The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, and the shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that pair, one living and one dead, fell heavier on Richard's departure than the darkness of the darkest night. And through Richard's farewell words I heard it echoed: "Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken!"

The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, and the shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that pair, one living and one dead, fell heavier on Richard's departure than the darkness of the darkest night.
And through Richard's farewell words I heard it echoed: "Of all my old associations, this one poor soul alone comes natural to me. There is a tie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken!"


Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls in corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brown holland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the Dedlock ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and around the house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rain beats, the windows rattle, and the chimneys growl. Mists hide in the avenues, veil the points of view, and move in funeral-wise across the rising grounds. On all the house there is a cold, blank smell like the smell of a little church, though something dryer, suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there in the long nights and leave the flavour of their graves behind them.

Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls, bright damask is covered in brown dust-sheets, and the Dedlock ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around the house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. No matter how much the gardener sweeps up, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rain beats, and the windows rattle. Mists hide in the avenues, veil the views, and move funeral-wise across the grounds. On all the house there is the cold, blank smell of a church, suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there in the long nights and leave the flavour of their graves behind them.


But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as Chesney Wold at the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices or mourning when it mourns, excepting when a Dedlock dies--the house in town shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so much state may be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear no trace of winter as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so that the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb the stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap those chilled bones of Sir Leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir Leicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment before the great fire in the library, condescendingly perusing the backs of his books or honouring the fine arts with a glance of approbation. For he has his pictures, ancient and modern. Some of the Fancy Ball School in which art occasionally condescends to become a master, which would be best catalogued like the miscellaneous articles in a sale. As "Three high-backed chairs, a table and cover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask, one Spanish female's costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg the model, and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote." Or "One stone terrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian senator's dress complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with profile portrait of Miss Jogg the model, one Scimitar superbly mounted in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate Moorish dress (very rare), and Othello."

But the house in town shines out awakened. As warm and bright as possible, as pleasantly scented as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so that the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb the stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap Sir Leicester's chilled bones in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir Leicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment before the great fire in the library, condescendingly perusing the backs of his books or honouring the fine arts with an approving glance. For he has his pictures, ancient and modern, of fancy Spanish or Venetian scenes.


Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estate business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Lady pretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and as indifferent, and take as little heed of one another, as ever. Yet it may be that my Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knows it. It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of compunction, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty and all the state and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the greater zest for what he is set upon and makes him the more inflexible in it. Whether he be cold and cruel, whether immovable in what he has made his duty, whether absorbed in love of power, whether determined to have nothing hidden from him in ground where he has burrowed among secrets all his life, whether he in his heart despises the splendour of which he is a distant beam, whether he is always treasuring up slights and offences in the affability of his gorgeous clients--whether he be any of this, or all of this, it may be that my Lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionable eyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance, than the two eyes of this rusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees.

Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often on estate business. He sees my Lady pretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and as indifferent to each other, as ever. Yet it may be that my Lady fears Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knows it. It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of remorse or pity. It may be that her beauty and state only give him the greater zest for what he is set upon and make him more inflexible. Whether or no, my Lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionable eyes upon her, than the two eyes of this rusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth.


Sir Leicester sits in my Lady's room--that room in which Mr. Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce--particularly complacent. My Lady, as on that day, sits before the fire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly complacent because he has found in his newspaper some congenial remarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework of society. They apply so happily to the late case that Sir Leicester has come from the library to my Lady's room expressly to read them aloud. "The man who wrote this article," he observes by way of preface, nodding at the fire as if he were nodding down at the man from a mount, "has a well-balanced mind."

Sir Leicester sits in my Lady's room - that room in which Mr. Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce - particularly complacent. My Lady, as on that day, sits before the fire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly complacent because he has found in his newspaper some congenial remarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework of society. He has come from the library to my Lady's room expressly to read them aloud. "The man who wrote this article," he observes, "has a well-balanced mind."


The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my Lady, who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid resignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraught and falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire at Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Leicester, quite unconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionally stopping to remove his glass and express approval, as "Very true indeed," "Very properly put," "I have frequently made the same remark myself," invariably losing his place after each observation, and going up and down the column to find it again.

My Lady, after a languid effort to listen, or rather pretend to listen, becomes distracted and falls into a contemplation of the fire. Sir Leicester, quite unconscious, reads on, occasionally stopping to remark "Very true indeed," or "Very properly put," invariably losing his place after each observation, and going up and down the column to find it again.


Sir Leicester is reading with infinite gravity and state when the door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange announcement, "The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy."

He is reading with infinite gravity when the door opens, and the footman makes this strange announcement, "The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy."


Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, "The young man of the name of Guppy?"

Sir Leicester pauses, and repeats, "The young man of the name of Guppy?"


Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of Guppy, much discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of introduction in his manner and appearance.


"Pray," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, "what do you mean by announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?"


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

"I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would see the young man whenever he called."


With this apology, Mercury directs a scornful and indignant look at the young man of the name of Guppy which plainly says, "What do you come calling here for and getting ME into a row?"


The young man of the name of Guppy stands there, much discomfited.
"It's quite right. I gave him those directions," says my Lady. "Let the young man wait."


"By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I will not interrupt you." Sir Leicester in his gallantry retires, rather declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive appearance.

"By no means, my Lady. I will not interrupt you." Sir Leicester gallantly retires, declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker.


Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has left the room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. She suffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants.

Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has left the room. She asks him what he wants.


"That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a little conversation," returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed.


"You are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?"

"You are the person who has written me so many letters?"


