"As often as I can," said Charley, opening her eyes and smiling, "because of earning sixpences and shillings!"

"As often as I can," said Charley, smiling, "because of earning sixpences and shillings!"


"And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?"


"To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs. Blinder comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes, and perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, and Tom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"

"To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs. Blinder comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes, and I can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, and Tom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"


"When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. Don't they, Tom?"

"When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and they show up here quite bright. Don't they, Tom?"


"Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite bright."


"Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--Oh, in such a motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he puts her to bed. And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come home and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it with me. Don't you, Tom?"

"Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature - oh, in such a motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he puts her to bed. And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come home and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it with me. Don't you, Tom?"


"Oh, yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I do!" And either in this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love for Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the scanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.

"Oh, yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I do!" And either in this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love for Charley, he laid his face among the scanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.


It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their father and their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work, and by her bustling busy way. But now, when Tom cried, although she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her little charges, I saw two silent tears fall down her face.

It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their father and mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of taking courage and of working. But now, when Tom cried, although she sat quite tranquil, I saw two silent tears fall down her face.


I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the housetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor plants, and the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours, when I found that Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken her all this time to get upstairs) and was talking to my guardian.

I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the housetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, when I found that Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come panting up the stairs and was talking to my guardian.


"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said; "who could take it from them!"

"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said; "who could take it from them?"


"Well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "It is enough that the time will come when this good woman will find that it WAS much, and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--This child," he added after a few moments, "could she possibly continue this?"

"Well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "The time will come when this good woman will find that it was much, and that as she did it unto the least of these This child," he added after a moment, "could she possibly continue this?"


"Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs. Blinder, getting her heavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as it's possible to be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children after the mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'Mrs. Blinder,' he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'Mrs. Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see a angel sitting in this room last night along with my child, and I trust her to Our Father!'"

"Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs. Blinder, getting her breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as can be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children after the mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'Mrs. Blinder,' he said to me, as he was lying there - 'Mrs. Blinder, I see a angel sitting in this room last night along with my child, and I trust her to Our Father!'"


"He had no other calling?" said my guardian.

"He had no other job?" said my guardian.


"No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a follerers. When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what he was, and I confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't liked in the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers. It is NOT a genteel calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most people do object to it. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a good lodger, though his temper has been hard tried."

"No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder. "When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what he was, and I confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't liked in the yard, nor by the other lodgers. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a good lodger, though his temper has been hard tried."


"So you gave him notice?" said my guardian.


"So I gave him notice," said Mrs. Blinder. "But really when the time came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He was punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said Mrs. Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, "and it's something in this world even to do that."

"So I gave him notice. But when the time came, I was in doubts. He was punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said Mrs. Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, "and it's something in this world even to do that."


"Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could arrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind its being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent gruff--but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been kind to the children since. A person is never known till a person is proved."

"Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could arrange it with the other lodgers. Mr. Gridley gave his consent gruff - but he gave it. He has been kind to the children since."


"Have many people been kind to the children?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.


"Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder; "but certainly not so many as would have been if their father's calling had been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that had always joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by came forward with a little subscription, and--in general--not so bad. Similarly with Charlotte. Some people won't employ her because she was a follerer's child; some people that do employ her cast it at her; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with that and all her draw-backs upon her, and perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. But she's patienter than others would be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the full mark of her strength and over. So I should say, in general, not so bad, sir, but might be better."

"Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder; "but certainly not so many as would have been if their father's job had been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and some neighbours came forward with a little, and - in general - not so bad. Some people won't employ her because she was a bailiff's child, and some people that do employ her maybe pay her less. But she's patient, and clever too, and always willing. So I should say, in general, not so bad, sir, but might be better."


Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportunity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us when his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seen on our way up.

Mrs. Blinder sat down to recover her breath fully. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us when his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of Mr. Gridley, whom we had seen on our way up.


"I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," he said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my coming in. I don't come in to stare about me. Well, Charley! Well, Tom! Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?"

"I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "but you'll excuse my coming in. Well, Charley! Well, Tom! Well, little one! How is it with us all today?"


He bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded as a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern character and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My guardian noticed it and respected it.

He bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded as a friend by the children, though his face remained stern and his manner to us was rude.


"No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he said mildly.


"May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking Tom upon his knee and waving him off impatiently. "I don't want to argue with ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to last one man his life."

"I don't want to argue with you, ladies and gentlemen," he said, taking Tom upon his knee. "I have had enough of arguing to last one man his life."


"You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. Jarndyce, "for being chafed and irritated--"

"You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. Jarndyce, "for being irritated-"


"There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "I am of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!"

"There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming angry. "I am of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!"


"Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child and going up to him as if he meant to strike him, "do you know anything of Courts of Equity?"


"To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath, "if so, I beg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon! Sir," with renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five and twenty years over burning iron, and I have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell you that the best joke they have is the man from Shropshire. I," he said, beating one hand on the other passionately, "am the man from Shropshire."

"To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath. "I beg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. Sir, I have been dragged for five and twenty years over burning iron. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their business, and they will tell you that the best joke they have is the man from Shropshire. I," he said passionately, "am the man from Shropshire."


"I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishing some entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardian composedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce."

"I believe I and my family have also had the honour of giving some entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardian composedly. "You may have heard my name - Jarndyce."


"Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley with a rough sort of salutation, "you bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More than that, I tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if they are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs in any other way, I should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I never get, that I am able to keep my wits together. It is only that!" he said, speaking in a homely, rustic way and with great vehemence. "You may tell me that I over-excite myself. I answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I must do it. There's nothing between doing it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court. If I was once to sit down under it, I should become imbecile."

"Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley, "you bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. If I took my wrongs in any other way, I should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them that I am able to keep my wits together. You may tell me that I over-excite myself. I answer that I must do it, or sink into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court. If I was to sit down under it, I should become imbecile."


The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what he said, were most painful to see.

His passion and vehemence were most painful to see.


"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. As true as there is a heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. My father (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and so forth to my mother for her life. After my mother's death, all was to come to me except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was then to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother some time afterwards claimed his legacy. I and some of my relations said that he had had a part of it already in board and lodging and some other things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing else. No one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether part of that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. To settle that question, my brother filing a bill, I was obliged to go into this accursed Chancery; I was forced there because the law forced me and would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit! It first came on after two years. It was then stopped for another two years while the master (may his head rot off!) inquired whether I was my father's son, about which there was no dispute at all with any mortal creature. He then found out that there were not defendants enough--remember, there were only seventeen as yet!--but that we must have another who had been left out and must begin all over again. The costs at that time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the legacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to escape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my father's, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else--and here I stand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it and has been thus shamefully sucked away?"

"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. I am one of two brothers. My father (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock to my mother for her life. After my mother's death, all was to come to me except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother some time afterwards claimed his legacy. I said that he had had a part of it already in board and lodging and some other things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing else. No one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether part of that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. To settle that question, my brother filed a bill, and I was obliged to go into this accursed Chancery.
"Seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit! It first came on after two years. It was then stopped for another two years while the master inquired whether I was my father's son, about which there was no dispute at all. He then found out that there were not defendants enough - remember, there were only seventeen! - but that we must have another who had been left out and must begin all over again. The costs at that time - before the thing was begun! - were three times the legacy. My brother would have happily given up the legacy to escape more costs. My whole estate has gone in costs. The suit is still undecided - and here I stand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine any less hard to bear, when my whole living has been thus shamefully sucked away?"


Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart and that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by this monstrous system.

Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart about this monstrous system.


"There again!" said Mr. Gridley with no diminution of his rage. "The system! I am told on all hands, it's the system. I mustn't look to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into court and say, 'My Lord, I beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong? Have you the face to tell me I have received justice and therefore am dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there to administer the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me furious by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for I know they gain by it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, 'I will have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!' HE is not responsible. It's the system. But, if I do no violence to any of them, here--I may! I don't know what may happen if I am carried beyond myself at last! I will accuse the individual workers of that system against me, face to face, before the great eternal bar!"

