Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most--the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which she said everything, "Go along, you naughty Peepy!" and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.

Peepy was the unfortunate child who had fallen downstairs, and who now came in, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees. Mrs. Jellyby merely said serenely, "Go along, you naughty Peepy!" and


However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. He looked very much astonished at it and at Ada's kissing him, but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, though I derived such a general impression from it of the momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all other places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it.

 proceeded with her dictation.
I ventured to pick up poor Peepy, who looked very much astonished, but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, though I had a general impression of the momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all other places and things.


"Six o'clock!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summerson their rooms. You will like to make some change, perhaps? You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. Oh, that very bad child! Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!"

"Six o'clock!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner-hour is five! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summerson their rooms. You will excuse me, I know, being so busy. Oh, that bad child! Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!"


I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at all troublesome, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication between. They were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork.

I begged permission to retain him, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada and I had two upper rooms with a connecting door between. They were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork.


"You would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain.

"You would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug, but in vain.


"If it is not being troublesome," said we.


"Oh, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; "the question is, if there IS any."

"Oh, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; "the question is, if there is any."


The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smell that I must confess it was a little miserable, and Ada was half crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking when Miss Jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot water, but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order.


We begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could to get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on my bed, and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of noses and fingers in situations of danger between the hinges of the doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either room, for my lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and though the handle of Ada's went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I proposed to the children that they should come in and be very good at my table, and I would tell them the story of Little Red Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of the wolf.

We begged her not to mention it. But all the little children had come up to the landing to look at Peepy lying on my bed. It was impossible to shut the door of either room, for my door had no knob; and though the handle of Ada's went round and round, it had no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I proposed to the children that they should come in and be very good, and I would tell them the story of Little Red Riding Hood while I dressed for dinner; which they did, and were as quiet as mice.


When we went downstairs we found a mug with "A Present from Tunbridge Wells" on it lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick, and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door with Mrs. Jellyby's room) and choking dreadfully. It smoked to that degree, in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an hour, during which Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so employed was, I must say, a great relief to me, for Richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table, and he made Ada laugh so that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner.

When we went downstairs we found a young woman with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage blowing the fire of the drawing-room and choking dreadfully. It smoked so much that we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an hour, while Mrs. Jellyby directed letters about Africa. Richard quietly told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table, and made me and Ada laugh in the most ridiculous manner.


Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner, carefully, by Mrs. Jellyby's advice, for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was almost raw. The young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped everything on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen in pattens, who I suppose to have been the cook, frequently came and skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill will between them.

Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner, stepping carefully on the torn stair-carpets. We had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was almost raw. The young woman with the flannel bandage dropped everything on the table. The person in clogs, who I suppose to have been the cook, frequently came and skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill will between them.


All through dinner--which was long, in consequence of such accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle and the handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the young woman in the chin--Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition. She told us a great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives, and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' committees or resolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read to us; others were applications from people excited in various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives; others required answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four times to write. She was full of business and undoubtedly was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause.

All through dinner - which was long, because of such accidents as the potatoes being mislaid and the handle of the corkscrew coming off - Mrs. Jellyby stayed serene. She told us a great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives, and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' committees, which she read to us; others were applications from people excited about the cultivation of coffee; others required answers, which she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four times to write.


I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemed passively to submit himself to Borrioboola-Gha but not to be actively interested in that settlement. As he never spoke a word, he might have been a native but for his complexion. It was not until we left the table and he remained alone with Richard that the possibility of his being Mr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But he WAS Mr. Jellyby; and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, with large shining knobs for temples and his hair all brushed to the back of his head, who came in the evening, and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Jellyby with Mr. Jellyby the union of mind and matter.

I was curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair after the fish was taken away, never speaking a word. It was not until we left the table and he remained alone with Richard that the possibility of his being Mr. Jellyby entered my head. But he was Mr. Jellyby; and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, with large shining knobs on his forehead and his hair all brushed back, came in, and told Ada he was a philanthropist.


This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about Africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export trade, delighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saying, "I believe now, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundred and fifty to two hundred letters respecting Africa in a single day, have you not?" or, "If my memory does not deceive me, Mrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand circulars from one post-office at one time?"--always repeating Mrs. Jellyby's answer to us like an interpreter. During the whole evening, Mr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his head against the wall as if he were subject to low spirits. It seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when alone with Richard after dinner, as if he had something on his mind, but had always shut it again, to Richard's extreme confusion, without saying anything.

This young man, besides having a great deal to say about Africa, delighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saying, "I believe now, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as two hundred letters about Africa in a single day, have you not?" or, "Mrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand circulars at one time?" During the whole evening, Mr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his head against the wall as if he were in low spirits.


Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee all the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She also held a discussion with Mr. Quale, of which the subject seemed to be--if I understood it--the brotherhood of humanity, and gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an auditor as I might have wished to be, however, for Peepy and the other children came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down among them and told them in whispers "Puss in Boots" and I don't know what else until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take him to bed, I carried him upstairs, where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragon and overturned them into cribs.

Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in a nest of waste paper, drank coffee and dictated to her eldest daughter. She also held a discussion with Mr. Quale, about - if I understood it - the brotherhood of humanity, and expressed some beautiful sentiments. I was not a very attentive listener, however, for Peepy and the other children came flocking about Ada and me to ask for another story; so we sat down and told them in whispers "Puss in Boots" until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take him to bed, I carried him upstairs, where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragon and overturned them into cribs.


After that I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy and in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burn, which at last it did, quite brightly. On my return downstairs, I felt that Mrs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather for being so frivolous, and I was sorry for it, though at the same time I knew that I had no higher pretensions.

After that I tidied our room and coaxed our very cross fire into burning. On my return downstairs, I felt that Mrs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather for being so frivolous.


It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going to bed, and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drinking coffee and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen.

It was nearly midnight before we could go to bed, and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drinking coffee and Miss Jellyby biting her pen.


"What a strange house!" said Ada when we got upstairs. "How curious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!"


"My love," said I, "it quite confuses me. I want to understand it, and I can't understand it at all."

"My love," said I, "it quite confuses me. I can't understand it at all.


"What?" asked Ada with her pretty smile.


"All this, my dear," said I. "It MUST be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives--and yet--Peepy and the housekeeping!"

It must be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to take such pains about the natives - and yet - Peepy and the housekeeping!"


Ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as I stood looking at the fire, and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature and had won her heart. "You are so thoughtful, Esther," she said, "and yet so cheerful! And you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a home out of even this house."

Ada laughed and put her arm around me, and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature.
"You are so thoughtful, Esther," she said, "and yet so cheerful! And you do so much! You would make a home out of even this house."


My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised herself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she made so much of me!

My simple darling! It was because of the goodness of her own heart that she praised me so.


"May I ask you a question?" said I when we had sat before the fire a little while.

"May I ask you a question?" said I when we were sitting before the fire.


"Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you mind describing him to me?"

"Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you mind describing him?"


Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such laughing wonder that I was full of wonder too, partly at her beauty, partly at her surprise.


"You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?"


No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died, she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of him and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted it. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months ago--"a plain, honest letter," Ada said--proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on and telling her that "in time it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit." She had replied, gratefully accepting his proposal. Richard had received a similar letter and had made a similar response. He HAD seen Mr. Jarndyce once, but only once, five years ago, at Winchester school. He had told Ada, when they were leaning on the screen before the fire where I found them, that he recollected him as "a bluff, rosy fellow." This was the utmost description Ada could give me.

No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died, she remembered how the tears would come into her mother's eyes when she spoke of his noble generosity. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months ago - "a plain, honest letter," Ada said - proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on and telling her that "in time it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit." She had replied, gratefully accepting his proposal.
Richard had received a similar letter. He had seen Mr. Jarndyce once, five years ago, at Winchester school, and had told Ada that he was "a bluff, rosy fellow." This was the best description Ada could give me.


It set me thinking so that when Ada was asleep, I still remained before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered when they were recalled by a tap at the door.

It set me thinking; when Ada was asleep, I remained before the fire, wondering about Bleak House. My thoughts were recalled by a tap at the door.


I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in the other.

I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with a broken candle in a broken candlestick.


"May I come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same sulky way.

"May I come in?" she asked unexpectedly.


"Certainly," said I. "Don't wake Miss Clare."


She would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time and looking very gloomy.

She would not sit down, but stood by the fire rubbing at the ink stains on her face, and looking very gloomy.


"I wish Africa was dead!" she said on a sudden.

"I wish Africa was dead!" she said suddenly.


"I do!" she said "Don't talk to me, Miss Summerson. I hate it and detest it. It's a beast!"

"I do! I hate it and detest it. It's a beast!"


I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but would be cool to-morrow. She still stood pouting and frowning at me, but presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed where Ada lay.

I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her forehead, and said it was hot now but would be cool tomorrow. She stood pouting and frowning, but then turned softly towards the bed where Ada lay.


"She is very pretty!" she said with the same knitted brow and in the same uncivil manner.

"She is very pretty!" she said with the same knitted brow.


"But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes, and needlework, and everything?"


"I can't," she returned. "I can't do anything hardly, except write. I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to do nothing else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think yourselves very fine, I dare say!"

"I can't," she returned. "I can't do anything hardly, except write. I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in and see me able to do nothing else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think yourselves very fine, I dare say!"


I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my chair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I felt towards her.

I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I looked at her as mildly as I could.


"It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I'M disgraceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks--she's always drinking. It's a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn't smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know it was!"

"It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I'm disgraceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks - she's always drinking. Shame on you if you say you didn't smell her today. It was as bad as a public-house at dinner; you know it was!"


"You do," she said very shortly. "You shan't say you don't. You do!"


"Oh, my dear!" said I. "If you won't let me speak--"


"You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss Summerson."