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

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


"And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversation unnecessary? Can you not still?"


Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent "No!" and shakes his head.


"You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after all, that what you have to say does not concern me--and I don't know how it can, and don't expect that it will--you will allow me to cut you short with but little ceremony. Say what you have to say, if you please."

"You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after all, that what you have to say does not concern me - and I don't expect that it will - you will allow me to cut you short. Say what you have to say, please."


My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of the name of Guppy.

My Lady turns herself towards the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man.


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

"With your ladyship's permission, then," says Mr. Guppy, "Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship in my first letter, in the law, and have learnt the habit of not committing myself in writing. The name of my firm is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln's Inn, which may not be altogether unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and Jarndyce."


My Lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. She has ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she were listening.

My Lady's figure stills as if she were listening.


"Now, I may say to your ladyship at once," says Mr. Guppy, a little emboldened, "it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive--in fact, almost blackguardly."

"I may say at once," says Mr. Guppy, a little emboldened, "it is not about Jarndyce and Jarndyce that I wish to speak to your ladyship.


After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the contrary, and not receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds, "If it had been Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your ladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have the pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn--at least we move when we meet one another--and if it had been any business of that sort, I should have gone to him."

If it had been about Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone to your ladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn."


My Lady turns a little round and says, "You had better sit down."

My Lady says, "You had better sit down."


"Thank your ladyship." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, your ladyship"--Mr. Guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he has made small notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve him in the densest obscurity whenever he looks at it--"I--Oh, yes!--I place myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If your ladyship was to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn of the present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation. That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon your ladyship's honour."

"Thank you." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, your ladyship" - he refers to a little slip of paper - "Oh, yes! - I place myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If your ladyship was to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn of this visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation. Consequently, I rely upon your ladyship's honour."


My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the screen, assures him of his being worth no complaint from her.

My Lady, with a disdainful gesture, assures him of his being worth no complaint from her.


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

"Thank your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy; "Now - dash it! I wrote down here the points I thought of touching upon, and I can't quite make them out."


Mr. Guppy, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-birds, to whom he says in his confusion, "I beg your pardon, I am sure." This does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. He murmurs, growing warm and red and holding the slip of paper now close to his eyes, now a long way off, "C.S. What's C.S. for? Oh! C.S.! Oh, I know! Yes, to be sure!" And comes back enlightened.

He blushes, peering at the slip of paper. "C.S. What's C.S.? Oh! I know!


"I am not aware," says Mr. Guppy, standing midway between my Lady and his chair, "whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther Summerson."

I am not aware whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther Summerson."


My Lady's eyes look at him full. "I saw a young lady of that name not long ago. This past autumn."

My Lady's eyes look at him full. "I saw a young lady of that name not long ago."


"Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?" asks Mr. Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, and scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda.

"Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?" asks Mr. Guppy, crossing his arms, and holding his head on one side.


My Lady removes her eyes from him no more.


"I think your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "can hardly remember Miss Summerson's face?"


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


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

"Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson's image imprinted on my 'eart, I found, when I had the honour of going over your ladyship's mansion of Chesney Wold recently, such a resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson and your ladyship's own portrait that it completely knocked me over. And now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near, it's really more surprising than I thought."


Young man of the name of Guppy! There have been times, when ladies lived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call, when that poor life of yours would NOT have been worth a minute's purchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look at this moment.

What a deadly look those beautiful eyes give the young man of the name of Guppy!


My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him again what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with her.

My Lady asks him again what he supposes that this has to do with her.


"Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to his paper, "I am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! 'Mrs. Chadband.' Yes." Mr. Guppy draws his chair a little forward and seats himself again. My Lady reclines in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less of graceful ease than usual perhaps, and never falters in her steady gaze. "A--stop a minute, though!" Mr. Guppy refers again. "E.S. twice? Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on."

"Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to his paper, "I am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! 'Mrs. Chadband.' Yes."
My Lady reclines in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less ease than usual perhaps, and never falters in her steady gaze.


Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech with, Mr. Guppy proceeds.


"Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson's birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because--which I mention in confidence--I know it in the way of my profession at Kenge and Carboy's. Now, as I have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss Summerson's image is imprinted on my 'eart. If I could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship's family she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might make a sort of a claim upon Miss Summerson to look with an eye of more dedicated favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she hasn't favoured them at all."

"Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson's birth and bringing up. I know that fact in the way of my profession at Kenge and Carboy's. Now, as I have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss Summerson's image is imprinted on my 'eart. If I could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship's family she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, Miss Summerson might look with more favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she hasn't favoured them at all."


A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady's face.

A kind of angry smile dawns upon my Lady's face.


"Now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of us professional men--which I may call myself, for though not admitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me by Kenge and Carboy, on my mother's advancing from the principal of her little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy--that I have encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge of her. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship."

"Now, by chance," says Mr. Guppy, "through one of those circumstances that fall in the way of us professional men, I have met the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought Miss Summerson up. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship."


Is the dead colour on my Lady's face reflected from the screen which has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raised hand as if she had forgotten it, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on her?

Is the dead colour on my Lady's face reflected from her green silk screen, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on her?


"Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "ever happen to hear of Miss Barbary?"

"Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "ever hear of Miss Barbary?"


"Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship's family?"

"Was she at all connected with your ladyship's family?"


My Lady's lips move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her head.


"NOT connected?" says Mr. Guppy. "Oh! Not to your ladyship's knowledge, perhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes." After each of these interrogatories, she has inclined her head. "Very good! Now, this Miss Barbary was extremely close--seems to have been extraordinarily close for a female, females being generally (in common life at least) rather given to conversation--and my witness never had an idea whether she possessed a single relative. On one occasion, and only one, she seems to have been confidential to my witness on a single point, and she then told her that the little girl's real name was not Esther Summerson, but Esther Hawdon."

