."
"Miss Summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again.


"Do you know the name?" I asked.
"No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen you somewhere."
"I think not," I returned, raising my head from my work to look at him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner that I was glad of the opportunity. "I remember faces very well."

"Do you know the name?" I asked.
"No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen you somewhere."
"I think not," I returned, raising my head from my work to look at him; there was something so genuine in his speech and manner that I was glad of the opportunity. "I remember faces very well."


"So do I, miss!" he returned, meeting my look with the fullness of his dark eyes and broad forehead. "Humph! What set me off, now, upon that!"
His once more reddening through his brown and being disconcerted by his efforts to remember the association brought my guardian to his relief.
"Have you many pupils, Mr. George?"
"They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they're but a small lot to live by."
"And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?"

"So do I, miss!" he returned, meeting my look. "Humph! What set me off, now, upon that!"
My guardian came to his rescue. "Have you many pupils, Mr. George?"
"They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they're a small lot to live by."
"And what type of people come to practise at your gallery?"


"All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to 'prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of course, but THEY go everywhere where the doors stand open."
"People don't come with grudges and schemes of finishing their practice with live targets, I hope?" said my guardian, smiling.

"All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to apprentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of course, but they go everywhere where the doors stand open."
"People don't come with grudges and schemes of finding live targets, I hope?" said my guardian, smiling.


"Not much of that, sir, though that HAS happened. Mostly they come for skill--or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. I beg your pardon," said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright and squaring an elbow on each knee, "but I believe you're a Chancery suitor, if I have heard correct?"
"I am sorry to say I am."
"I have had one of YOUR compatriots in my time, sir."
"A Chancery suitor?" returned my guardian. "How was that?"

"Not much, sir, though that has happened. Mostly they come for skill - or idleness. I beg your pardon," said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright, "but I believe you're a Chancery suitor, if I have heard correct?"
"I am sorry to say I am."
"I have had one of your compatriots in my time, sir."
"A Chancery suitor? How was that?"


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

"Why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured," said Mr. George, "that he got out of sorts. I don't believe he had any idea of taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of resentment and violence that he would come and pay for fifty shots and fire away till he was red hot. One day I said to him when there was nobody by, 'If this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good; but I'd rather you took to something else.' He received it in very good part and left off directly. We shook hands and struck up a sort of friendship."
"What was that man?" asked my guardian with interest.
"Why, he began as a small Shropshire farmer before they made a baited bull of him," said Mr. George.
"Was his name Gridley?"
"It was, sir."


Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances at me as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at the coincidence, and I therefore explained to him how we knew the name. He made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of what he called my condescension.
"I don't know," he said as he looked at me, "what it is that sets me off again--but--bosh! What's my head running against!" He passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to sweep the broken thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward, with one arm akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in a brown study at the ground.
"I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this Gridley into new troubles and that he is in hiding," said my guardian.
"So I am told, sir," returned Mr. George, still musing and looking on the ground. "So I am told."
"You don't know where?"

I explained to him how we knew the name. He made me another soldierly bow.
"I don't know," he said as he looked at me, "what it is that sets me off again - but - bosh!" He passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to sweep the broken thoughts out of his mind.
"I am sorry to learn that this Gridley has got into new troubles and is in hiding," said my guardian.
"So I am told, sir," returned Mr. George.
"You don't know where?"


"No, sir," returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming out of his reverie. "I can't say anything about him. He will be worn out soon, I expect. You may file a strong man's heart away for a good many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last."
Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rose, made me another of his soldierly bows, wished my guardian a good day, and strode heavily out of the room.

"No, sir. He will be worn out soon, I expect."
Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rose, made me another bow, and strode heavily out of the room.


This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard's departure. We had no more purchases to make now; I had completed all his packing early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until night, when he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being again expected to come on that day, Richard proposed to me that we should go down to the court and hear what passed. As it was his last day, and he was eager to go, and I had never been there, I gave my consent and we walked down to Westminster, where the court was then sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the letters that Richard was to write to me and the letters that I was to write to him and with a great many hopeful projects. My guardian knew where we were going and therefore was not with us.
When we came to the court, there was the Lord Chancellor--the same whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's Inn--sitting in great state and gravity on the bench, with the mace and seals on a red table below him and an immense flat nosegay, like a little garden, which scented the whole court. Below the table, again, was a long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting at their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and gowns--some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody paying much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm and his forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present dozed; some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered in groups: all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very unconcerned, and extremely comfortable.