"My dear," said I, "as long as you won't hear me out--"


"Oh, yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it."

"I think you do," said I. "I did not know what you tell me because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt you, and I am sorry to hear it."


"You needn't make a merit of that," said she.


"No, my dear," said I. "That would be very foolish."


She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came softly back and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied, but I thought it better not to speak.

She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. Then she stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied, but I thought it better not to speak.


"I wish I was dead!" she broke out. "I wish we were all dead. It would be a great deal better for us."


In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; she wanted to stay there!

In a moment, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; she wanted to stay there!


"You used to teach girls," she said, "If you could only have taught me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I like you so much!"

"You used to teach girls," she said, "I wish you could have taught me! I am so very miserable, and I like you so much!"


I could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my dress in the same manner. By degrees the poor tired girl fell asleep, and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfully awake and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now it was Ada, now one of my old Reading friends from whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now it was the little mad woman worn out with curtsying and smiling, now some one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one.

I could not persuade her to do anything but move onto a ragged stool, still holding my dress. Gradually the poor tired girl fell asleep, and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfully awake; but at length, my thoughts became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now it was Ada, now it was the little mad woman, now some one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one.


The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when I opened my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gown and cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut them all.

The day was feebly struggling with the fog when I opened my eyes to see a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gown and cap, his teeth chattering with the cold.


It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Chesney Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad tidings to benighted England. It has also found out that they will entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the ELITE of the BEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a giant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat in Lincolnshire.

It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris to Chesney Wold. There, according to the fashionable world, they will be entertaining a brilliant and distinguished circle of the elite.


For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect from the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth and seems to rend it.

The broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, again spanned gracefully, makes a fine view from the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. It glides over the park, chasing the shadows of the clouds. It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with patches of brightness. Across the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light.


Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady and Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and Sir Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the Gate of the Star, out of Paris.

Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady and Sir Leicester start for home. With much jingling and whip-cracking, their carriage rattles out of the yard of the hotel and canters out of Paris.


Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Lady Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay--within the walls playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say a word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing Paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate--only last Sunday, my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.

To tell the truth, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Lady Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only last Sunday, when poor families were playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden; or walking in the Elysian Fields, or through the gloomy Cathedral - only last Sunday, my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.


She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfect remedy is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain--two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in Jacob's dream!

She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies everywhere, but the imperfect remedy is always to fly from the last place where it has been felt. Fling Paris back into the distance, then!


Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored. When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to society.

Sir Leicester is generally complacent, and rarely bored. When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage and reviews his importance to society.


"You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says my Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost read a page in twenty miles.

"You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says my Lady.


"Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever."


"I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I think?"


"You see everything," says Sir Leicester with admiration.


"Ha!" sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome of men!"


"He sends--I really beg your pardon--he sends," says Sir Leicester, selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a message to you. Our stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--" Sir Leicester is so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Lady looks a little irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right of way--' I beg your pardon, that's not the place. He says--yes! Here I have it! He says, 'I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.'"

"He sends," says Sir Leicester, unfolding the letter, "a message to you. Our stopping to change horses drove it out of my memory. He says-" Sir Leicester adjusts his eye-glass - "he says 'In the matter of the right of way-' I beg your pardon, that's not the place. Here it is! He says, 'I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady. Will you do me the favour to mention that I have something to tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.'"


My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.


"That's the message," observes Sir Leicester.


"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, still looking out of her window.

"I should like to walk a little," she says.


"Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.

"Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in surprise.


"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady with unmistakable distinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."

"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady distinctly. "Please stop the carriage."


The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly and walks away so quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulous politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space of a minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage.

The carriage is stopped, and the door is opened. My Lady alights and walks away so quickly that Sir Leicester is left behind. A minute or two elapses before he catches up with her. She smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage.


The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly politeness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme of general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady, says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might be her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat in hand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my Lady, how recognisant of my Lord's politeness, with an inclination of her gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! It is ravishing!

The rattle and clatter of travel continue for three days. Their courtly politeness to each other at the hotels where they stay is the theme of general admiration. Though my Lord is a little aged for my Lady, says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, one can see at a glance that they love each other. One observes my Lord help my Lady from the carriage. One observes my Lady graciously incline her head to him. It is ravishing!


The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whose countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the Radical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over it after stopping to refit, and he goes on with my Lady for Chesney Wold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.

The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like small fry. It is always hard upon Sir Leicester; nevertheless, his dignity gets over it, and he goes on with my Lady to Chesney Wold.


Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, and through the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touched at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath, some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down, some arguing with malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting to consider the question disposed of, now all breaking out again in violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will persist in putting in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the travelling chariot rolls on to the house, where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that.

Through the cold sunlight and the sharp wind, as the day declines and the Ghost's Walk resigns itself to coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to break out into violent debate above them. The carriage rolls on to the house, where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not many as yet. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon change that.


Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester's customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.

Mrs. Rouncewell is waiting and receives Sir Leicester's handshake with a deep curtsy.