"Not to your ladyship's knowledge, perhaps? Ah! But might be? Very good!" says Mr. Guppy. "Now, this Miss Barbary was extremely close and secretive, and my witness never had an idea whether she possessed a single relative. On one occasion only, she confided to my witness on a single point, and she then told her that the little girl's real name was not Esther Summerson, but Esther Hawdon."


Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him looking him through, with the same dark shade upon her face, in the same attitude even to the holding of the screen, with her lips a little apart, her brow a little contracted, but for the moment dead. He sees her consciousness return, sees a tremor pass across her frame like a ripple over water, sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a great effort, sees her force herself back to the knowledge of his presence and of what he has said. All this, so quickly, that her exclamation and her dead condition seem to have passed away like the features of those long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened up in tombs, which, struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a breath.

Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him in the same attitude, with her lips a little apart, her brow a little contracted, but for the moment dead. He sees a tremor pass across her frame like a ripple over water, sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a great effort, all in a swift breath.


"Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon?"


"Name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship's family?"

"Name of any remote branch of your ladyship's family?"


"Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "I come to the last point of the case, so far as I have got it up. It's going on, and I shall gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship must know--if your ladyship don't happen, by any chance, to know already--that there was found dead at the house of a person named Krook, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great distress. Upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and which law-writer was an anonymous character, his name being unknown. But, your ladyship, I have discovered very lately that that law-writer's name was Hawdon."

"Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "I come to the last point of the case. Your ladyship must know that there was found dead at the house of a person named Krook, near Chancery Lane, a law-writer in great distress. There was an inquest, in which this law-writer was an anonymous character, his name being unknown. But, your ladyship, I have discovered very lately that that law-writer's name was Hawdon."


"Aye, your ladyship, that's the question! Now, your ladyship, a queer thing happened after that man's death. A lady started up, a disguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene of action and went to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it her. If your ladyship would wish to have the boy produced in corroboration of this statement, I can lay my hand upon him at any time."

"Aye, your ladyship, that's the question! Now, your ladyship, a queer thing happened after that man's death. A lady in disguise went to look at the scene and went to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it her. If your ladyship would wish to have the boy produced, I can lay my hand upon him at any time."


The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does NOT wish to have him produced.

The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does not wish to have him produced.


"Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed," says Mr. Guppy. "If you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on her fingers when she took her glove off, you'd think it quite romantic."

"I assure your ladyship it's very queer indeed," says Mr. Guppy. "If you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on her fingers when she took her glove off, you'd think it quite romantic.


There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen. My Lady trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, again with that expression which in other times might have been so dangerous to the young man of the name of Guppy.


"It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap behind him by which he could be possibly identified. But he did. He left a bundle of old letters."

It was supposed, your ladyship, that Hawdon left no scrap behind him by which he could be identified. But he did. He left a bundle of old letters."


The screen still goes, as before. All this time her eyes never once release him.


"They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your ladyship, they will come into my possession."

"They were taken and hidden. And tomorrow night, your ladyship, they will come into my possession."


"Your ladyship, I conclude with that." Mr. Guppy rises. "If you think there's enough in this chain of circumstances put together--in the undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to your ladyship, which is a positive fact for a jury; in her having been brought up by Miss Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating Miss Summerson's real name to be Hawdon; in your ladyship's knowing both these names VERY WELL; and in Hawdon's dying as he did--to give your ladyship a family interest in going further into the case, I will bring these papers here. I don't know what they are, except that they are old letters: I have never had them in my possession yet. I will bring those papers here as soon as I get them and go over them for the first time with your ladyship. I have told your ladyship my object. I have told your ladyship that I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation if any complaint was made, and all is in strict confidence."

"Your ladyship, I end with that." Mr. Guppy rises. "If you think there's enough in this chain of circumstances to give your ladyship a family interest in going further into the case, I will bring these papers here. I don't know what they are, except that they are old letters: I have never seen them. I will bring those papers here as soon as I get them and go over them for the first time with your ladyship. I have told your ladyship all this in strict confidence."


Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppy, or has he any other? Do his words disclose the length, breadth, depth, of his object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they hide? He is a match for my Lady there. She may look at him, but he can look at the table and keep that witness-box face of his from telling anything.

Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppy, or has he any other? Do his words disclose his full object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they hide? He is a match for my Lady. That witness-box face of his tells her nothing.


"You may bring the letters," says my Lady, "if you choose."


"Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour," says Mr. Guppy, a little injured.

"Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word," says Mr. Guppy, a little injured.


"You may bring the letters," she repeats in the same tone, "if you--please."

"You may bring the letters," she repeats in the same tone, "if you please."


"It shall be done. I wish your ladyship good day."


On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and clasped like an old strong-chest. She, looking at him still, takes it to her and unlocks it.

On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket. Looking at him, she unlocks it.


"Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of that sort," says Mr. Guppy, "and I couldn't accept anything of the kind. I wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you all the same."

"Oh! I assure your ladyship I couldn't accept anything of the kind," says Mr. Guppy. "I wish your ladyship good day."


So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where the supercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave his Olympus by the hall-fire to let the young man out.

So the young man makes his bow and leaves.


As Sir Leicester basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper, is there no influence in the house to startle him, not to say to make the very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms, the very portraits frown, the very armour stir?

As Sir Leicester dozes over his newspaper in the library, is there no influence in the house to startle him, to make the very portraits frown, the very armour stir?