This was the day appointed for Richard's departure. I had completed all his packing; and our time was free until night, when he was to go to Liverpool and on to Holyhead. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being again expected to come on that day, Richard proposed to me that we should go down to the court and hear what passed.
As it was his last day, and he was eager to go, and I had never been there, I agreed. As we walked down to Westminster, we talked about the letters that Richard was to write to me and that I was to write to him. My guardian knew where we were going, and therefore was not with us.
When we came to the court, there was the Lord Chancellor sitting in great state on the bench, with the mace and seals on a red table below him. Below the table was a long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers at their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and gowns - some awake and some asleep. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in his easy chair; some of those who were present dozed; some read the newspapers; all seemed perfectly at their ease, in no hurry, very unconcerned and comfortable.


To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that full dress and ceremony and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it represented; to consider that while the sickness of hope deferred was raging in so many hearts this polite show went calmly on from day to day, and year to year, in such good order and composure; to behold the Lord Chancellor and the whole array of practitioners under him looking at one another and at the spectators as if nobody had ever heard that all over England the name in which they were assembled was a bitter jest, was held in universal horror, contempt, and indignation, was known for something so flagrant and bad that little short of a miracle could bring any good out of it to any one--this was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience of it, that it was at first incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I sat where Richard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me; but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor little Miss Flite, the madwoman, standing on a bench and nodding at it.
Miss Flite soon espied us and came to where we sat. She gave me a gracious welcome to her domain and indicated, with much gratification and pride, its principal attractions. Mr. Kenge also came to speak to us and did the honours of the place in much the same way, with the bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not a very good day for a visit, he said; he would have preferred the first day of term; but it was imposing, it was imposing.
When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress--if I may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion--seemed to die out of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by anybody expected to come, to any result. The Lord Chancellor then threw down a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him, and somebody said, "Jarndyce and Jarndyce." Upon this there was a buzz, and a laugh, and a general withdrawal of the bystanders, and a bringing in of great heaps, and piles, and bags and bags full of papers.

To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that ceremony and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it represented; to consider that while the sickness of deferred hope was raging in so many hearts, this polite show went calmly on from day to day, and year to year; to behold the Lord Chancellor and the whole array of practitioners as if nobody had ever heard that all over England the name of Chancery was a bitter jest, held in universal horror and contempt - this was so curious to me that I could not comprehend it. I sat and tried to listen, and looked about me; but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor little Miss Flite, standing on a bench.
Miss Flite soon saw us and came over. She gave me a gracious welcome to her domain. Mr. Kenge also came to speak to us: it was not a very good day for a visit, he said; but it was imposing, it was imposing.
When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress seemed to die out without coming to any result. The Lord Chancellor threw down a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him, and somebody said, "Jarndyce and Jarndyce." Upon this there was a buzz, and a laugh, and a bringing in of great heaps and bags and bags full of papers.


I think it came on "for further directions"--about some bill of costs, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough. But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were "in it," and none of them appeared to understand it much better than I. They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contradicted and explained among themselves, and some of them said it was this way, and some of them said it was that way, and some of them jocosely proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there was more buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a state of idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody. After an hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being begun and cut short, it was "referred back for the present," as Mr. Kenge said, and the papers were bundled up again before the clerks had finished bringing them in.
I glanced at Richard on the termination of these hopeless proceedings and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome young face. "It can't last for ever, Dame Durden. Better luck next time!" was all he said.
I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers and arranging them for Mr. Kenge; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, which rendered me desirous to get out of the court. Richard had given me his arm and was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.

I think it came on "for further directions" - about some bill of costs, which I found confusing enough. But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were "in it," and none of them appeared to understand it much better than I. Some of them said it was this way, and some of them said it was that way, and some of them proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there was more buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a state of idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody. After an hour or so of this, it was "referred back for the present," as Mr. Kenge said, and the papers were bundled up again.
I glanced at Richard and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome young face.
"It can't last for ever, Dame Durden. Better luck next time!" was all he said.
I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers for Mr. Kenge; and he had seen me and bowed forlornly, which made me wish to get out of the court. Richard was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.


"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone," said he in a whisper, "and Miss Summerson's also, but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, who knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands." As he spoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shape from my remembrance, Mrs. Rachael of my godmother's house.
"How do you do, Esther?" said she. "Do you recollect me?"
I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little altered.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone," said he in a whisper, "and Miss Summerson's, but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, who knows her." As he spoke, I saw before me Mrs. Rachael of my godmother's house.
"How do you do, Esther?" said she. "Do you recollect me?"
I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little altered.


"I wonder you remember those times, Esther," she returned with her old asperity. "They are changed now. Well! I am glad to see you, and glad you are not too proud to know me." But indeed she seemed disappointed that I was not.
"Proud, Mrs. Rachael!" I remonstrated.
"I am married, Esther," she returned, coldly correcting me, "and am Mrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you'll do well."


Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved a sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael's way through the confused little crowd of people coming in and going out, which we were in the midst of and which the change in the business had brought together. Richard and I were making our way through it, and I was yet in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition when I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person than Mr. George. He made nothing of the people about him as he tramped on, staring over their heads into the body of the court.
"George!" said Richard as I called his attention to him.
"You are well met, sir," he returned. "And you, miss. Could you point a person out for me, I want? I don't understand these places."
Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped when we were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.

