"These are very long lies," mademoiselle interposes. "You prose great deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or are you speaking always?"

"These are very long lies," mademoiselle interposes. "You prose great deal. Is it that you have almost finished?"


"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," proceeds Mr. Bucket, who delights in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses with any fragment of it, "the last point in the case which I am now going to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business, and never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young woman yesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at the funeral, in company with my wife, who planned to take her there; and I had so much to convict her, and I saw such an expression in her face, and my mind so rose against her malice towards her ladyship, and the time was altogether such a time for bringing down what you may call retribution upon her, that if I had been a younger hand with less experience, I should have taken her, certain. Equally, last night, when her ladyship, as is so universally admired I am sure, come home looking--why, Lord, a man might almost say like Venus rising from the ocean--it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being charged with a murder of which she was innocent that I felt quite to want to put an end to the job. What should I have lost? Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner here proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, that they should go per bus a little ways into the country and take tea at a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near that house of entertainment there's a piece of water. At tea, my prisoner got up to fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnets was; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out of wind. As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket, along with her observations and suspicions. I had the piece of water dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our men, and the pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there half-a-dozen hours. Now, my dear, put your arm a little further through mine, and hold it steady, and I shan't hurt you!"

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "the last point in the case shows the necessity of never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young woman yesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at the funeral, in company with my wife; and I saw such an expression in her face, that if I had been less experienced, I should have arrested her then, certain. What should I have lost? Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner here proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the funeral, that they should go a little ways into the country and take tea at a house of entertainment. Now, near that place there's a pond. At tea, my prisoner got up to fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little breathless. As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket, along with her suspicions. I had the water dragged by moonlight, and the pocket pistol was brought up. Now, my dear, hold that hand steady, and I shan't hurt you!"


In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. "That's one," says Mr. Bucket. "Now the other, darling. Two, and all told!"

In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. "That's one," he says. "Now the other, darling. Two, and all told!"


He rises; she rises too. "Where," she asks him, darkening her large eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them--and yet they stare, "where is your false, your treacherous, and cursed wife?"

He rises; she rises too. "Where," she asks, "is your false, your treacherous, cursed wife?"


"She's gone forrard to the Police Office," returns Mr. Bucket. "You'll see her there, my dear."

"She's gone to the Police Office," returns Mr. Bucket. "You'll see her there, my dear."


"I would like to kiss her!" exclaims Mademoiselle Hortense, panting tigress-like.

"I would like to tear her limb from limb!" exclaims Mademoiselle Hortense, panting tigress-like.


"You'd bite her, I suspect," says Mr. Bucket.


"I would!" making her eyes very large. "I would love to tear her limb from limb."


"Bless you, darling," says Mr. Bucket with the greatest composure, "I'm fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a surprising animosity against one another when you do differ. You don't mind me half so much, do you?"

"Bless you, darling," says Mr. Bucket with the greatest composure.


"Angel and devil by turns, eh?" cries Mr. Bucket. "But I am in my regular employment, you must consider. Let me put your shawl tidy. I've been lady's maid to a good many before now. Anything wanting to the bonnet? There's a cab at the door."


Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an indignant eye at the glass, shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks, to do her justice, uncommonly genteel.


"Listen then, my angel," says she after several sarcastic nods. "You are very spiritual. But can you restore him back to life?"


"That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. Can you make a honourable lady of her?"


"Don't be so malicious," says Mr. Bucket.


"Or a haughty gentleman of HIM?" cries mademoiselle, referring to Sir Leicester with ineffable disdain. "Eh! Oh, then regard him! The poor infant! Ha! Ha! Ha!"


"Come, come, why this is worse PARLAYING than the other," says Mr. Bucket. "Come along!"


"You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you please with me. It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my angel. Adieu, you old man, grey. I pity you, and I despise you!"

"You can do as you please with me. It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my angel. Adieu, you old man. I pity you, and I despise you!"


With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. Bucket gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiar to himself, enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and hovering away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter and she the object of his affections.

With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth closed with a spring. Mr. Bucket gets her out in a manner peculiar to himself, enfolding her like a cloud, and hovering away with her.


Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as though he were still listening and his attention were still occupied. At length he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted, rises unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks a few steps, supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, and with more of those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to stare at something.

Sir Leicester, left alone, remains seated as though he were still listening. At length he gazes round the empty room, rises unsteadily to his feet and walks a few steps, supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, and with more of those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to stare at something.


Heaven knows what he sees. The green, green woods of Chesney Wold, the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangers defacing them, officers of police coarsely handling his most precious heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him to his bewilderment, there is one other shadow which he can name with something like distinctness even yet and to which alone he addresses his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms.

Heaven knows what he sees. The green woods of Chesney Wold, the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers; thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces sneering. But there is one shadow to which alone he addresses his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms.


It is she in association with whom, saving that she has been for years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he has never had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved, admired, honoured, and set up for the world to respect. It is she who, at the core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love, susceptible as nothing else is of being struck with the agony he feels. He sees her, almost to the exclusion of himself, and cannot bear to look upon her cast down from the high place she has graced so well.

It is she whom he has loved, admired, honoured, and set up for the world to respect. It is she who, at the core of all the constrained formalities of his life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love. He cannot bear to look upon her cast down from the high place she has graced so well.


And even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious of his suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something like distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of mourning and compassion rather than reproach.

And even as he sinks down to the ground, he can yet pronounce her name with something like distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of mourning and compassion rather than reproach.


The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we went westward. We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-coloured flowers. By and by we began to leave the wonderful city and to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country road again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horse troughs: trees, fields, and hedge-rows. It was delightful to see the green landscape before us and the immense metropolis behind; and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us with its music, I believe we could all three have sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around.

The day brightened as we went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering at the extent of the streets, the traffic, and the crowds of people. By and by we left the city to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got onto a real country road again, with windmills, milestones, farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, and horse troughs: trees, fields, and hedge-rows. It was delightful to see the green landscape; and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us, I believe we could all three have sung to its music.


"The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake Whittington," said Richard, "and that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa! What's the matter?"