"There again!" said Mr. Gridley. "The system! I am always told, it's the system. I can't ask My Lord any questions, because he sits there to administer the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn the solicitor to protest, because he is not responsible. It's the system. But I don't know what may happen if I am carried beyond myself at last!"


His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage without seeing it.


"I have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "Mr. Jarndyce, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it. I have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prison for threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, and that trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire, and I sometimes go beyond amusing them, though they have found it amusing, too, to see me committed into custody and brought up in custody and all that. It would be better for me, they tell me, if I restrained myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself I should become imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. People in my part of the country say they remember me so, but now I must have this vent under my sense of injury or nothing could hold my wits together. It would be far better for you, Mr. Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste your time here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.' 'My Lord, my Lord, I know it would,' said I to him, 'and it would have been far better for me never to have heard the name of your high office, but unhappily for me, I can't undo the past, and the past drives me here!' Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "I'll shame them. To the last, I'll show myself in that court to its shame. If I knew when I was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a voice to speak with, I would die there, saying, 'You have brought me here and sent me from here many and many a time. Now send me out feet foremost!'"

At last, sitting down and wiping his face, he said, "I have done! Mr. Jarndyce, I am violent, I know. I have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prison for threatening the solicitor. I have been in trouble, and shall be again. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. People in my part of the country say they remember me so. 'It would be far better for you, Mr. Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste your time here, but to stay, usefully employed, in Shropshire.' 'My Lord, I know it would,' said I to him, 'and it would have been far better for me never to have heard the name of your high office, but I can't undo the past!' Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "I'll shame them. To the last, I'll show myself in that court to its shame. If I knew when I was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a voice to speak with, I would die there!"


His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was quiet.

His face did not soften, even now when he was quiet.


"I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said, going to them again, "and let them play about. I didn't mean to say all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid of me, Tom, are you?"

"I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said, "to let them play about. I didn't mean to say all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid of me, Tom, are you?"


"No!" said Tom. "You ain't angry with ME."

"No!" said Tom. "You ain't angry with me."


"You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley? Aye? Come then, little one!" He took the youngest child on his arm, where she was willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if we found a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look for him!"

"You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley? Aye? Come then, little one!" He took the youngest child on his arm. "I shouldn't wonder if we found a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look for him!"


He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, went downstairs to his room.

He made a rough but respectful salutation to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing to us, went downstairs to his room.


Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since our arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will and surprising energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith--and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was, years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous combativeness upon--a sort of Young Love among the thorns--when the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated him with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched, ever afterwards! Otherwise he might have been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was, he and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and Gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided for. Then look at Coavinses! How delightfully poor Coavinses (father of these charming children) illustrated the same principle! He, Mr. Skimpole, himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had found Coavinses in his way. He could had dispensed with Coavinses. There had been times when, if he had been a sultan, and his grand vizier had said one morning, "What does the Commander of the Faithful require at the hands of his slave?" he might have even gone so far as to reply, "The head of Coavinses!" But what turned out to be the case? That, all that time, he had been giving employment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactor to Coavinses, that he had actually been enabling Coavinses to bring up these charming children in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues! Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled and the tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the room and thought, "I was the great patron of Coavinses, and his little comforts were MY work!"

Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk in his usual gay strain. He said it was really very pleasant to see how things adapted themselves to purposes. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of surprising energy - and he could easily imagine Gridley wandering about in life looking for something to expend his combativeness upon - when the Court of Chancery provided him with the exact thing he wanted. Then look at Coavinses! How delightfully poor Coavinses illustrated the same principle! He, Mr. Skimpole himself, could had dispensed with Coavinses. But all that time, he had been giving employment to a most deserving man; he had been a benefactor to Coavinses! His heart had swelled just now and the tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the room and thought, "I was the great patron of Coavinses, and his little comforts were my work!"


There was something so captivating in his light way of touching these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even as he turned towards us from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley, and took her downstairs with us, and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. I don't know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little, little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a covered way at the bottom of the court and melt into the city's strife and sound like a dewdrop in an ocean.

There was something so captivating and mirthful about him, that he made my guardian smile as he turned towards us from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley, and took her downstairs with us, and watched her run away to her work: running, such a little, little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through the court to melt into the city's strife and sound like a dewdrop in an ocean.


One morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets of keys, as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I happened to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling me only that morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust his ardour in the Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and therefore, not to damp my dear girl's spirits, I said nothing about Mr. Vholes's shadow.

One morning when my beauty and I were walking round the garden I happened to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling me only that morning of her hopes that Richard's ardour in the Chancery suit might lessen; and therefore I said nothing about Mr. Vholes's shadow.


Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes and tripping along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora's attendants instead of my maid, saying, "Oh, if you please, miss, would you step and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"

Presently Charley came out saying, "Oh, please, miss, would you step in and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"


It was one of Charley's peculiarities that whenever she was charged with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld, at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. Therefore I saw Charley asking me in her usual form of words to "step and speak" to Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And when I did hear her, she had said it so often that she was out of breath.


I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as we went in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. To which Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did any credit to my educational powers, replied, "Yes, miss. Him as come down in the country with Mr. Richard."


A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I suppose there could not be. I found them looking at one another across a table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad and upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving out what he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other keeping it in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner that I thought I never had seen two people so unmatched.

I made haste inside and found my guardian and Mr. Vholes looking at one another across a table, the one so broad and upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one speaking in such a rich ringing voice and the other in such a gasping, fish-like manner that I thought I never had seen two people so unmatched.


"You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my guardian. Not with the greatest urbanity, I must say.


Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in the gig. Not having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.

Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself again.


"Mr. Vholes," said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he were a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our most unfortunate Rick." Laying a marked emphasis on "most unfortunate" as if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with Mr. Vholes.


I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovable, except that he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face with his black glove.


"And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to know," said my guardian, "what you think, my dear. Would you be so good as to--as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?"

"And as Rick and you are good friends, I should like to know what you think, my dear," said my guardian.


Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed, "I have been saying that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'s professional adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at the present moment in an embarrassed state. Not so much in point of amount as owing to the peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred and the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have staved off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to staving off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out of pocket to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and I have a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. My apprehension is, Mr. C.'s circumstances being such, lest it should end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all events is desirable to be made known to his connexions."

Mr. Vholes explained. "I have been saying that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at present in an embarrassed state, owing to the peculiar nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred and the means he has of meeting the same. I have staved off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to staving off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out of pocket to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to being repaid, for I do not pretend to be wealthy, and I have a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides three dear girls at home. My apprehension is that it may end in Mr. C wishing to part with his commission."


Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged into the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was his tone, and looked before him again.


"Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," said my guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. He would never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it would be to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did."

"Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," said my guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. He would never accept help from me now."


"What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I do not say that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything may be openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that everything was not openly carried on. My wish is that everything should be openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me. If I consulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be here. So insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his objections. This is not a professional attendance. This can he charged to nobody. I have no interest in it except as a member of society and a father--AND a son," said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly forgotten that point.

"What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is the difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I merely come down here and mention it in confidence, in order that everything may be openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me. If I consulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be here. I have no interest in it except as a member of society and a father - and a son."


It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than the truth in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. I could only suggest that I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then stationed, and see him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. Without consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took my guardian aside to propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to the fire and warmed his funeral gloves.

It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes sought to divide the responsibility, such as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. I could only suggest that I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then stationed, and see him, and try if possible to avert the worst. I took my guardian aside to propose this.


The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my guardian's part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only too happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr. Vholes.

The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my guardian's part, but as I was happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr. Vholes.


"Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, "Miss Summerson will communicate with Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may be yet retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your journey, sir."

"Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, "Miss Summerson will communicate with Mr. Carstone. You will allow me to order you lunch after your journey, sir."


"I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, putting out his long black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, "not any. I thank you, no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but a poor knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid food at this period of the day, I don't know what the consequences might be. Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will now with your permission take my leave."

"I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, "but no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired. If I was to partake of solid food at this period of the day, I don't know what the consequences might be. Sir, I will now take my leave."


"And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a cause you know of."

"I wish we could all take our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a cause you know of."


Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it had quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume, made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck and slowly shook it.