Mr. Guppy heaved a sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael's way through the confused crowd. Richard and I were making our way through it, and I was still in the first chill of the unexpected recognition when I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, Mr. George.
"George!" said Richard.
"You are well met, sir," he returned. "And you, miss. Could you point a person out for me? I don't understand these places.


"There's a little cracked old woman," he began, "that--"
I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me, having kept beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my confusion) by whispering in their ears, "Hush! Fitz Jarndyce on my left!"
"Hem!" said Mr. George. "You remember, miss, that we passed some conversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley," in a low whisper behind his hand.
"Yes," said I.

There's a little cracked old woman, that-"
I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by.
"Hem!" said Mr. George. "You remember, miss, that we spoke of a certain man this morning? Gridley," in a low whisper behind his hand.
"Yes," said I.


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

"He is hiding at my place. I couldn't mention it. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her. He says she has been almost as good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for her."
"Shall I tell her?" said I.


"Would you be so good?" he returned with a glance of something like apprehension at Miss Flite. "It's a providence I met you, miss; I doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady." And he put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as I informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind errand.
"My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself!" she exclaimed. "Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him with the greatest pleasure."

"Would you be so good? It's a providence I met you, miss; I doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady." He stood upright in a martial attitude as I informed little Miss Flite of the reason for his kind errand.
"My angry friend from Shropshire!" she exclaimed. "My dear, I will visit him with the greatest pleasure."


"He is living concealed at Mr. George's," said I. "Hush! This is Mr. George."
"In--deed!" returned Miss Flite. "Very proud to have the honour! A military man, my dear. You know, a perfect general!" she whispered to me.

"He is living concealed at Mr. George's," said I. "Hush! This is Mr. George."
"In-deed!" returned Miss Flite. "Very proud to have the honour! A military man, my dear. A perfect general!" she whispered to me.


Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, as a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When this was at last done, and addressing Mr. George as "General," she gave him her arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who were looking on, he was so discomposed and begged me so respectfully "not to desert him" that I could not make up my mind to do it, especially as Miss Flite was always tractable with me and as she too said, "Fitz Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of course." As Richard seemed quite willing, and even anxious, that we should see them safely to their destination, we agreed to do so. And as Mr. George informed us that Gridley's mind had run on Mr. Jarndyce all the afternoon after hearing of their interview in the morning, I wrote a hasty note in pencil to my guardian to say where we were gone and why. Mr. George sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead to no discovery, and we sent it off by a ticket-porter.
We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood of Leicester Square. We walked through some narrow courts, for which Mr. George apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain to the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair, wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer and gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-beaded cane, addressed him.
"I ask your pardon, my good friend," said he, "but is this George's Shooting Gallery?"
"It is, sir," returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great letters in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.

Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so polite, as a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When this was at last done, addressing Mr. George as "General," she gave him her arm. He was so discomposed and begged me so respectfully "not to desert him" that Richard and I said we should see them safely to their destination. And as Mr. George informed us that Gridley's mind had run on Mr. Jarndyce all afternoon, I wrote a hasty note to my guardian to say where we were gone and why. Mr. George sent it off by a ticket-porter.
We then took a hackney-coach to the neighbourhood of Leicester Square. We walked through some narrow courts, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of which was closed. As Mr. George pulled a bell-handle, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair, wearing spectacles and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-headed cane, addressed him.
"I ask your pardon, my good friend," said he, "but is this George's Shooting Gallery?"
"It is, sir," returned Mr. George.


"Oh! To be sure!" said the old gentleman, following his eyes. "Thank you. Have you rung the bell?"
"My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell."


"Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Your name is George? Then I am here as soon as you, you see. You came for me, no doubt?"
"No, sir. You have the advantage of me."


"Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Then it was your young man who came for me. I am a physician and was requested--five minutes ago--to come and visit a sick man at George's Shooting Gallery."
"The muffled drums," said Mr. George, turning to Richard and me and gravely shaking his head. "It's quite correct, sir. Will you please to walk in."
The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-looking little man in a green-baize cap and apron, whose face and hands and dress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passage into a large building with bare brick walls where there were targets, and guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. When we had all arrived here, the physician stopped, and taking off his hat, appeared to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a different man in his place.

"Then it was your young man who came for me. I am a physician and was requested - five minutes ago - to come and visit a sick man here."
"Quite correct, sir," said Mr. George gravely.
The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-looking little man in a green-baize apron, whose face and hands and dress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passage into a large building with bare brick walls where there were targets, and guns, and swords. The physician stopped, and taking off his hat, appeared to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a different man in his place.


"Now lookee here, George," said the man, turning quickly round upon him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. "You know me, and I know you. You're a man of the world, and I'm a man of the world. My name's Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a peace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way a long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit."
Mr. George, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his head.