"The road has been reminding me of my namesake Dick Whittington," said Richard, "and that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa! What's the matter?"


We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its music changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing.

We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. The horses came to a stand, with a little shower of bell-ringing.


"Our postilion is looking after the waggoner," said Richard, "and the waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!" The waggoner was at our coach-door. "Why, here's an extraordinary thing!" added Richard, looking closely at the man. "He has got your name, Ada, in his hat!"

"The waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!" said Richard. "Why, here's an extraordinary thing! He has got your name, Ada, in his hat!"


He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were three small notes--one addressed to Ada, one to Richard, one to me. These the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from whom they came, he briefly answered, "Master, sir, if you please"; and putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away.

He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were three small notes - one addressed to each of us. These the waggoner delivered; and on Richard's asking from whom they came, he briefly answered, "Master, sir, if you please." Putting on his hat again, he cracked his whip, and went melodiously away.


"Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon?" said Richard, calling to our post-boy.

"Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon?" Richard asked our post-boy.


"Yes, sir," he replied. "Going to London."


We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other and contained these words in a solid, plain hand.

We opened the notes. Each contained these words in a solid, plain hand.


I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without constraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for granted. It will be a relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you.

"I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without constraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for granted. It will be a relief to me, and possibly to you. And so my love to you.


I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so many years. I had not considered how I could thank him, my gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to consider how I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very difficult indeed.

I had not considered how I could thank my benefactor, my gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to wonder how I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very difficult indeed.


The notes revived in Richard and Ada a general impression that they both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that their cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort to the most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away. Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a very little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity and that on her going to his house to thank him, he happened to see her through a window coming to the door, and immediately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. This discourse led to a great deal more on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us all day, and we talked of scarcely anything else. If we did by any chance diverge into another subject, we soon returned to this, and wondered what the house would be like, and when we should get there, and whether we should see Mr. Jarndyce as soon as we arrived or after a delay, and what he would say to us, and what we should say to him. All of which we wondered about, over and over again.

The notes revived in Richard and Ada a general impression that their cousin Jarndyce could never bear thanks for any kindness he performed, and that sooner than receive any he would even run away. Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity and that on her going to his house to thank him, he saw her approaching through a window, and immediately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. We wondered much about Mr. Jarndyce, and what the house would be like, and when we should get there.


The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was generally good, so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting for us, but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too, and got a long fresh walk over a common and an old battle-field before the carriage came up. These delays so protracted the journey that the short day was spent and the long night had closed in before we came to St. Albans, near to which town Bleak House was, we knew.

The roads were very heavy for the horses, so we alighted and walked up all the hills. At Barnet there were other horses waiting for us, but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too. These delays meant that the long night had closed in before we came to St. Albans, near to which Bleak House was.


By that time we were so anxious and nervous that even Richard confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and me, whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and frosty, we trembled from head to foot. When we turned out of the town, round a corner, and Richard told us that the post-boy, who had for a long time sympathized with our heightened expectation, was looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the carriage (Richard holding Ada lest she should be jolted down) and gazed round upon the open country and the starlight night for our destination. There was a light sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver, pointing to it with his whip and crying, "That's Bleak House!" put his horses into a canter and took us forward at such a rate, uphill though it was, that the wheels sent the road drift flying about our heads like spray from a water-mill. Presently we lost the light, presently saw it, presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned into an avenue of trees and cantered up towards where it was beaming brightly. It was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch. A bell was rung as we drew up, and amidst the sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, and the smoking and steaming of the heated horses, and the quickened beating of our own hearts, we alighted in no inconsiderable confusion.

By that time we were anxious and nervous. Ada and I trembled from head to foot. We both stood up in the carriage (Richard holding Ada lest she should be jolted down) and gazed round upon the open country and the starlit night for our destination. There was a light sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver pointed to it, crying, "That's Bleak House!"
He put his horses into a canter; presently we turned into an avenue of trees and drove up towards the light. It was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof and a circular sweep leading to the porch.
A bell was rung as we drew up. Amidst the sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, we alighted.


"Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to see you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give it you!"


The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable voice had one of his arms round Ada's waist and the other round mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. Here he kissed us again, and opening his arms, made us sit down side by side on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt that if we had been at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment.

The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable voice had one of his arms round Ada's waist and the other round mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way. He bore us across the hall into a little room aglow with a blazing fire. Here he kissed us again, and made us sit down side by side on a sofa near the hearth. I felt that if we had been at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment.


"Now, Rick!" said he. "I have a hand at liberty. A word in earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home. Warm yourself!"

"Now, Rick!" said he. "I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home. Warm yourself!"


Richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce's suddenly disappearing), "You are very kind, sir! We are very much obliged to you!" laid aside his hat and coat and came up to the fire.

Richard shook him by both hands, saying (with an earnestness that rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce's suddenly disappearing), "You are very kind, sir! We are very much obliged to you!"


"And how did you like the ride? And how did you like Mrs. Jellyby, my dear?" said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada.

"How did you like the ride, my dear?" said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada.


While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced (I need not say with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, lively, quick face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust. From the moment of his first speaking to us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that I could not define; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the gentleman in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to Reading. I was certain it was he. I never was so frightened in my life as when I made the discovery, for he caught my glance, and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I thought we had lost him.

While Ada was replying, I glanced with interest at his face. It was a handsome, lively, quick face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust. When he first spoke to us his voice had connected itself with a memory that I could not define; but now, all at once, I recalled the gentleman in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to Reading. I was certain it was he.
He caught my glance, and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I thought we had lost him.


However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked me what I thought of Mrs. Jellyby.


"She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir," I said.


"Nobly!" returned Mr. Jarndyce. "But you answer like Ada." Whom I had not heard. "You all think something else, I see."

"Nobly!" returned Mr. Jarndyce. "But you think something else, I see."


"We rather thought," said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, who entreated me with their eyes to speak, "that perhaps she was a little unmindful of her home."

"We rather thought," said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, "that perhaps she was a little unmindful of her home."


"Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have sent you there on purpose."