"How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you."


"I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir Leicester?"


"My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell with another curtsy.


My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be.

My Lady signifies briefly that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be.


But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she may have conquered, asks, "Who is that girl?"

But Rosa is behind the housekeeper; and my Lady asks, "Who is that girl?"


"A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa."


"Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.

"Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says, touching her shoulder.


Rosa, very much abashed, says, "No, if you please, my Lady!" and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks all the prettier.

Rosa, very much abashed, says, "No, if you please, my Lady!" and glances up, and glances down, and doesn't know where to look, but looks all the prettier.


"Nineteen," repeats my Lady thoughtfully. "Take care they don't spoil you by flattery."


My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what to make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in the days of Queen Elizabeth.

My Lady taps her cheek with delicate gloved fingers and goes on to the staircase.


That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing but murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling touch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this, not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of affability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heaven forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that excellent family, above all, of my Lady, whom the whole world admires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free," not quite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rouncewell thinks she would be more affable.

That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing but murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling touch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this with some pride, being unsure only about the Lady's affability. If my Lady were not quite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rouncewell thinks she would be more affable.


"'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds--only "almost" because it borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs--"that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown young lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of excellence she wants."

"'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds, "that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of excellence she lacks."


"Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" says Watt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a good grandson.

"Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" says Watt, who has come to visit again, he is such a good grandson.


"More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "are words it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied to any drawback on my Lady."


"I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?"


"If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have always reason to be."


"Well," says Watt, "it's to be hoped they line out of their prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride and vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!"


"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for joking."


"Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says Watt, "and I humbly ask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the family and their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller might?"

"I suppose, grandmother," says Watt, "that even with the family and their guests here, there is no objection to my prolonging my stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two?"


"I am glad of that," says Watt, "because I have an inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood."

"I am glad of that," says Watt, "because I long to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood."


He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed. But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's ears that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady's maid is holding forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.

He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed. But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's ears that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks; for my Lady's maid is holding forth about her at this moment with great energy.


My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere in the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyed brown woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain feline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws too eager and the skull too prominent. There is something indefinably keen and wan about her anatomy, and she has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head which could be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when she is in an ill humour and near knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little adornments, these objections so express themselves that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is almost an Englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language; consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention, and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner that her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance.

My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of thirty-two, a large-eyed woman who would be handsome but for a certain feline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face. She has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes which could be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when she is in an ill humour and near knives. With her tasteful dress and little adornments, she seems like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. She has good English, and no lack of words to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention. She pours them out with grim ridicule at dinner.


Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since five years and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of her arriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! "And do you know how pretty you are, child?" "No, my Lady." You are right there! "And how old are you, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!" Oh, how droll! It is the BEST thing altogether.

Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, has been in my Lady's service since five years and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed by my Lady on the moment of her arriving at the house! Oh, how droll!


In short, it is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortense can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look, which intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my Lady's mirrors when my Lady is not among them.

In short, Mademoiselle Hortense can't forget it; but for days afterwards, shows her silent enjoyment of the joke by her tightness of face and thin compressed lips. Her sideways look is frequently reflected in my Lady's mirrors when my Lady is not there.


All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many of them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St. James's to their being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my Lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes.

All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now. They reflect handsome faces, simpering faces, youthful faces, faces of seventy that will not submit to be old; all the faces that have come to pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold. The place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants fill the village and the Dedlock Arms. On Sunday the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company.


The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of its immense advantages. What can it be?

The brilliant and distinguished circle includes within it much education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it. What can it be?


Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the pity) to set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed, swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by other dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle notwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no rational person need particularly object?

Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now to set the dandy fashion; no exquisites swooning in opera boxes or beaus whom it takes four men to shake into his buckskins.


Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold this January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. Who in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning in the things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after finding it out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time and cancelling a few hundred years of history.

But some ladies and gentlemen in the distinguished circle have set up a dandyism - in religion, for instance. In want of an emotion, they have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the vulgar lacking faith in things, and would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful by putting back the hands of time and cancelling a few hundred years of history.


There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending in powder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must array themselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any impress from the moving age.

There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be languid and pretty. Who are not to be disturbed by ideas. For whom even the fine arts must array themselves in the patterns of the past and be particularly careful not to be in earnest.


Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with his party, who has known what office is and who tells Sir Leicester Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate used to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even a Cabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishment that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limited choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to be impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and the leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle, what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidency of the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him in the Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock) because you can't provide for Noodle!

Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with his political party, who tells Sir Leicester Dedlock, after dinner, that a debate is not what it used to be; the House is not what it used to be; even a Cabinet is not what it formerly was; and the country is shipwrecked, gone to pieces!


On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P., contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of the country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it that is in question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done with Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into Parliament, and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, you would have got him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you would have got in for three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and you would have strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, instead of being as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!

Across the table, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P., contends that the shipwreck of the country is due entirely to the wrong people being in charge.