"We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the wheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to think well of my professional brethren, one and all. You are sensible of an obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?"

"We who aim to be looked upon as respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the wheel. You will not refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?"


"Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, sir." Mr. Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, and took his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach, passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along.

"Just so, miss. Good morning, Mr. Jarndyce." Mr. Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, and took his long thin shadow away.


Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why I was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and words of excuse, and in a more loving spirit still--my dear devoted girl!--she wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.

Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity, and in a more loving spirit still - my dear devoted girl! - she wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.


Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I wanted none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went to London that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, secured them. At our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling away seaward with the Kentish letters.

Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I needed none. We secured two places in the mail-coach, and at our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling away seaward with the Kentish letters.


It was a night's journey in those coach times, but we had the mail to ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed with me as I suppose it would with most people under such circumstances. At one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. Now I thought I should do some good, and now I wondered how I could ever have supposed so. Now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in the world that I should have come, and now one of the most unreasonable. In what state I should find Richard, what I should say to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns with these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one tune (to which the burden of my guardian's letter set itself) over and over again all night.

It was a night's journey, but we had the mail-coach to ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. As I considered it, at one time my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. In what state I should find Richard, what I should say to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns; and the wheels seemed to play one tune over and over again all night.


At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy they were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its little irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans, and great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they were spinning themselves into cordage.

At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy they were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its little irregular houses, and its litter of capstans, and great boats, and sheds, and gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their bodies, looked as if, tired of their state of existence, they were spinning themselves into cords.


But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down, comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was too late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful. Our little room was like a ship's cabin, and that delighted Charley very much. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships that we had had no idea were near appeared. I don't know how many sail the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. Some of these vessels were of grand size--one was a large Indiaman just come home; and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed, and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to them and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in themselves and everything around them, was most beautiful.

But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down to an early breakfast (for it was too late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful. Our little room was like a ship's cabin, and that delighted Charley. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships unexpectedly appeared. Some were of grand size - one was a large Indiaman just come home; and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling between them and the shore, was most beautiful.


The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come into the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we said how glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore. Charley was curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in India, and the serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such information much faster than grammar, I told her what I knew on those points. I told her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast on rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of one man. And Charley asking how that could be, I told her how we knew at home of such a case.

The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come in during the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we said how glad the people on board must be to come ashore. Charley was curious about the voyage, and about the heat in India, and the serpents and the tigers; so I told her what I knew on those points. I told her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast on rocks, where they were saved by the courage and humanity of one man. And I told her how we knew at home of such a case.


I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but it seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he lived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard, we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning, and I asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us.

I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but it seemed better to go to him without preparation. As he lived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard, we found everything very quiet, and I asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He sent a man to show me, who went up some stairs, and knocked at a door, and left us.


"Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, "Can I come in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden."

"Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the little passage, and said, "Can I come in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden."


He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the floor. He was only half dressed--in plain clothes, I observed, not in uniform--and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I was seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me. Down to--ah, poor poor fellow!--to the end, he never received me but with something of his old merry boyish manner.

He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, books, boots and portmanteaus strewn all about the floor. He was only half dressed - in plain clothes, not in uniform - and his hair was unbrushed. He looked as wild as his room. He heartily welcomed me and caught me in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me. Down to the end, he always received me with something of his old merry boyish manner.


"Good heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here? Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter? Ada is well?"

"Good heavens, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here? Nothing the matter? Ada is well?"


"Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!"


"Ah!" he said, leaning back in his chair. "My poor cousin! I was writing to you, Esther."

"Ah!" he said. "My poor cousin! I was writing to you, Esther."


So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his handsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely written sheet of paper in his hand!

So worn and haggard he looked, leaning back in his chair and crushing the sheet of paper in his hand!


"Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to read it after all?" I asked.

"Am I not to read it after all?" I asked.


"Oh, my dear," he returned with a hopeless gesture. "You may read it in the whole room. It is all over here."


I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult with him what could best be done.


"Like you, Esther, but useless, and so NOT like you!" said he with a melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day--should have been gone in another hour--and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out. Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all the professions."