No. Words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in and shut out throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered trumpet-tongued indeed by my Lady in her chamber to carry any faint vibration to Sir Leicester's ears; and yet this cry is in the house, going upward from a wild figure on its knees.

No. Sobs and cries are only air, and air is so shut in throughout the house in town that no vibration is carried to Sir Leicester's ears; and yet this cry is in the house, going from a wild figure on its knees.


"O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as my cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had renounced me and my name! O my child, O my child!"


There is disquietude in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Black suspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook's Courtiers are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse; but Mr. Snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it.

There is disquietude in Cook's Court. Black suspicion hides there. Mr. Snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it.


For Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields persist in harnessing themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of Mr. Snagsby's imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengers are Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls though the law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock. Even in the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles away at a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when Mr. Snagsby pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton baked with potatoes and stares at the kitchen wall.

For Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields have harnessed themselves like wild horses to the chariot of Mr. Snagsby's imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengers are Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the whole lot whirl though the law-stationery business all round the clock. Even in the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles away when Mr. Snagsby pauses in carving the leg of mutton and stares at the kitchen wall.


Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with. Something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what may come of it, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard of quarter is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of the robes and coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through the surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for the mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers, whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legal neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of Detective Mr. Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner, impossible to be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And it is the fearful peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour of his daily life, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, at any entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may take air and fire, explode, and blow up--Mr. Bucket only knows whom.

Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is all about. Something is wrong somewhere, but what something is the puzzle of his life. His veneration for Mr. Tulkinghorn, and his remembrance of Detective Bucket with his confidential manner, persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. At any moment, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may explode, and blow up - Mr. Bucket only knows whom.


For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop (as many men unknown do) and says, "Is Mr. Snagsby in?" or words to that innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guilty breast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when they are made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears over the counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and why they can't speak out at once? More impracticable men and boys persist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep and terrifying him with unaccountable questions, so that often when the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in his usual absurd way about the morning, Mr. Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his little woman shaking him and saying "What's the matter with the man!"

For which reason, whenever an unknown man comes into the shop (as many do) and says, "Is Mr. Snagsby in?", Mr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guilty breast. Men and boys persist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep and terrifying him with unaccountable questions, so that often at cock-crow Mr. Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his little woman shaking him awake and saying "What's the matter with the man!"


The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty. To know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he has under all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender double tooth, which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head, gives Mr. Snagsby, in her dentistical presence, much of the air of a dog who has a reservation from his master and will look anywhere rather than meet his eye.

The little woman herself is not the least of his difficulties. To know that he is keeping a secret from her, like a tender tooth, which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head, makes Mr. Snagsby unwilling to meet her eye.


These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are not lost upon her. They impel her to say, "Snagsby has something on his mind!" And thus suspicion gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Snagsby finds the road as natural and short as from Cook's Court to Chancery Lane. And thus jealousy gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (and it was always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble in Mrs. Snagsby's breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations of Mr. Snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters; to private researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box, and iron safe; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors, and a general putting of this and that together by the wrong end.

These various signs are not lost upon the little woman. They impel her to say, "Snagsby has something on his mind!" And thus suspicion gets into Cook's Court. Suspicion leads naturally to jealousy, which is very active and nimble in Mrs. Snagsby's breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations of Mr. Snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters; to private researches in the ledger; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors, and a general putting of this and that together in the wrong way.


Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomes ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The 'prentices think somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times. Guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at Tooting, where they were found floating among the orphans) that there is buried money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with a white beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because he said the Lord's Prayer backwards.


"Who was Nimrod?" Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself. "Who was that lady--that creature? And who is that boy?" Now, Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs. Snagsby has appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs her mental eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy. "And who," quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first time, "is that boy? Who is that--!" And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized with an inspiration.

"Who was that lady - that creature?" Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself. "And who is that boy?" The lady being unproducible, she directs her mental eye with redoubled vigilance to the boy. And she is seized with an inspiration.


He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and he wouldn't have, of course. Naturally he wouldn't, under those contagious circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr. Chadband--why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!--to come back, and be told where he was to go, to be addressed by Mr. Chadband; and he never came! Why did he never come? Because he was told not to come. Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha! Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.

He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure. He was invited by Mr. Chadband to come back, and hear Mr. Chadband; and he never came! Why did he never come? Because he was told not to come. Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha! Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.


But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightly smiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets; and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires to improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, was seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in Cook's Court to-morrow night, "to--mor--row--night," Mrs. Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile and another tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy will be here, and to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye upon him and upon some one else; and oh, you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby with haughtiness and scorn), but you can't blind ME!

But happily that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets; and that boy was seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and promised to appear in Cook's Court tomorrow night.


Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds her purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, the savoury preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes. Comes Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (when the gorging vessel is replete) the 'prentices and Guster, to be edified; comes at last, with his slouching head, and his shuffle backward, and his shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caught and was plucking before eating raw, Jo, the very, very tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.

Mrs. Snagsby thinks with a tight smile and a tight shake of her head that tomorrow night that boy will be here, and Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye on him and on some one else; and oh, you may walk in your secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby with scorn), but you can't blind me!
Tomorrow evening comes. Comes Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come the 'prentices and Guster, to be edified; comes at last, with his slouch and his shuffle, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, Jo, the very tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.


Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into the little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby the moment he comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr. Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsby sees it all? Why else should that look pass between them, why else should Mr. Snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind his hand? It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's father.

Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into the little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby the moment he comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr. Snagsby looks at him. Mrs. Snagsby sees it all - it is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's father.


"Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily exudations from his reverend visage. "Peace be with us! My friends, why with us? Because," with his fat smile, "it cannot be against us, because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes home unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us! My human boy, come forward!"

"Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oil from his reverend face. "Peace be with us! My friends, why with us? Because," with his fat smile, "it cannot be against us, because it must be for us; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us! My boy, come forward!"


Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on Jo's arm and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful of his reverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but that something practical and painful is going to be done to him, mutters, "You let me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let me alone."

Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays it on Jo's arm. Jo, very doubtful of his intentions, mutters, "You let me alone. I never said nothink to you."


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

"No, my young friend," says Chadband smoothly, "I will not let you alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because you are delivered unto me and are become as a precious instrument in my hands. My young friend, sit upon this stool."


Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend gentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got into the required position with great difficulty and every possible manifestation of reluctance.

Jo, apparently convinced that the reverend gentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got onto the stool with great difficulty.


When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband, retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw and says, "My friends!" This is the signal for a general settlement of the audience. The 'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other. Guster falls into a staring and vacant state, compounded of a stunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendless outcast whose condition touches her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silently lays trains of gunpowder. Mrs. Chadband composes herself grimly by the fire and warms her knees, finding that sensation favourable to the reception of eloquence.

Mr. Chadband, retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw and says, "My friends!" The 'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other. Guster falls into a vacant state, compounded of a stunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendless outcast. Mrs. Snagsby silently lays trails of gunpowder. Mrs. Chadband warms her knees grimly by the fire.


It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some member of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing his points with that particular person, who is understood to be expected to be moved to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or other audible expression of inward working, which expression of inward working, being echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and so communicated like a game of forfeits through a circle of the more fermentable sinners present, serves the purpose of parliamentary cheering and gets Mr. Chadband's steam up. From mere force of habit, Mr. Chadband in saying "My friends!" has rested his eye on Mr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that ill-starred stationer, already sufficiently confused, the immediate recipient of his discourse.

Mr. Chadband has a habit of fixing some member of his congregation with his eye and arguing his points with that person, who is understood to be expected to be moved to an occasional grunt, groan, or gasp, to be echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and so communicated through a circle of the sinners present. From mere force of habit, Mr. Chadband has rested his eye on Mr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that confused and ill-starred stationer the recipient of his speech.


"We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, "a Gentile and a heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone's and a mover-on upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends," and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail, bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsby, signifying that he will throw him an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down, "a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of these possessions? Why? Why is he?" Mr. Chadband states the question as if he were propounding an entirely new riddle of much ingenuity and merit to Mr. Snagsby and entreating him not to give it up.

"We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, "a Gentile and a heathen. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of these possessions? Why is he?" Mr. Chadband states the question as if he were asking Mr. Snagsby an ingenious riddle.


Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received just now from his little woman--at about the period when Mr. Chadband mentioned the word parents--is tempted into modestly remarking, "I don't know, I'm sure, sir." On which interruption Mrs. Chadband glares and Mrs. Snagsby says, "For shame!"

Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received from his little woman when Mr. Chadband mentioned the word parents, remarks, "I don't know, I'm sure, sir." On which interruption Mrs. Chadband glares and Mrs. Snagsby says, "For shame!"


"I hear a voice," says Chadband; "is it a still small voice, my friends? I fear not, though I fain would hope so--"


"Which says, 'I don't know.' Then I will tell you why. I say this brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask you, what is that light?"

which says, 'I don't know.' Then I will tell you why. I say this brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask you, what is that light?"


Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Snagsby is not to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, leaning forward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directly into Mr. Snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned.

Mr. Chadband pauses and addresses Mr. Snagsby.


"It is," says Chadband, "the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth."

"It is the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth."


Mr. Chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at Mr. Snagsby as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that.

Mr. Chadband draws himself up and looks triumphantly at Mr. Snagsby.


"Of Terewth," says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. "Say not to me that it is NOT the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say to you, a million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that I will proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the less you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With a speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be flawed, you shall be smashed."

"Of Terewth," he says. "I say to you, a million of times over, it is! I say to you that I will proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not, with a speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be smashed."


The present effect of this flight of oratory--much admired for its general power by Mr. Chadband's followers--being not only to make Mr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent Mr. Snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with a forehead of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate tradesman becomes yet more disconcerted and is in a very advanced state of low spirits and false position when Mr. Chadband accidentally finishes him.

The effect of this oratory is not only to make Mr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent Mr. Snagsby as a determined enemy to virtue. That unfortunate tradesman becomes yet more disconcerted when Mr. Chadband accidentally finishes him.


"My friends," he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some time--and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab--"to pursue the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to which I have alluded. For, my young friends," suddenly addressing the 'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, "if I am told by the doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturally ask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to be informed of that before I dose myself with either or with both. Now, my young friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in a spirit of love), what is the common sort of Terewth--the working clothes--the every-day wear, my young friends? Is it deception?"

"My friends," he resumes after dabbing his fat head, "let us inquire what is that Terewth to which I have alluded. Now, my young friends," suddenly addressing the 'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, "what is this Terewth then? Is it deception?"


A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby.


A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby--very long and very tight.


"No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names belongs to it. When this young heathen now among us--who is now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being set upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that I should have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for his sake--when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a cock, and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was THAT the Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly and entirely? No, my friends, no!"

"No, my friends, it is none of these. When this young heathen - who is now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being set upon his eyelids - when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a lady, and of a sovereign, was that wholly the Terewth? No, my friends, no!"


If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look as it enters at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the whole tenement, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops.