As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but Boodle and his retinue, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are the great actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no doubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers and families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever.

It is perfectly clear to the brilliant and distinguished circle that Boodle and his retinue, and Buffy and his retinue, are the great actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no doubt - who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses; but Boodle and Buffy, and their followers and families, are the chief actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever.


In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as with the circle the necromancer draws around him--very strange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this difference, that being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater danger of their breaking in.


Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and is not to be extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber of the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room, and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time. He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the park from the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if he had never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request a servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he should be wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of the library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook.

Chesney Wold is so full that only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber, plainly but comfortably furnished, with an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room, and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time. He is not come yet.


Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night my Lady casually asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"

Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances down the table for the vacant place that would be set for him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night my Lady casually asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"


Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet."


One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her.

One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply, until she sees her own brooding face in the glass, and Hortense curiously observing her.


"Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing the reflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can contemplate your beauty at another time."

"Be so good as to attend to your business," says my Lady.


"Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty."


"That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at all."


At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the Ghost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself.

At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the Ghost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards them at his usual methodical pace, wearing his usual expressionless mask.


"How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.


Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My Lady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace. My Lady walks upon the other side.

Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. He walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace. My Lady walks upon the other side.


"We expected you before," says Sir Leicester. A gracious observation. As much as to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!"

"We expected you before," says Sir Leicester graciously, as if to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your existence. We bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!"


Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he is much obliged.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says he is much obliged.


"I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that I have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself and Boythorn."

"I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but I have been much engaged with those suits between yourself and Boythorn."


"A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester with severity. "An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man of a very low character of mind."

"A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester with severity. "A dangerous person of low character."


"He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, looking most profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised to hear it."

"It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, looking profoundly obstinate himself.


"The only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will give up anything."


"No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. "Nothing. I give up?"


"I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know you would not abandon. I mean any minor point."

I don't mean anything of importance. I mean any minor point."


"Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there can be no minor point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minor point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as in reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain."

"Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there can be no minor point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. In fact, I cannot readily conceive how any right of mine can be a minor point."


Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have now my instructions," he says. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble--"

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble-"


"It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicester interrupts him, "TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned, levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and severely punished--if not," adds Sir Leicester after a moment's pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered."

"It is the character of such a mind," Sir Leicester interrupts him, "to give trouble.


Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory thing to having the sentence executed.


"But night is coming on," says he, "and my Lady will take cold. My dear, let us go in."

But night is coming on, and my Lady will take cold. My dear, let us go in."


As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr. Tulkinghorn for the first time.


"You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can't imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely had some."

"You sent me a message about the person whose writing I happened to inquire about. I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can't imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I think I must have had some.


"You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.


"Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?"

Did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that thing - what is it! - affidavit?"


They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where, through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller besides the waste of clouds.


My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands before the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. He looks across his arm at my Lady.

My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands before the fire, shading his face. He looks at my Lady.


"Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what is very strange, I found him--"


"Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!" Lady Dedlock languidly anticipates.


"Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.


"I was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken place--and I found him dead."

"I was directed to his lodging - a miserable, poverty-stricken place - and I found him dead."


"You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "I think the less said--"

"Excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "I think the less said the better."


"Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my Lady speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking! Dead?"


Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. "Whether by his own hand--"

Mr. Tulkinghorn nods. "Whether by his own hand-"


"Upon my honour!" cries Sir Leicester. "Really!"


"Do let me hear the story!" says my Lady.


"Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say--"


"No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."


Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really--really--


"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally."

"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer calmly, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. He had unquestionably died of his own act, however, though whether deliberately or by mischance can never be known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally."


"And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorable creature?"


"Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "He had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition."

"Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "He had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better."


"What did they call the wretched being?"


"They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name."


"Not even any one who had attended on him?"

"Not even anyone who had attended on him?"


"No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found him."


"Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old portmanteau, but--No, there were no papers."

"Without any; there was an old portmanteau," says the lawyer meditatively, "but there were no papers."


During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.

During every word of this short dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn have looked very steadily at one another. Sir Leicester has looked at the fire. He now says haughtily that he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.


"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."

"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."


Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences, so oddly out of place and yet so perfectly at home. They appear to take as little note of one another as any two people enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts.

Mr. Tulkinghorn holds it open while she passes out, with her usual fatigued manner and insolent grace.
They meet again at dinner, and again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always silent, oddly out of place and yet perfectly at home. They appear to take no notice of each other. But whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, mistrustful of some great secret; and what each would give to know how much the other knows - all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts.


The term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation from Mr. Kenge that the cause would come on in two days. As I had sufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan and I agreed to go down to the court that morning. Richard was extremely agitated and was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the mind, that my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported. But she looked forward--a very little way now--to the help that was to come to her, and never drooped.

The Chancery term had commenced, and Mr. Kenge told us that the cause would come on in two days. As I had sufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan and I agreed to go down to the court that morning. Richard was extremely agitated and was so weak and low that my dear girl indeed required support. But she looked forward to the child that was to come, and never drooped.