"We thought that, perhaps," said I, hesitating, "it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted for them."

"We thought that, perhaps," said I, hesitating, "it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, if those are neglected, no other duties can be substituted for them."


"The little Jellybys," said Richard, coming to my relief, "are really--I can't help expressing myself strongly, sir--in a devil of a state."

"The little Jellybys," said Richard, coming to my relief, "are really in a devil of a state, sir."


"She means well," said Mr. Jarndyce hastily. "The wind's in the east."


"It was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed Richard.


"My dear Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire, "I'll take an oath it's either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east."

"My dear Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire, "it's either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious of an uncomfortable feeling when the wind is blowing in the east."


"I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell--I had my doubts about 'em--are in a--oh, Lord, yes, it's easterly!" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"I dare say it is, Rick. And so the little Jell - oh, Lord, yes, it's easterly!" said Mr. Jarndyce.


He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while uttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation at once so whimsical and so lovable that I am sure we were more delighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any words. He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Richard bring a candle, was leading the way out when he suddenly turned us all back again.

He took two or three undecided turns up and down, holding the poker in one hand and rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation at once both whimsical and lovable. He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Richard bring a candle, was leading the way out when he suddenly turned us all back again.


"Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you--didn't you--now, if it had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of that sort!" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you - now, if it had rained sugar-plums, or raspberry tarts, or anything of that sort!" said Mr. Jarndyce.


"Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, is better."


"Then, cousin John--" Ada laughingly began again.

"Then, cousin John-" Ada laughingly began again.


"Ha, ha! Very good indeed!" said Mr. Jarndyce with great enjoyment. "Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?"

"Ha, ha! Very good indeed!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "Yes, my dear?"


"It did better than that. It rained Esther."


"Aye?" said Mr. Jarndyce. "What did Esther do?"


"Why, cousin John," said Ada, clasping her hands upon his arm and shaking her head at me across him--for I wanted her to be quiet--"Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes"--My dear girl! I had only gone out with Peepy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse!--"and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! No, no, I won't be contradicted, Esther dear! You know, you know, it's true!"

"Why, cousin John," said Ada - though I wanted her to be quiet - "Esther was their friend at once. Esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes" - My dear girl! I had only gone out with Peepy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse! - "and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much and was so thoughtful and amiable! No, I won't be contradicted, Esther dear! You know it's true!"


The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John and kissed me, and then looking up in his face, boldly said, "At all events, cousin John, I WILL thank you for the companion you have given me." I felt as if she challenged him to run away. But he didn't.

The warm-hearted darling leaned over and kissed me, and then boldly said, "At all events, cousin John, I will thank you for the companion you have given me." I felt as if she challenged him to run away. But he didn't.


"Where did you say the wind was, Rick?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.


"You are right. There's no east in it. A mistake of mine. Come, girls, come and see your home!"


It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up and down steps out of one room into another, and where you come upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and where there is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places with lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine, which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof that had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards and a chimney (there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around with pure white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of the fire was blazing. Out of this room, you went down two steps into a charming little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you went up three steps into Ada's bedroom, which had a fine broad window commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of darkness lying underneath the stars), to which there was a hollow window-seat, in which, with a spring-lock, three dear Adas might have been lost at once. Out of this room you passed into a little gallery, with which the other best rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a little staircase of shallow steps with a number of corner stairs in it, considering its length, down into the hall. But if instead of going out at Ada's door you came back into my room, and went out at the door by which you had entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a native Hindu chair, which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked in every form something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and had been brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From these you came on Richard's room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part bedroom, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound of many rooms. Out of that you went straight, with a little interval of passage, to the plain room where Mr. Jarndyce slept, all the year round, with his window open, his bedstead without any furniture standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and his cold bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. Out of that you came into another passage, where there were back-stairs and where you could hear the horses being rubbed down outside the stable and being told to "Hold up" and "Get over," as they slipped about very much on the uneven stones. Or you might, if you came out at another door (every room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a low archway, wondering how you got back there or had ever got out of it.

It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up and down steps out of one room into another, and keep finding unexpected rooms, and little halls and passages, and still older cottage-rooms with lattice windows and green growth pressing through them.
Mine, which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof full of corners, and a chimney paved all around with pure white tiles, in each of which a bright miniature of the fire was blazing. From this room, you went down two steps into a charming little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden. Out of this you went up three steps into Ada's bedroom, which had a fine broad window commanding a beautiful view, and an enormous window-seat. Out of this room you passed into a little gallery, and by a winding staircase down into the hall.
But if instead of going out at Ada's door you came back into my room, and went out at the door by which you had entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps, you lost yourself in passages with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a Hindu chair. From these you came to Richard's room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part comfortable bedroom. Out of that you went down a passage, to the plain room where Mr. Jarndyce slept with his window open, his bedstead standing alone in the middle of the floor. Out of that you came into another passage, where there were back-stairs and where you could hear the horses being rubbed down outside the stable. Or you might, if you came out at another door (every room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again through a low archway, wondering how you got back there or had ever got out of it.


The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was as pleasantly irregular. Ada's sleeping-room was all flowers--in chintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two stiff courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Our sitting-room was green and had framed and glazed upon the walls numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been served with gravy; at the death of Captain Cook; and at the whole process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists. In my room there were oval engravings of the months--ladies haymaking in short waists and large hats tied under the chin, for June; smooth-legged noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village steeples, for October. Half-length portraits in crayons abounded all through the house, but were so dispersed that I found the brother of a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet and the grey old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her bodice, in the breakfast-room. As substitutes, I had four angels, of Queen Anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty; and a composition in needlework representing fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. All the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender. Such, with its illuminated windows, softened here and there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the starlight night; with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner; with the face of its generous master brightening everything we saw; and just wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment to everything we heard, were our first impressions of Bleak House.