Mr. Snagsby, at his little woman's look, cowers and droops.


"Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to the level of their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in his greasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for the purpose, "if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto him the mistress of this house, and was to say, 'Sarah, rejoice with me, for I have seen an elephant!' would THAT be Terewth?"

"Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to the level of their comprehension with a greasy smile, "if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there see an eel, and was to come back, and say to the mistress of the house, 'Sarah, rejoice with me, for I have seen an elephant!' would that be Terewth?"


"Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and returning said 'Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,' would THAT be Terewth?"


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

"Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, stimulated by the sound, "if the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen. after casting him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and the young gazelles, went back to their dwellings and had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and dancings, would that be Terewth?"


Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not an unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook's Court re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic, she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. After unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmost consternation, she is pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom, free from pain, though much exhausted, in which state of affairs Mr. Snagsby, trampled and crushed in the piano-forte removal, and extremely timid and feeble, ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room.

Mrs. Snagsby replies by going into spasms, so that Cook's Court echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic, she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. After unspeakable suffering, she is pronounced, by messages from the bedroom, to be free from pain, though much exhausted; at which Mr. Snagsby, trampled and timid, ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room.


All this time Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up, ever picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He spits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate and that it's no good HIS trying to keep awake, for HE won't never know nothink. Though it may be, Jo, that there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common men, that if the Chadbands, removing their own persons from the light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent enough without their modest aid--it might hold thee awake, and thou might learn from it yet!

By this time Jo is standing on the spot where he woke up, picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He feels that it's no good his trying to keep awake, for he won't never know nothink.


Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the Reverend Chadband are all one to him, except that he knows the Reverend Chadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear him talk for five minutes. "It an't no good my waiting here no longer," thinks Jo. "Mr. Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to me to-night." And downstairs he shuffles.

"It an't no good my waiting here no longer," thinks Jo. "Mr. Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to me tonight." And downstairs he shuffles.


But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail of the kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, the same having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has her own supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo, with whom she ventures to interchange a word or so for the first time.

But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding the handrail of the kitchen stairs and warding off a fit induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has her own supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo.


"Here's something to eat, poor boy," says Guster.


"What's gone of your father and your mother, eh?"

"What's gone of your father and mother, eh?"


Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For this orphan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tooting has patted him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in his life that any decent hand has been so laid upon him.

Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For Guster has patted him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in his life that any decent hand has been so laid upon him.


"I never know'd nothink about 'em," says Jo.


"No more didn't I of mine," cries Guster. She is repressing symptoms favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm at something and vanishes down the stairs.

"No more didn't I of mine," cries Guster. She then seems to take alarm at something and vanishes.


"Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on the step.

"Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers.


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

"There's another half-crown, Jo. It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night. It would breed trouble. You can't be too quiet, Jo."


A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer to the room he came from and glides higher up. And henceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by another shadow than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly less quiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy his own shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! For the watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too--bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of his shadow.

A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer to the room he came from and then glides higher up. And henceforth, go where he will, he is attended by a shadow hardly less constant than his own. And into whatever secrecy his own shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! For the watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too - bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of his shadow.


It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother who had told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture to approach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense of the peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by my fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as a living creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could not always conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when I first knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. I felt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the conversation anywhere, when I was present, took that direction, as it sometimes naturally did, I tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeated something that I knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious now that I often did these things when there can have been no danger of her being spoken of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearing anything that might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me.

I thought much of my living mother who had told me to consider her dead. I could not venture to approach her or write to her, for my sense of her peril was only equalled by my fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence was an unforeseen danger to her, I could not always conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when I first knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. I felt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the conversation anywhere took that direction, I tried not to hear: I mentally counted, or went out of the room.


It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother's voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public mention of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door of her house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I once sat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. I may well pass that little and go on.

Often I recalled the tones of my mother's voice, and wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to do. I passed and repassed the door of her house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; once I sat in the theatre when my mother was there and she saw me, when we were so wide asunder that any link between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over now.


When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many conversations with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. My dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so much wrong, but she was so faithful to Richard that she could not bear to blame him even for that. My guardian was assured of it, and never coupled his name with a word of reproof. "Rick is mistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "Well, well! We have all been mistaken over and over again. We must trust to you and time to set him right."

When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many conversations with my guardian about Richard. My dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so much wrong, but she was so faithful to Richard that she could not bear to blame him. My guardian was aware of it.
"Rick is mistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "Well, well! We have all been mistaken over and over again. We must trust to you and time to set him right."


We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust to time until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he had written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devoted Richard was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would make amends when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in the dark, he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those clouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion and misunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work the suit out and come through it to his right mind. This was his unvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained such possession of his whole nature that it was impossible to place any consideration before him which he did not, with a distorted kind of reason, make a new argument in favour of his doing what he did. "So that it is even more mischievous," said my guardian once to me, "to remonstrate with the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone."

We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he had written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor Richard was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would make amends when the Chancery suit was over. Let him work the suit out. This was his unvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained possession of his whole nature.


I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr. Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.

I mentioned to my guardian my doubts of Mr. Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.


"Adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "My dear, who would advise with Skimpole?"

"Adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "My dear, who would ask advice from Skimpole?"


"Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I.


"Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouraged by Skimpole?"


"No," he replied. "Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer creature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advising or encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or anything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as Skimpole."

"Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer creature is a relief, an amusement to Richard. But as to advising or encouraging anybody, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as Skimpole."


"Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us and now looked over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?"

"Pray, cousin John," said Ada, "what made him such a child?"


"What made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing his head, a little at a loss.


"Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he is all sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility, and--and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him, somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in his youth attached too much importance to them and too little to any training that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he became what he is. Hey?" said my guardian, stopping short and looking at us hopefully. "What do you think, you two?"

"Why," he slowly replied, rubbing his head, "he is all sentiment, and - susceptibility, and - imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him, somehow. I suppose in his youth he was given too little training that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he became what he is."


Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be an expense to Richard.


"So it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That must not be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will never do."

"So it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That must not be. I must prevent it. That will never do."


And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.


"Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his face. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! There is nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the value of money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr. Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it and thinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I'll be bound, my dear?"

"Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his face. "But there you have the man! He has no idea of the value of money. He told you himself, I'll be bound, my dear?"


"Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you have the man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any harm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in mere simplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'll understand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole and caution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an infant!"

"Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you have the man! If he was conscious of any harm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it, in mere simplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'll understand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole and caution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an infant!"


In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.

So, soon afterwards, we went into London and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.


He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, I don't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or three of the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.

He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in cloaks, smoking little cigars. Whether he was a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody always paying his rent, I don't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a dilapidated state. Two or three of the area railings were gone, the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off, and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.


A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then applied herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good action either, and said would we go upstairs?

A slatternly girl who seemed to be bursting out at the rips in her gown like an over-ripe berry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in.


We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without further ceremony entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingy enough and not at all clean, but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows was papered and wafered over, but there was a little plate of hothouse nectarines on the table, and there was another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine. Mr. Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china cup--it was then about mid-day--and looking at a collection of wallflowers in the balcony.

We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce entered a room, and we followed. It was dingy and not at all clean, but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, a piano, books, drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows was papered over, but there was a little plate of hothouse nectarines on the table, and another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine.
Mr. Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown, drinking coffee from an old china cup - it was then about mid-day - and looking at a collection of wallflowers in the balcony.


He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose and received us in his usual airy manner.

He rose and received us in his usual airy manner.


"Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. "Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don't want them for themselves, but they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solar about legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!"

"Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without some difficulty, most of the chairs being broken. "Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret; I am content."


"This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he ever prescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us.

"This is our friend's sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us.


"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this is the bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!"


He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings! Not an ambitious note, but still he sings."

He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings!"


"These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?"


"No," he answered. "No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His man wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether he should wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I think not--if your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, for he went away."

"No," he answered. "Some amiable gardener sells them. His man wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether he should wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I think not - if your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, for he went away."


My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "Is it possible to be worldly with this baby?"


"This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret in a tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call it Saint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. I have a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a Sentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see them all. They'll be enchanted."

"This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call it Saint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. I have a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a Sentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see them all. They'll be enchanted."


He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and asked him to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first. "My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa, "as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We never know what o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get on in life, you'll tell me? Certainly. But we DON'T get on in life. We don't pretend to do it."

He was going to summon them when my guardian asked him to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first.
"My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa, "as many moments as you please. Time is no object here."


My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear him?"


"Now, Harold," he began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick."

"Now, Harold," my guardian began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick."


"The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "I suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms with you. But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthful poetry, and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. I love him."

"The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "I suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms with you. But I can't help it; he is full of youthful poetry, and I love him."


The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really had a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not, for the moment, Ada too.

The engaging frankness with which he declared this captivated my guardian, if not, for the moment, Ada too.


"You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned Mr. Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold."


"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to what I don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping one of the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with an ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.

"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to what I don't understand." Dipping one of the cakes in his claret, he shook his head and smiled at us as if predicting that he never could be made to understand.


"If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "you must not let him pay for both."

"If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "you must not let him pay for you both."


"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial face irradiated by the comicality of this idea, "what am I to do? If he takes me anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any money. If I had any money, I don't know anything about it. Suppose I say to a man, how much? Suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? I know nothing about seven and sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue the subject with any consideration for the man. I don't go about asking busy people what seven and sixpence is in Moorish--which I don't understand. Why should I go about asking them what seven and sixpence is in Money--which I don't understand?"

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole genially, "what am I to do? If he takes me anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any money. If I had any money, I don't know anything about it. Suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? I know nothing about seven and sixpence. I don't understand it."


"Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless reply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you must borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that circumstance), and leave the calculation to him."

"Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless reply, "if you do any journeying with Rick, you must borrow the money from me (without telling him), and leave the calculation to him."


"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything to give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition. Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson, I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had only to make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or a bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a shower of money."

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything to give you pleasure, but upon my word, I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had only to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or something, to bring down a shower of money."


"Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor."


"No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "You surprise me."


"And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said my guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr. Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage him in that reliance, Harold."

"And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said my guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr. Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be very careful not to encourage him in that reliance, Harold."


"My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear Miss Simmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It's business, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me. He emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightest prospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admire them. I do admire them--as bright prospects. But I know no more about them, and I tell him so."

"My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "how can I do that? It's business, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me. He emerges from great feats of business, and calls upon me to admire them. I do admire them. But I know nothing about them, and I tell him so."


The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before us, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his innocence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his own protection and argued about that curious person, combined with the delightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out my guardian's case. The more I saw of him, the more unlikely it seemed to me, when he was present, that he could design, conceal, or influence anything; and yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present, and the less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do with any one for whom I cared.

The helpless light-hearted candour with which he said this seemed to prove my guardian's case. When he was present, it seemed unlikely that he could design, conceal, or influence anything; and yet when he was not present, the more likely it seemed, and the less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do with anyone for whom I cared.


Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr. Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters (his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quite delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish character. He soon came back, bringing with him the three young ladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now a delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of disorders.