"Now lookee here, George," said the man, turning quickly round upon him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. "You know me, and I know you. You're a man of the world, and I'm a man of the world. My name's Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a peace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way a long time, and been artful in it, and it does you credit."
Mr. George bit his lip and shook his head.


"Now, George," said the other, keeping close to him, "you're a sensible man and a well-conducted man; that's what YOU are, beyond a doubt. And mind you, I don't talk to you as a common character, because you have served your country and you know that when duty calls we must obey. Consequently you're very far from wanting to give trouble. If I required assistance, you'd assist me; that's what YOU'D do. Phil Squod, don't you go a-sidling round the gallery like that"--the dirty little man was shuffling about with his shoulder against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder, in a manner that looked threatening--"because I know you and won't have it."
"Phil!" said Mr. George.
"Yes, guv'ner."
"Be quiet."
The little man, with a low growl, stood still.

"Now, George, you're a sensible man and a well-conducted man; that's what you are. I don't talk to you as a common character, because you have served your country and you know that when duty calls we must obey. Consequently you're very far from wanting to give trouble. Phil Squod, don't you go a-sidling round the gallery like that" - the dirty little man was shuffling about with his shoulder against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder- "because I know you and I won't have it."
"Phil! Be quiet," said Mr. George.
"Yes, guv'ner."


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

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Bucket, "I have a duty to perform. George, I know where my man is because I was on the roof last night and saw him through the skylight. He is in there, you know," pointing; "on a sofy. Now I must see my man, and I must tell him to consider himself in custody; but you know me, and you know I don't want to take any uncomfortable measures. You give me your word that it's honourable between us two, and I'll accommodate you to the utmost of my power."
"I give it," was the reply. "But it wasn't handsome in you, Mr. Bucket."


"Gammon, George! Not handsome?" said Mr. Bucket, tapping him on his broad breast again and shaking hands with him. "I don't say it wasn't handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I? Be equally good-tempered to me, old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the Life Guardsman! Why, he's a model of the whole British army in himself, ladies and gentlemen. I'd give a fifty-pun' note to be such a figure of a man!"

"Gammon, George! Not handsome?" said Mr. Bucket. "I don't say it wasn't handsome in you to keep my man so secret, do I? Be equally good-tempered to me, old boy!"


The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after a little consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called him), taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agreeing, they went away to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and standing by a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took this opportunity of entering into a little light conversation, asking me if I were afraid of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking Richard if he were a good shot; asking Phil Squod which he considered the best of those rifles and what it might be worth first-hand, telling him in return that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper, for he was naturally so amiable that he might have been a young woman, and making himself generally agreeable.
After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, and Richard and I were going quietly away when Mr. George came after us. He said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, he would take a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardly passed his lips when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, "on the chance," he slightly observed, "of being able to do any little thing for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself." We all four went back together and went into the place where Gridley was.

Mr. George, after a little consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called him), taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agreeing, they went away to the further end of the gallery, leaving us by a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket entered into a little light conversation, asking me if I were afraid of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking Richard if he were a good shot; asking Phil Squod which he considered the best of those rifles, and making himself generally agreeable.
After a time Mr. George came and said that if Richard and I had no objection to seeing his comrade, he would take a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardly passed his lips when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, "on the chance," he observed, "of being able to do any little thing for the poor fellow." We all four went into the place where Gridley was.


It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had looked down. The sun was low--near setting--and its light came redly in above, without descending to the ground. Upon a plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressed much as we had seen him last, but so changed that at first I recognized no likeness in his colourless face to what I recollected.
He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves were covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. She sat on a chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.
His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of form and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from Shropshire whom we had spoken with before.

It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery by a high screen. Overhead were the rafters, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had looked down. The sun was near setting, and its light came redly in above. Upon a canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, but so changed that at first I did not recognize his colourless face.
He had been writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on his grievances. A table was covered with manuscripts and worn pens. He and the little mad woman were side by side; she sat on a chair holding his hand.
His voice had faded, with his strength and his anger; he was the faintest shadow of the former man from Shropshire.


He inclined his head to Richard and me and spoke to my guardian.
"Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir. You are a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I honour you."
They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words of comfort to him.
"It may seem strange to you, sir," returned Gridley; "I should not have liked to see you if this had been the first time of our meeting. But you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood up with my single hand against them all, you know I told them the truth to the last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me; so I don't mind your seeing me, this wreck."
"You have been courageous with them many and many a time," returned my guardian.

He spoke to my guardian.
"Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir. You are a good man, and I honour you."
They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words of comfort to him.
"You know I made a fight for it," said Gridley, "you know I stood up against them all, you know I told them the truth to the last, and told them what they had done to me."
"You have been courageous with them many and many a time," returned my guardian.