The furniture, like the house, was old-fashioned and pleasantly irregular. Ada's bedroom was all flowers - in chintz and paper, velvet, needlework, and brocade. Our sitting-room had framed upon the walls numbers of surprising and surprised birds; a real trout in a case; the death of Captain Cook; and the process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists. In my room there were oval engravings of the months - ladies haymaking in large hats tied under the chin, for June; noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village steeples, for October. I also had four angels, of Queen Anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty; and a composition in needlework representing fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet.
Everything was in a state of perfect neatness, with the whitest linen, and lavender sweetening every drawer. Such, with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with the face of its generous master, and a faint wind blowing outside, were our first impressions of Bleak House.


"I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce when he had brought us round again to Ada's sitting-room. "It makes no pretensions, but it is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so with such bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before dinner. There's no one here but the finest creature upon earth--a child."

"I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce when he had brought us round again to Ada's sitting-room. "It is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so with such bright young looks in it. You have half an hour before dinner. There's no one else here but the finest creature upon earth - a child."


"I don't mean literally a child," pursued Mr. Jarndyce; "not a child in years. He is grown up--he is at least as old as I am--but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child."

"I don't mean literally a child," added Mr. Jarndyce; "not a child in years. He is as old as I am - but in simplicity, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child."


We felt that he must be very interesting.


"He knows Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Jarndyce. "He is a musical man, an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artist too, an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is a man of attainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunate in his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his family; but he don't care--he's a child!"

"He is a musical man, an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artist too; a man of attainments. He has been unfortunate; but he don't care - he's a child!"


"Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?" inquired Richard.

"Has he children of his own, sir?" inquired Richard.


"Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think. But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted somebody to look after HIM. He is a child, you know!" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted somebody to look after him!" said Mr. Jarndyce.


"And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?" inquired Richard.


"Why, just as you may suppose," said Mr. Jarndyce, his countenance suddenly falling. "It is said that the children of the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other. The wind's getting round again, I am afraid. I feel it rather!"

"Why," said Mr. Jarndyce, his face suddenly falling. "Harold Skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other. The wind's getting round again, I am afraid!


Richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night.


"It IS exposed," said Mr. Jarndyce. "No doubt that's the cause. Bleak House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come along!"


Our luggage having arrived and being all at hand, I was dressed in a few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when a maid (not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another, whom I had not seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys in it, all labelled.

Our luggage having arrived, I was dressed in a few minutes and was putting my things away when a maid brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys in it, all labelled.


"For you, miss, if you please," said she.


I showed my surprise, for she added with some little surprise on her own part, "I was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss. Miss Summerson, if I don't deceive myself?"


"The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning, I was to show you the presses and things they belong to."

The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint tomorrow morning, I was to show you the cupboards and things they belong to."


I said I would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust. Ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence in me when I showed her the keys and told her about them that it would have been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. I knew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl's kindness, but I liked to be so pleasantly cheated.

I said I would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust. Ada found me thus, and showed a delightful confidence in me when I told her about the keys. I knew, to be sure, that it was only the dear girl's kindness, but I liked to be so encouraged.


When we went downstairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole, who was standing before the fire telling Richard how fond he used to be, in his school-time, of football. He was a little bright creature with a rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free from effort and spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaiety that it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender figure than Mr. Jarndyce and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. Indeed, he had more the appearance in all respects of a damaged young man than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an easy negligence in his manner and even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as I have seen artists paint their own portraits) which I could not separate from the idea of a romantic youth who had undergone some unique process of depreciation. It struck me as being not at all like the manner or appearance of a man who had advanced in life by the usual road of years, cares, and experiences.

When we went downstairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole, who was standing before the fire. He was a little bright creature with a rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. He spoke with such a captivating gaiety that it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being more slender than Mr. Jarndyce and less grey, he looked younger. Indeed, he had more the appearance of a damaged young man rather than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an easy negligence in his manner and his dress which made me think of a romantic youth. It was not at all like the manner of a man who had experienced life's usual cares.


I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been educated for the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in the household of a German prince. He told us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and measures and had never known anything about them (except that they disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he had no head for detail. And he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted to bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't come. The prince, at last, objecting to this, "in which," said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest manner, "he was perfectly right," the engagement terminated, and Mr. Skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." His good friend Jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oldest infirmities in the world: one was that he had no idea of time, the other that he had no idea of money. In consequence of which he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew the value of anything! Well! So he had got on in life, and here he was! He was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art. All he asked of society was to let him live. THAT wasn't much. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. He was a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. He said to the world, "Go your several ways in peace! Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only--let Harold Skimpole live!"

I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been educated for the medical profession and had once been doctor in the household of a German prince. He told us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and measures and had never known anything about them, he had never been able to prescribe accurately. And he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted to tend the prince, he was generally found lying on his bed, reading the newspapers or sketching, and couldn't come. When the prince objected to this, the post ended, and Mr. Skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks."
His good friend Jarndyce and some other friends helped him to several openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess that he had no idea of time, and no idea of money. In consequence of which he never kept an appointment, could never do any business, and never knew the value of anything! So here he was! He was very fond of reading the papers, and sketching with a pencil, very fond of nature and of art. All he asked of society was to let him live. That wasn't much. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of Bristol-board, and a little wine, and he asked no more.


All this and a great deal more he told us, not only with the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candour--speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as if Skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had his singularities but still had his claims too, which were the general business of the community and must not be slighted. He was quite enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time in endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding why he was free of them. That he WAS free of them, I scarcely doubted; he was so very clear about it himself.

All this he told us, with the utmost brilliancy, enjoyment, and candour - speaking of himself as if Skimpole were a third person, who had his singularities but had his claims too, which must not be slighted. He was quite enchanting, although I was confused by not exactly understanding why he was free of the duties of life. That he was free of them, I did not doubt; he was so very clear about it himself.


"I covet nothing," said Mr. Skimpole in the same light way. "Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce's excellent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch it and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardour! I don't regret that I have not a strong will and an immense power of business detail to throw myself into objects with surprising ardour. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathize with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down on the grass--in fine weather--and float along an African river, embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if I were there. I don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, but it's all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven's sake, having Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!"