It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had come on there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not divest myself of an idea that it MIGHT lead to some result now. We left home directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time and walked down there through the lively streets--so happily and strangely it seemed!--together.

The Court of Chancery was to be held at Westminster Hall.


As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard and Ada, I heard somebody calling "Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!" And there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the window of a little carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she had so many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards' distance. I had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go and see her. Of course we turned back, and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers, and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of precious names, and telling Allan I had done I don't know what for her, that I was just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm her down by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Allan, standing at the window, was as pleased as Caddy; and I was as pleased as either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I did, rather than that I came off laughing, and red, and anything but tidy, and looking after Caddy, who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as she could see us.

As we were walking along, planning what we should do for Richard and Ada, I heard somebody calling "Esther! My dear Esther!" And there was Caddy, with her head out of the window of a little carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils. I had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go and see her.
Of course we turned back, and the affectionate girl was in such rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers, and was calling me all kinds of precious names, that I was obliged to get into the little carriage and calm her down by letting her say what she liked. Allan, standing at the window, was as pleased as Caddy; and I came away laughing, and red.


This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to Westminster Hall we found that the day's business was begun. Worse than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancery that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear what was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, for occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of "Silence!" It appeared to be something interesting, for every one was pushing and striving to get nearer. It appeared to be something that made the professional gentlemen very merry, for there were several young counsellors in wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and when one of them told the others about it, they put their hands in their pockets, and quite doubled themselves up with laughter, and went stamping about the pavement of the Hall.

This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to Westminster Hall the day's business was begun. Worse than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancery that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear what was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, for occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of "Silence!" The professional gentlemen were very merry about it, for there were several young lawyers quite doubled up.


We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He told us Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was doing in it. He said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him. No, he said, over for good.

We asked a gentleman nearby if he knew what cause was on. He told us Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was happening in it. He said, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him. No, he said, over for good.


When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one another quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had set things right at last and that Richard and Ada were going to be rich? It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!

We looked at one another lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had set things right at last and that Richard and Ada would be rich? It seemed too good to be true. Alas, it was!


Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the crowd, and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot and bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a farce or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside, watching for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundles of paper began to be carried out--bundles in bags, bundles too large to be got into any bags, immense masses of papers of all shapes and no shapes, which the bearers staggered under, and threw down for the time being, anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while they went back to bring out more. Even these clerks were laughing. We glanced at the papers, and seeing Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere, asked an official-looking person who was standing in the midst of them whether the cause was over. Yes, he said, it was all up with it at last, and burst out laughing too.

People now came streaming out looking flushed and hot and exceedingly amused, more like people coming out from a farce or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside, watching, and presently great bundles of paper began to be carried out, which the bearers staggered under, and threw down anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while they went back to bring out more. Even these clerks were laughing. We glanced at the papers, and saw Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere.


At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with an affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who was deferential and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first to see us. "Here is Miss Summerson, sir," he said. "And Mr. Woodcourt."

Then we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with affable dignity, listening to Mr. Vholes. Mr. Vholes was the first to see us. "Here is Miss Summerson, sir," he said. "And Mr. Woodcourt."


"Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!" said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to me with polished politeness. "How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr. Jarndyce is not here?"

"Oh, indeed! Yes." said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat. "How do you do? Mr. Jarndyce is not here?"


No. He never came there, I reminded him.


"Really," returned Mr. Kenge, "it is as well that he is NOT here to-day, for his--shall I say, in my good friend's absence, his indomitable singularity of opinion?--might have been strengthened, perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened."

"Really," returned Mr. Kenge, "it is as well that he is not here today, for his opinion might have been strengthened, perhaps."


"Pray what has been done to-day?" asked Allan.

"Pray what has been done today?" asked Allan.


"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Kenge with excessive urbanity.


"What has been done," repeated Mr. Kenge. "Quite so. Yes. Why, not much has been done; not much. We have been checked--brought up suddenly, I would say--upon the--shall I term it threshold?"

"What has been done," repeated Mr. Kenge. "Quite so. Not much. We have been checked upon the threshold."


"Is this will considered a genuine document, sir?" said Allan. "Will you tell us that?"

"Is this will considered genuine, sir?" said Allan.


"Most certainly, if I could," said Mr. Kenge; "but we have not gone into that, we have not gone into that."

"We have not gone into that," said Mr. Kenge.


"We have not gone into that," repeated Mr. Vholes as if his low inward voice were an echo.

"We have not gone into that," repeated Mr. Vholes like a dull echo.


"You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," observed Mr. Kenge, using his silver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, "that this has been a great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed, not inaptly, a monument of Chancery practice."

"Reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," observed Mr. Kenge smoothly, "that this has been a great cause, a protracted and complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed a monument of Chancery practice."


"And patience has sat upon it a long time," said Allan.