Mr. Skimpole then left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters (his sons had run away at various times). He came back bringing with him three young ladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now a delicate invalid suffering under a complication of disorders.


"This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa--plays and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment daughter, Laura--plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedy daughter, Kitty--sings a little but don't play. We all draw a little and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money."

"This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa - plays and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment daughter, Laura - plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedy daughter, Kitty - sings a little but don't play. We all draw a little and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money."


Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad to strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought that she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that she took every opportunity of throwing in another.


"It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes from one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting to trace peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, and I am the youngest."

"In this family," said Mr. Skimpole, "we are all children, and I am the youngest."


The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused by this droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter.


"My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? So it is, and so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is our nature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative capacity and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that we know nothing about chops in this house. But we don't, not the least. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread we don't know how to use. We admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!"

"My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? Now, here is Miss Summerson with a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very strange to Miss Summerson, I dare say, that we know nothing about chops in this house. But we don't, not the least. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread we don't know how to use. We admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!"


He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to mean what he said.


"We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy for everything. Have we not?"


"Oh, yes, papa!" cried the three daughters.


"In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole, "in this hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of being interested, and we DO look on, and we ARE interested. What more can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now I dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all wrong in point of political economy, but it was very agreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions and exchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home one day, and they and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs. I dare say at some time or other Sentiment and Comedy will bring THEIR husbands home and have THEIR nests upstairs too. So we get on, we don't know how, but somehow."

"We are capable of looking on and of being interested," said Mr. Skimpole, "in this hurly-burly of life, and we do look on, and we are interested. What more can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now I dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all wrong in point of economy, but it was very agreeable. Her young husband and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs."


She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just as little haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father's playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were consulted, I observed, in their respective styles of wearing their hair, the Beauty daughter being in the classic manner, the Sentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing, and the Comedy daughter in the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. They were dressed to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way.

She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the three daughters had grown up with just as little haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father's playthings.


Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found them wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we could not help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previously volunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself for the purpose.

Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found them wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we could not help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had volunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself for the purpose.


"My roses," he said when he came back, "take care of mama. She is poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, I shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has been tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home."

"My roses," he said when he came back, "take care of mama. She is poorly today. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, I shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has been tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home."


"That bad man!" said the Comedy daughter.


"At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his wallflowers, looking at the blue sky," Laura complained.

"At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his wallflowers," Laura complained.


"And when the smell of hay was in the air!" said Arethusa.


"It showed a want of poetry in the man," Mr. Skimpole assented, but with perfect good humour. "It was coarse. There was an absence of the finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken great offence," he explained to us, "at an honest man--"

"It showed a want of poetry in the man," Mr. Skimpole assented, with perfect good humour. "My daughters have taken great offence," he explained to us, "at an honest man-"


"Not honest, papa. Impossible!" they all three protested.


"At a rough kind of fellow--a sort of human hedgehog rolled up," said Mr. Skimpole, "who is a baker in this neighbourhood and from whom we borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we looked to a man who HAD got them, to lend them. Well! This morose person lent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn out, he wanted them back. He had them back. He was contented, you will say. Not at all. He objected to their being worn. I reasoned with him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, 'Can you, at your time of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? That it is an object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to consider from a point of sight? Don't you KNOW that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon?' He was unreasonable and unpersuadable and used intemperate language. Being as patient as I am at this minute, I addressed another appeal to him. I said, 'Now, my good man, however our business capacities may vary, we are all children of one great mother, Nature. On this blooming summer morning here you see me' (I was on the sofa) 'with flowers before me, fruit upon the table, the cloudless sky above me, the air full of fragrance, contemplating Nature. I entreat you, by our common brotherhood, not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime, the absurd figure of an angry baker!' But he did," said Mr. Skimpole, raising his laughing eyes in playful astonishment; "he did interpose that ridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. And therefore I am very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friend Jarndyce."

"At a rough kind of fellow," said Mr. Skimpole, "who is a baker in this neighbourhood and from whom we borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we looked for a man who had got them, to lend them. Well! This morose person lent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn out, he wanted them back. He had them back, and he objected to their being worn. I reasoned with him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, 'Don't you know that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon?' He was unreasonable and used intemperate language. I patiently appealed to him. I said, 'My good man, we are all children of one great mother, Nature. I entreat you, by our brotherhood, not to stand before me in the absurd figure of an angry baker!' But he did," said Mr. Skimpole in playful astonishment. "And therefore I am very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friend Jarndyce."


It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and the daughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was so old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. He took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful as any other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away with us in perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeing through some open doors, as we went downstairs, that his own apartment was a palace to the rest of the house.

It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and the daughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was so old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. He took leave of his family with an airy tenderness and rode away with us.


I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something very startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in what ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guest was in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing but listen to him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Ada yielded to the same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind, which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we left Somers Town, veered completely round before we were a couple of miles from it.

I could have no anticipation that something very startling and memorable was to happen before this day was out. Our guest was in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing but wonder at him; and Ada yielded to the same fascination.


Whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters, Mr. Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright weather. In no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in the drawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I was yet looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcaroles and drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.

In no way wearied by the journey, Mr. Skimpole was in the drawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I was looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcaroles and drinking songs.


We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of music, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the ruined old Verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or two ago and had got tired of, when a card was brought in and my guardian read aloud in a surprised voice, "Sir Leicester Dedlock!"

We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the piano idly picking out little strains of music, when a calling-card was brought in and my guardian read aloud in a surprised voice, "Sir Leicester Dedlock!"