"I covet nothing," said Mr. Skimpole in the same light way. "Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce's excellent house. I can sketch it; I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a woman of strong will and immense power of business detail! I do not regret that I have not those qualities; I can admire her without envy. I can dream of her objectives. I can lie down on the grass - in fine weather - and float along an African river, embracing all the natives I meet. I don't know that it's of any use, but it's all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven's sake, let Harold Skimpole live and admire the human family, like good souls, and allow him to ride his rocking-horse!"


It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful of the adjuration. Mr. Skimpole's general position there would have rendered it so without the addition of what he presently said.

It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not neglected this advice.


"It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy," said Mr. Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. "I envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should revel in myself. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if YOU ought to be grateful to ME for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a benefactor to you by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant consequences? I don't regret it therefore."

"It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy," said Mr. Skimpole. "I envy you your power of doing what you do. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if you ought to be grateful to me for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing your happiness by helping me. Why should I regret my incapacity for worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant consequences?"


Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Jarndyce than this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonder whether it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least occasion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others.

Of all his playful speeches none seemed to be more agreeable to Mr. Jarndyce than this; Mr. Jarndyce being probably the most grateful of mankind for the smallest reasons, yet desiring to escape the gratitude of others.


We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engaging qualities of Ada and Richard that Mr. Skimpole, seeing them for the first time, should be so unreserved and should lay himself out to be so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Richard) were naturally pleased, for similar reasons, and considered it no common privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. The more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Skimpole talked. And what with his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if he had said, "I am a child, you know! You are designing people compared with me" (he really made me consider myself in that light) "but I am gay and innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with me!" the effect was absolutely dazzling.

We were all enchanted. Richard especially was pleased to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. The more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Skimpole talked. And what with his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, the effect was absolutely dazzling.


He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that alone. In the evening, when I was preparing to make tea and Ada was touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a tune to her cousin Richard, which they had happened to mention, he came and sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of Ada that I almost loved him.

He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that alone. In the evening, when I was preparing to make tea and Ada was touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a tune to her cousin Richard, he came and sat down near me and so spoke of Ada that I almost loved him.


"She is like the morning," he said. "With that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will not call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an orphan. She is the child of the universe."

"She is like the morning," he said. "With that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer morning. We will not call such a lovely young creature an orphan. She is the child of the universe."


Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us with his hands behind him and an attentive smile upon his face.

Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us, smiling.


"The universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent parent, I am afraid."


"Oh! I don't know!" cried Mr. Skimpole buoyantly.


"Well!" cried Mr. Skimpole. "You know the world (which in your sense is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shall have your way. But if I had mine," glancing at the cousins, "there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change should never wither it. The base word money should never be breathed near it!"

"Well!" cried Mr. Skimpole. "I know nothing of the world, so you shall have your way. But if I had mine, there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be strewn with roses; it should live in perpetual summer. Age or change should never wither it. The base word money should never be breathed near it!"


Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been really a child, and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment, glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, but had a benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) saw again, which has long been engraven on my heart. The room in which they were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood beside her, bending down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motionless objects. Ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music. The mystery of the future and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present seemed expressed in the whole picture.

Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been really a child, and glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, but had a benign expression which I often saw again, and which has long been engraven on my heart. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood beside her. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, shifting with the firelight. Ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the sighing wind was as audible as the music. The mystery of the future seemed expressed in the whole picture.


But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I recall the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast in respect of meaning and intention between the silent look directed that way and the flow of words that had preceded it. Secondly, though Mr. Jarndyce's glance as he withdrew it rested for but a moment on me, I felt as if in that moment he confided to me--and knew that he confided to me and that I received the confidence--his hope that Ada and Richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship.

Mr. Jarndyce's glance then rested for a moment on me. I felt as if in that moment he confided to me his hope that Ada and Richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship.


Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello, and he was a composer--had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it--and played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quite a little concert, in which Richard--who was enthralled by Ada's singing and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were written--and Mr. Jarndyce, and I were the audience. After a little while I missed first Mr. Skimpole and afterwards Richard, and while I was thinking how could Richard stay away so long and lose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, "If you please, miss, could you spare a minute?"

Mr. Skimpole could play the piano and the cello, and he was a composer - had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it - and played with taste. After tea we had quite a little concert, in which Richard - who was enthralled by Ada's singing - and Mr. Jarndyce and I were the audience. After a little while first Mr. Skimpole and then Richard disappeared, and while I was wondering how he could stay away so long, the maid looked in at the door, saying, "If you please, miss, could you spare a minute?"


When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her hands, "Oh, if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come upstairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss!"

When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her hands, "Please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come upstairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss!"


I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind, but of course I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one and collected myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove to be a fit. She threw open a door and I went into a chamber, where, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon the bed or prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa, in a white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, which he was wiping smoother and making less of with a pocket-handkerchief.

I was worried that he might be dangerously ill, but of course I collected myself as I followed her quickly upstairs, considering the best remedies if it should prove to be a fit. She threw open a door and I went into a chamber, where, to my surprise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon the bed, he was standing before the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard, embarrassed, looked at a person on the sofa, in a white great-coat, wiping his head with a pocket-handkerchief.


"Miss Summerson," said Richard hurriedly, "I am glad you are come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole--don't be alarmed!--is arrested for debt."

"Miss Summerson," said Richard hurriedly, "I am glad you are come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole - don't be alarmed! - is arrested for debt."


"And really, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mr. Skimpole with his agreeable candour, "I never was in a situation in which that excellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed."

"And really, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mr. Skimpole with his agreeable candour, "I never was in a situation in which your excellent sense and quiet usefulness were more needed."


The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, gave such a very loud snort that he startled me.

The person on the sofa gave such a very loud snort that he startled me.


"Are you arrested for much, sir?" I inquired of Mr. Skimpole.


"My dear Miss Summerson," said he, shaking his head pleasantly, "I don't know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, I think, were mentioned."


"It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha'penny," observed the stranger. "That's wot it is."


"And it sounds--somehow it sounds," said Mr. Skimpole, "like a small sum?"

"And is that a small sum?" said Mr. Skimpole.


The strange man said nothing but made another snort. It was such a powerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.


"Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "has a delicacy in applying to my cousin Jarndyce because he has lately--I think, sir, I understood you that you had lately--"

"Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "is reluctant to apply to my cousin Jarndyce because he has lately-"


"Oh, yes!" returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. "Though I forgot how much it was and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again, but I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty in help, that I would rather," and he looked at Richard and me, "develop generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower."

"Oh, yes!" said Mr. Skimpole, smiling. "Though I forgot how much it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again, but I would rather develop generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower."


"What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?" said Richard, aside.

"What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?" said Richard.


I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would happen if the money were not produced.

I inquired what would happen if the money were not produced.


"Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. "Or Coavinses."

"Jail," said the strange man. "Or Coavinses."


"Coavinses?" said the strange man. "A 'ouse."

"Coavinses?" said the strange man. "A 'ouse. I'm Mr. Coavins's bailiff."


Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Skimpole's. He observed us with a genial interest, but there seemed, if I may venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He had entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours.

Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Skimpole's. He observed us with a genial interest. He had entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours.


"I thought," he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, "that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don't know what the business name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their power that would settle this?"

"I thought," he suggested good-naturedly, "that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking?"


"Not a bit on it," said the strange man.


"Really?" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That seems odd, now, to one who is no judge of these things!"


"Odd or even," said the stranger gruffly, "I tell you, not a bit on it!"


"Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!" Mr. Skimpole gently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. "Don't be ruffled by your occupation. We can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious."

"Keep your temper, my good fellow!" Mr. Skimpole gently reasoned with him.


The stranger only answered with another violent snort, whether in acceptance of the poetry-tribute or in disdainful rejection of it, he did not express to me.


"Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard," said Mr. Skimpole gaily, innocently, and confidingly as he looked at his drawing with his head on one side, "here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!"

"Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard, here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be free - like the butterflies!"


"My dear Miss Summerson," said Richard in a whisper, "I have ten pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that will do."

"My dear Miss Summerson," said Richard in a whisper, "I have ten pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge."


I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved from my quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thought that some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly, without any relation or any property, on the world and had always tried to keep some little money by me that I might not be quite penniless. I told Richard of my having this little store and having no present need of it, and I asked him delicately to inform Mr. Skimpole, while I should be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his debt.

I possessed fifteen pounds and some odd shillings, which I had saved from my allowance during several years. I had always tried to keep some money so that in case of some accident I might not be quite penniless. I told Richard of my little store and asked him delicately to inform Mr. Skimpole, while I should be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his debt.


When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand and seemed quite touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours, as if personal considerations were impossible with him and the contemplation of our happiness alone affected him. Richard, begging me, for the greater grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with Coavinses (as Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called him), I counted out the money and received the necessary acknowledgment. This, too, delighted Mr. Skimpole.

When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand and seemed quite touched. Not on his own account, but as if the contemplation of our happiness alone affected him. I counted out the money to the stranger in the white coat (whom Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called Coavinses).


His compliments were so delicately administered that I blushed less than I might have done and settled with the stranger in the white coat without making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocket and shortly said, "Well, then, I'll wish you a good evening, miss.

He put the money in his pocket and shortly said, "Well, I'll wish you a good evening, miss."


"My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the fire after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, "I should like to ask you something, without offence."

"My friend Coavinses," said Mr. Skimpole,


I think the reply was, "Cut away, then!"


"Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this errand?" said Mr. Skimpole.

"Did you know this morning that you were coming out on this errand?"


"Know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea-time," said Coavinses.

"Know'd it yes'day aft'noon," said Coavinses.


"It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you at all uneasy?"


"Not a bit," said Coavinses. "I know'd if you wos missed to-day, you wouldn't be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such odds."

"Not a bit," said Coavinses. "I know'd if you was missed today, you wouldn't be missed tomorrow."


"But when you came down here," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "it was a fine day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing."

"But when you came down here," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "it was a fine day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing.


"Nobody said they warn't, in MY hearing," returned Coavinses.


"No," observed Mr. Skimpole. "But what did you think upon the road?"


"Wot do you mean?" growled Coavinses with an appearance of strong resentment. "Think! I've got enough to do, and little enough to get for it without thinking. Thinking!" (with profound contempt).


"Then you didn't think, at all events," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "to this effect: 'Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows, loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's great cathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright!' You thought nothing to that effect?"

Didn't you think, 'Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's great cathedral. And I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions!' You thought nothing to that effect?"


"I--certainly--did--NOT," said Coavinses, whose doggedness in utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have dislocated his neck.

"I - certainly - did - not," said Coavinses doggedly.


"Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of business!" said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully. "Thank you, my friend. Good night."

"Very odd, you men of business!" said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully. "Thank you, my friend. Good night."


As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange downstairs, I returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by the fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently appeared, and Richard shortly after him. I was sufficiently engaged during the remainder of the evening in taking my first lesson in backgammon from Mr. Jarndyce, who was very fond of the game and from whom I wished of course to learn it as quickly as I could in order that I might be of the very small use of being able to play when he had no better adversary. But I thought, occasionally, when Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his own compositions or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, and at our table, he preserved with an absence of all effort his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that Richard and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been arrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.

I returned downstairs and found Ada sitting by the fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently appeared, and Richard shortly after. That evening I took my first lesson in backgammon from Mr. Jarndyce, who was very fond of the game. But I thought, occasionally, when Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his own compositions or when he kept up an effortless flow of conversation, that Richard and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been arrested and that it was very curious altogether.


It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going at eleven o'clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously that the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours from night, my dear! It was past twelve before he took his candle and his radiant face out of the room, and I think he might have kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. Ada and Richard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether Mrs. Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day, when Mr. Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned.

It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going to bed at eleven, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously that the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours from night, my dear! It was past twelve before he took his candle and his radiant face out of the room. Ada and Richard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, when Mr. Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned.


"Oh, dear me, what's this, what's this!" he said, rubbing his head and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. "What's this they tell me? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been doing? Why did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiece was it? The wind's round again. I feel it all over me!"