"Very well indeed, sir," returned Mr. Kenge with a certain condescending laugh he had. "Very well! You are further to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," becoming dignified almost to severity, "that on the numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms of procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study, ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr. Woodcourt, high intellect. For many years, the--a--I would say the flower of the bar, and the--a--I would presume to add, the matured autumnal fruits of the woolsack--have been lavished upon Jarndyce and Jarndyce. If the public have the benefit, and if the country have the adornment, of this great grasp, it must be paid for in money or money's worth, sir."

"Indeed, sir," returned Mr. Kenge. "Further reflect, Mr. Woodcourt, that on the numerous difficulties in this great cause, there has been expended study, ability, eloquence, knowledge, and high intellect. For many years, the flower of the bar has been lavished upon Jarndyce and Jarndyce. And this great public benefit must be paid for, sir."


"Mr. Kenge," said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment. "Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole estate is found to have been absorbed in costs?"

"Mr. Kenge," said Allan. "Do I understand that the whole estate is found to have been absorbed in costs?"


"Hem! I believe so," returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes, what do YOU say?"


"And that thus the suit lapses and melts away?"


"Probably," returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes?"


"My dearest life," whispered Allan, "this will break Richard's heart!"


There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he knew Richard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his gradual decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of her foreboding love sounded like a knell in my ears.

There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and I too had seen so much of Richard's gradual decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in her foreboding love sounded like a knell in my ears.


"In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir," said Mr. Vholes, coming after us, "you'll find him in court. I left him there resting himself a little. Good day, sir; good day, Miss Summerson." As he gave me that slowly devouring look of his, while twisting up the strings of his bag before he hastened with it after Mr. Kenge, the benignant shadow of whose conversational presence he seemed afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the last morsel of his client, and his black buttoned-up unwholesome figure glided away to the low door at the end of the Hall.

"If you should be wanting Mr. C., sir," said Mr. Vholes, "you'll find him in court. I left him there resting. Good day." He hastened after Mr. Kenge, and his black buttoned-up unwholesome figure glided away.


"My dear love," said Allan, "leave to me, for a little while, the charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence and come to Ada's by and by!"

"My dear love," said Allan, "leave him to me, for a little while. Go home, and come to Ada's by and by!"


I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go to Richard without a moment's delay and leave me to do as he wished. Hurrying home, I found my guardian and told him gradually with what news I had returned. "Little woman," said he, quite unmoved for himself, "to have done with the suit on any terms is a greater blessing than I had looked for. But my poor young cousins!"

Hurrying home, I found my guardian and told him the news.
"Little woman," said he, quite unmoved for himself, "to have done with the suit on any terms is a blessing. But my poor young cousins!"


We talked about them all the morning and discussed what it was possible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me to Symond's Inn and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When my darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small passage and threw her arms round my neck, but she composed herself directly and said that Richard had asked for me several times. Allan had found him sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stone figure. On being roused, he had broken away and made as if he would have spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He was stopped by his mouth being full of blood, and Allan had brought him home.

We talked about them all morning, discussing what it was possible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me to Symond's Inn and I went upstairs. When my darling heard my footsteps, she came out and threw her arms round my neck.
Composing herself, she said that Richard had asked for me. Allan had found him sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stone figure. On being roused, he had broken away as if he would have spoken fiercely to the judge. He was stopped by his mouth being full of blood, and Allan had brought him home.


He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. There were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as possible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Allan stood behind him watching him gravely. His face appeared to me to be quite destitute of colour, and now that I saw him without his seeing me, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. But he looked handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.

He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. The room was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Allan stood watching him gravely. Richard's face appeared to be quite without colour, and I fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. But he looked handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.


I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by and by, he said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, "Dame Durden, kiss me, my dear!"

I sat down by his side. Opening his eyes, he said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, "Dame Durden, kiss me, my dear!"


It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low state cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in our intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. My husband had been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed us both and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almost felt as if my own heart would have broken when I saw him take my husband's hand and hold it to his breast.

It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in our intended marriage than he could say. My husband had been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed us both. I almost felt as if my own heart would have broken when I saw him take my husband's hand and hold it to his breast.


We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon his feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said. "Yes, surely, dearest Richard!" But as my darling answered him thus hopefully, so serene and beautiful, with the help that was to come to her so near--I knew--I knew!

We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon his feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said.
"Yes, surely, dearest Richard!" But as my darling answered him thus, so serene and beautiful - I knew - I knew!


It was not good for him to talk too much, and when he was silent, we were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence of working for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about my being busy. Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her arm. He dozed often, and whenever he awoke without seeing him, said first of all, "Where is Woodcourt?"

It was not good for him to talk too much. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence of sewing for my dear, as he always used to joke about my being busy. Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her arm. He dozed often, and whenever he awoke, said first of all, "Where is Woodcourt?"


Evening had come on when I lifted up my eyes and saw my guardian standing in the little hall. "Who is that, Dame Durden?" Richard asked me. The door was behind him, but he had observed in my face that some one was there.