"Like you, Esther, but useless, and so not like you!" said he with a melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day - and I am selling out. Well! So this calling follows the rest. I only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all the professions."


"Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?"


"Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes) would far rather be without me than with me. And they are right. Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't broken now," he said, tearing the letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting them away, by driblets, "how could I have gone abroad? I must have been ordered abroad, but how could I have gone? How could I, with my experience of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his back!"

"Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. Apart from debts and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even for this employment. I have no care, no heart, no soul, but for one thing. Why, how could I have gone abroad, if I were ordered? How could I trust even Vholes unless I was at his back!"


I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to prevent me from going on.


"No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid--must forbid. The first is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is no such thing; it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."

"No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid. The first is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, but it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road. It would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time and pains I have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."


He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.

Seeing the mood he was in, I thought it best not to oppose him. I took out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.


As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head upon his two hands--to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.

He had not read far when he rested his head upon his hands to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had folded it up, stood there for some minutes. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.


"Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in a softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.

"Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in a softened voice.


"Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the little inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and as much as I have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right with it, and remain in the service."

"She offers me the little inheritance she is certain of so soon - and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right with it, and remain in the army."


"I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart," said I. "And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart."


"I am sure it is. I--I wish I was dead!"

"I am sure it is. I - I wish I was dead!"


He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.

He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I remained silent. I was not at all prepared for his rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.


"And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from me," said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this generous offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and with the same John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new means of buying me off."

"And this is the heart that John Jarndyce stepped in to estrange from me," said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this generous offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and with his gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new means of buying me off."


"Richard!" I cried out, rising hastily. "I will not hear you say such shameful words!" I was very angry with him indeed, for the first time in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn young face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "If you please, my dear Richard, do not speak in such a tone to me. Consider!"


He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous manner that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather fluttered after being so fiery.

He begged my pardon a thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather fluttered after being so fiery.


"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down beside me and resuming our conversation, "--once more, pray, pray forgive me; I am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin's offer is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I could show you which would convince you it is all over here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me, thank God!"

"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down beside me, "is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, it is all over here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles, to know that I am pressing Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the wheel, urging it on as much for her as for me, thank God!"


His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been before.

His sanguine hopes were rising and lighting up his features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been before.


"No, no!" cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should be used where she has a larger stake. Don't be uneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able to compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their bond now--Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favour anyway, but that would swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear."

"No, no!" cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in keeping me in a profession I am weary of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and where she has a larger stake. Don't be uneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I shall be able to deal with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their bond now - Vholes says so. Come, come! You shall carry a letter to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear."


I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in this very interview, the sense of my guardian's remark that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as he was.

I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless to intervene. I saw too that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as he was.


Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Vholes had copies of these papers and had been in consultation with him throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada's letter, and being (as I was going to be) Richard's companion back to London, I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach.

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind convincing me that it really was all over there. He showed me a letter making it quite plain that his retirement was arranged. I found that Mr. Vholes had been in consultation with him throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and having brought Ada's letter, and being (as I was going to be) Richard's companion back to London, I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he joined me there. Then Charley and I went back along the beach.


There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look.

There was a crowd of people in one spot, surrounding some naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great Indiaman's boats, and we stopped to look.


The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing about them as if they were glad to be in England again. "Charley, Charley," said I, "come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my little maid was surprised.

The gentlemen came up from the waterside, speaking good-humouredly to each other and glancing around as if they were glad to be in England again.
"Charley, Charley," said I, "come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my little maid was surprised.


It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had time to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste. In one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan Woodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been unwilling that he should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and my courage had quite failed me.


But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear, there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--why it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better. This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!" I was in a great tremble--with running--and at first was quite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear, there is no reason why it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you were last month, you are today." I was in a great tremble and at first was quite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.


The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices again--I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but I was determined not to do so. "No, my dear, no. No, no, no!"

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase. I knew their voices again - I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but I was determined not to do so.


I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--I think I mean half down, but it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards that I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw that he was very sorry for me.

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half down, and wrote on one of my cards that I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw that he was very sorry for me.


"You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe illness."