"Oh, dear me, what's this, what's this they tell me?" he said, walking about with his good-humoured vexation. "Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been doing? How much was it? The wind's round again. I feel it all over me!"


We neither of us quite knew what to answer.


"Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Why did you? How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it's due east--must be!"

"Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are you out of pocket? Why did you? How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it's due east - must be!"


"Really, sir," said Richard, "I don't think it would be honourable in me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us--"

"Really, sir," said Richard, "Mr. Skimpole relied upon us-"


"Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!" said Mr. Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub and stopping short.

"Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!" said Mr. Jarndyce.


"Everybody! And he'll be in the same scrape again next week!" said Mr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his hand that had gone out. "He's always in the same scrape. He was born in the same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement in the newspapers when his mother was confined was 'On Tuesday last, at her residence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a son in difficulties.'"

"He'll be in the same scrape again next week. He's always in the same scrape. I believe he was born in a scrape."


Richard laughed heartily but added, "Still, sir, I don't want to shake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit to your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I hope you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, if you do press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you."

Richard laughed but added, "Still, sir, I don't want to break his confidence, and I hope you will consider before you press me any more."


"Well!" cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. "I--here! Take it away, my dear. I don't know what I am about with it; it's all the wind--invariably has that effect--I won't press you, Rick; you may be right. But really--to get hold of you and Esther--and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael's oranges! It'll blow a gale in the course of the night!"

"Well!" cried Mr. Jarndyce. "I won't press you, Rick; you may be right. But really - to get hold of you and Esther - and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young oranges! It'll blow a gale tonight!"


He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he were going to keep them there a long time, and taking them out again and vehemently rubbing them all over his head.

He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets and taking them out again and rubbing them all over his head.


I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Skimpole, being in all such matters quite a child--


"Eh, my dear?" said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word.


"Being quite a child, sir," said I, "and so different from other people--"

being quite a child, sir," said I, "and so different from other people-"


"You are right!" said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. "Your woman's wit hits the mark. He is a child--an absolute child. I told you he was a child, you know, when I first mentioned him."

"You are right!" said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. "He is a child - an absolute child.


"And he IS a child. Now, isn't he?" asked Mr. Jarndyce, brightening more and more.


"When you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness in you--I mean me--" said Mr. Jarndyce, "to regard him for a moment as a man. You can't make HIM responsible. The idea of Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha, ha, ha!"

"When you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness to regard him as a man. You can't make him responsible. The idea of Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha, ha, ha!"


It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the goodness which was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly accusing any one, that I saw the tears in Ada's eyes, while she echoed his laugh, and felt them in my own.

It was delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clearing. I knew that his goodness was tortured by condemning or mistrusting anyone; and I saw the tears in Ada's eyes, and felt them in my own.


"Why, what a cod's head and shoulders I am," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to require reminding of it! The whole business shows the child from beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of singling YOU two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a child would have thought of YOUR having the money! If it had been a thousand pounds, it would have been just the same!" said Mr. Jarndyce with his whole face in a glow.

"Why, the whole business shows the child from beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of your having the money!" said Mr. Jarndyce with his whole face in a glow.


We all confirmed it from our night's experience.


"To be sure, to be sure!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "However, Rick, Esther, and you too, Ada, for I don't know that even your little purse is safe from his inexperience--I must have a promise all round that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances! Not even sixpences."

"However, I must have a promise that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances! Not even sixpences."


We all promised faithfully, Richard with a merry glance at me touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of OUR transgressing.

We all promised faithfully, Richard giving me a merry glance and touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of our transgressing.


"As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jarndyce, "a habitable doll's house with good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow money of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child's sleep by this time, I suppose; it's time I should take my craftier head to my more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you!"

"As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jarndyce, "he is in a child's sleep by this time, I suppose; it's time I went to bed too. Good night, my dears. God bless you!


He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our candles, and said, "Oh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. I find it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the south!" And went away singing to himself.

Oh, and I find it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the south!" He went away singing to himself.


Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction and that he used the pretence to account for any disappointment he could not conceal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it or disparage or depreciate any one. We thought this very characteristic of his eccentric gentleness and of the difference between him and those petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours.

Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction to account for any disappointment he could not conceal. We thought this very characteristic of his eccentric gentleness.


Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understand him through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in Mr. Skimpole or in Mrs. Jellyby I could not expect to be able to reconcile, having so little experience or practical knowledge. Neither did I try, for my thoughts were busy when I was alone, with Ada and Richard and with the confidence I had seemed to receive concerning them. My fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps, would not consent to be all unselfish, either, though I would have persuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to my godmother's house and came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark as to what knowledge Mr. Jarndyce had of my earliest history--even as to the possibility of his being my father, though that idle dream was quite gone now.

Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understand him. Once I was alone, my thoughts were busy not just with him, but with Ada and Richard and with the confidence I had seemed to receive about them. Then my fancy wandered back to my godmother's house, raising shadowy speculations as to what Mr. Jarndyce knew of my earliest history. In the past I had pondered the possibility of his being my father, though that idle dream was quite gone now.


It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. It was not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit and a grateful heart. So I said to myself, "Esther, Esther, Esther! Duty, my dear!" and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a shake that they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully to bed.

That past was all gone now. It was not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit and a grateful heart.
So I said to myself, "Esther, Esther! Duty, my dear!" and gave my basket of housekeeping keys such a shake that, like little bells, they rang me hopefully to bed.


"Now, what," says Mr. George, "may this be? Is it blank cartridge or ball? A flash in the pan or a shot?"

"Now, what," says Mr. George, "may this be? Is it blank cartridge or bullet?"


An open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculations, and it seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm's length, brings it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his left hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannot satisfy himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, and thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt before it every now and then to come upon it with a fresh eye. Even that won't do. "Is it," Mr. George still muses, "blank cartridge or ball?"

The trooper is holding an open letter, which seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm's length, brings it close, reads it with his head on one side, contracts his eyebrows, and still cannot satisfy himself. He smooths it out upon the table, and thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, halts before it every now and then.


Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in the distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march time and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back again to the girl he left behind him.

Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march time.