I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded "Yes," bent over Richard and told him. My guardian saw what passed, came softly by me in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard's. "Oh, sir," said Richard, "you are a good man, you are a good man!" and burst into tears for the first time.

I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded, bent over Richard and told him. My guardian came softly in and laid his hand on Richard's.
"Oh, sir," said Richard, "you are a good man, you are a good man!" and burst into tears for the first time.


My guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place, keeping his hand on Richard's.

My guardian sat down in my place, keeping his hand on Richard's.


"My dear Rick," said he, "the clouds have cleared away, and it is bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more or less. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?"


"I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to begin the world."


"Aye, truly; well said!" cried my guardian.


"I will not begin it in the old way now," said Richard with a sad smile. "I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one, but you shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it."

"I will not begin it in the old way now," said Richard with a sad smile. "I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one, but I have learned it."


"Well, well," said my guardian, comforting him; "well, well, well, dear boy!"

"Well, well," said my guardian, comforting him; "well, well, dear boy!"


"I was thinking, sir," resumed Richard, "that there is nothing on earth I should so much like to see as their house--Dame Durden's and Woodcourt's house. If I could be removed there when I begin to recover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there sooner than anywhere."

"I was thinking, sir," resumed Richard, "that there is nothing I should so much like as to see as their house - Dame Durden's and Woodcourt's house. If I could be moved there, I feel as if I should get well there sooner than anywhere."


"Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick," said my guardian, "and our little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it this very day. I dare say her husband won't object. What do you think?"

"Why, she and I have been thinking so too, Rick," said my guardian, "and we have been talking of it this very day. I dare say her husband won't object. What do you think?"


Richard smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood behind the head of the couch.


"I say nothing of Ada," said Richard, "but I think of her, and have thought of her very much. Look at her! See her here, sir, bending over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself, my dear love, my poor girl!"

"I think of Ada," he said, "and have thought of her very much. See her here, sir, bending over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself, my dear love!"


He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually released her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, and moved her lips.

He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke until he gradually released her.


"When I get down to Bleak House," said Richard, "I shall have much to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You will go, won't you?"

"When I get to the new Bleak House," said Richard, "I shall have much to tell you, sir.


"Thank you; like you, like you," said Richard. "But it's all like you. They have been telling me how you planned it and how you remembered all Esther's familiar tastes and ways. It will be like coming to the old Bleak House again."

They have told me how you planned it. It will be like coming to the old Bleak House again."


"And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity to come to me, my love!" he repeated to Ada as he gently passed his hand over her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (I think he vowed within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.)

"And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man now, you know, and it will be a kindness to visit me."


"It was a troubled dream?" said Richard, clasping both my guardian's hands eagerly.

"It was a troubled dream?" said Richard, clasping my guardian's hands.


"And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?"

"And you can forgive and pity the dreamer, and be lenient when he wakes?"


"Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?"


"I will begin the world!" said Richard with a light in his eyes.


My husband drew a little nearer towards Ada, and I saw him solemnly lift up his hand to warn my guardian.


"When shall I go from this place to that pleasant country where the old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has been to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my unborn child?" said Richard. "When shall I go?"

"When shall I go to that pleasant country where the old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has been to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my unborn child?" said Richard. "When shall I go?"


"Dear Rick, when you are strong enough," returned my guardian.


He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that she could hold him on her bosom, which was what he wanted.

He sought to lift himself a little. Allan raised him so that she could hold him.


"I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a poor stray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You will forgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?"

"I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have married you to poverty and trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You will forgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?"


A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck, and with one parting sob began the world. Not this world, oh, not this! The world that sets this right.


When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite came weeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty.


But one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as we were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with the astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody. When he told us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for the murderer's apprehension, I did not in my first consternation understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the murdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyer, and immediately my mother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance.

Only two days later, at breakfast time, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with the astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which Mr. George was in custody. When he told us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for the murderer's apprehension, I did not understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the murdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyer, and immediately my mother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance.


This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long watched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her, one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, always dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful that my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of such a death and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember, perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away who was so swiftly hurried out of life!

This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long distrusted, dreading him as a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful that my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of such a death and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember, perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away!


Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I always felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that I could scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable to follow the conversation until I had had a little time to recover. But when I came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and found that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and recalling every favourable impression we had formed of him out of the good we had known of him, my interest and my fears were so strongly aroused in his behalf that I was quite set up again.

Such crowding reflections made me so distressed and agitated that I could scarcely keep my place at the table. I was quite unable to follow the conversation until I had had a little time to recover. But when I came to myself and found that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man, recalling our favourable impressions of him, my interest and my fears were strongly aroused in his behalf.


"Guardian, you don't think it possible that he is justly accused?"

"Guardian, you don't think it possible that Mr. George is guilty?"


"My dear, I CAN'T think so. This man whom we have seen so open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived and is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such a crime? I can't believe it. It's not that I don't or I won't. I can't!"

"My dear, I can't think so. This man whom we have seen so open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the gentleness of a child, this man guilty of such a crime? I can't believe it!"