"Phil!" The trooper beckons as he calls him.


Phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if he were going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commander like a bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in high relief upon his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with the handle of the brush.

Phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first and then bearing down upon his commander like a bayonet-charge. Splashes of white show in high relief upon his dirty face.


"'Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity for my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months' date drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted, for the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will become due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take up the same on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.' What do you make of that, Phil?"

'Sir. Allow me to remind you that the bill at two months' date drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted, for the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will become due tomorrow, when you will please be prepared to take up the same on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.' What do you make of that, Phil?"


"I think," replies Phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle in his forehead with the brush-handle, "that mischeevious consequences is always meant when money's asked for."


"Lookye, Phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table. "First and last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principal in interest and one thing and another."

"Lookee, Phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table. "I have paid half as much again as this principal in interest and one thing and another.


Phil intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a very unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the transaction as being made more promising by this incident.


"And lookye further, Phil," says the trooper, staying his premature conclusions with a wave of his hand. "There has always been an understanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. And it has been renewed no end of times. What do you say now?"

There has always been an understanding that this bill was to be renewed. And it has been renewed no end of times."


"I say that I think the times is come to a end at last."

"I think the times is come to a end at last."


"You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself."


"Joshua Smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?"


"Guv'ner," says Phil with exceeding gravity, "he's a leech in his dispositions, he's a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in his twistings, and a lobster in his claws."

"Guv'ner," says Phil with exceeding gravity, "he's a leech in his actions, a snake in his twistings, and a lobster in his claws."


Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod, after waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of him, gets back by his usual series of movements to the target he has in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical medium that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. George, having folded the letter, walks in that direction.


"There IS a way, commander," says Phil, looking cunningly at him, "of settling this."


"Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could."


Phil shakes his head. "No, guv'ner, no; not so bad as that. There IS a way," says Phil with a highly artistic turn of his brush; "what I'm a-doing at present."


"A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would become of the Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to pay off my old scores? YOU'RE a moral character," says the trooper, eyeing him in his large way with no small indignation; "upon my life you are, Phil!"

"Do you know what would become of the Bagnets if I don't pay up? They would be ruined to pay off my old scores!"


Phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb, that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not so much as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy family when steps are audible in the long passage without, and a cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil, with a look at his master, hobbles up, saying, "Here's the guv'ner, Mrs. Bagnet! Here he is!" and the old girl herself, accompanied by Mr. Bagnet, appears.

Phil is starting to reply when steps are audible in the passage without, and a cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil, with a look at his master, says, "Here's the guv'ner, Mrs. Bagnet!" and the old girl herself, accompanied by Mr. Bagnet, appears.


The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe from another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a pair of spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article long associated with the British army. The old girl's umbrella is of a flabby habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays--an appearance that is possibly referable to its having served through a series of years at home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet bag. She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad. Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George's Shooting Gallery.

The old girl is in her usual grey cloak, coarse and much worn but very clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment which made its way home to Europe once in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an umbrella. The faithful umbrella is also present, though Mrs. Bagnet never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak and hood. She generally uses the umbrella as a wand to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in the market. Without her market-basket, a sort of wicker well, she never stirs abroad. Attended by these trusty companions, therefore, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George's Shooting Gallery.


"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do YOU do, this sunshiny morning?"

"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do you do, this sunshiny morning?"


Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a long breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms, and looks perfectly comfortable.

Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet sits down.


Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod and smile.

Mr. Bagnet likewise shakes hands with his old comrade and with Phil,


"Now, George," said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, "here we are, Lignum and myself"--she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy--"just looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that security. Give him the new bill to sign, George, and he'll sign it like a man."

"Now, George," said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, "here we are, Lignum and myself" - she often speaks of her husband by this old regimental nickname, Lignum Vitae, after that toughest of timbers - "We've just looked in to make it all correct as usual about that security. Give him the new bill to sign, George."


"I was coming to you this morning," observes the trooper reluctantly.


"Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned out early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and came to you instead--as you see! For Lignum, he's tied so close now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But what's the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk. "You don't look yourself."

"What's the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet. "You don't look yourself."


"I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "I have been a little put out, Mrs. Bagnet."


Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George!" holding up her forefinger. "Don't tell me there's anything wrong about that security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on account of the children!"

Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George! Don't tell me there's anything wrong about that security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on account of the children!"


The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.

The trooper looks at her with a troubled face.


"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. "If you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's, and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of being sold up--and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as print--you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly. I tell you, cruelly, George. There!"

"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis. "If you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's, and if you have put us in danger of being sold up - and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as print - you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly. Cruelly, George!"


Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, puts his large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it from a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.

Mr. Bagnet puts his large hand on top of his bald head as if to defend it from a shower and looks uneasily at Mrs. Bagnet.


"George," says that old girl, "I wonder at you! George, I am ashamed of you! George, I couldn't have believed you would have done it! I always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know what a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebec and Malta and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, or could, have had the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!" Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner, "How could you do it?"

"George," says that old girl, "I wonder at you! George, I am ashamed of you! I always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. Oh, George!" Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes. "How could you do it?"


Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head as if the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr. George, who has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak and straw bonnet.


"Mat," says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but still looking at his wife, "I am sorry you take it so much to heart, because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. I certainly have, this morning, received this letter"--which he reads aloud--"but I hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone, why, what you say is true. I AM a rolling stone, and I never rolled in anybody's way, I fully believe, that I rolled the least good to. But it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and family better than I like 'em, Mat, and I trust you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've kept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than a quarter of an hour."

"Mat," he says in a subdued voice, addressing Mr. Bagnet but still looking at his wife, "I do hope it's not so bad as that. I certainly have, this morning, received this letter" - which he reads aloud - "but I hope it may be set right yet. What you say is true. I am a rolling stone, and I never rolled the least good to anybody. But I trust you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've kept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than a quarter of an hour."


"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, "will you tell him my opinion?"


"Oh! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and half crying, "Joe Pouch's widder in North America? Then he wouldn't have got himself into these troubles."


"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct--why didn't you?"

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct - why didn't you?"