"You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the truest interest. Miss Flite told me of it, when I was recovering from my severe illness."


"Ah! Little Miss Flite!" he said. "She lives the same life yet?"


I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to be able to put it aside.


"Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most affectionate creature, as I have reason to say."

"Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most affectionate creature."


"You--you have found her so?" he returned. "I--I am glad of that." He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.

"You - you have found her so?" he returned. "I - I am glad of that." He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.


"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathy and pleasure at the time I have referred to."

"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathy."


"I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill."


"I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said I. "You know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and I have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to desire."


I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here. He had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home nothing better. While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing me, Richard came in. He had heard downstairs who was with me, and they met with cordial pleasure.

I felt as if he had greater pity for me than I had ever had for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to find that it was I who needed to reassure him. I spoke to him of his voyages, and of his future plans, and of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home no richer.
While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had alleviated the shock he had had in seeing me, Richard came in. They met with cordial pleasure.


I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all was not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states and in good spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt again, whom he had always liked.

I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt perceived that all was not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states and in good spirits, and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt, whom he had always liked.


Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr. Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became so much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace to think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready and Richard ran down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.

Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr. Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not join us. He dined with us, however, and became so much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace to think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet he was concerned about Richard. When Richard ran down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.


I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, but I referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and to his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Woodcourt listened with interest and expressed his regret.

I was not sure that I had a right to tell his whole story, but I referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and to his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Woodcourt listened with interest and regret.


"I saw you observe him rather closely," said I, "Do you think him so changed?"


"He is changed," he returned, shaking his head.

"He is changed," he said, shaking his head.


I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was gone.


"It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger or older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair."

"It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "so much a physical change, as there being upon his face such a singular expression. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair."


"That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to know," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?"

"Yet we know that he cannot be at peace in mind. Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?"


"There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He always liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with your companionship if you can. You do not know of what service it might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I--how we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!"

"There is nothing Richard needs so much as a friend. He always liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with your companionship if you can. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I - how we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!"


"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from the first, "before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"

"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from the first, "before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept him as a sacred trust."


"God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought they might, when it was not for myself. "Ada loves him--we all love him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say. Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!"

"God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast. "Ada loves him - we all love him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say. Thank you, and God bless you!"


Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and gave me his arm to take me to the coach.


"Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray let us meet in London!"

"Woodcourt," he said, "pray let us meet in London!"


"Meet?" returned the other. "I have scarcely a friend there now but you. Where shall I find you?"


"Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pondering. "Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn."


They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and Richard was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly hand on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and waved mine in thanks.

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and Richard was standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly hand on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and waved mine in thanks.


And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.


The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past doze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In town the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock Mercuries, with ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The fashionable world--tremendous orb, nearly five miles round--is in full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its appointed distances.

The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past doze in their picture-frames. In town the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their carriages through the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock footmen loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The fashionable world - tremendous orb, nearly five miles round - is in full swing.


Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and refinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has scaled and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she of old reposed in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance that what she is to those around her she will remain another day, it is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says of her that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but rather larming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who WILL getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.

Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has conquered, she is never absent. Though she has no assurance that what she is to those around her, she will remain another day, it is not in her nature to yield or to droop. They say that she has lately grown more handsome and more haughty.


Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore, he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravat loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the last who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Of all women she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing. Now, as before, he is to be found in doorways, receiving patronage from the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the last who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Of all women she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.


One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in his turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and prepared to throw it off.

One thing has been much on her mind since their interview in his turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided.


It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are reposing in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures, like overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, in the library, has fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which she gave audience to the young man of the name of Guppy. Rosa is with her and has been writing for her and reading to her. Rosa is now at work upon embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends her head over it, my Lady watches her in silence. Not for the first time to-day.

It is afternoon. The footmen, exhausted by looking out of windows, are reposing in the hall and hang their heavy powdered heads like overblown sunflowers. Sir Leicester, in the library, has fallen asleep over the report of a Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which she gave audience to the young man of the name of Guppy. Rosa is with her and has been reading to her. Rosa is now at work upon embroidery, and my Lady watches her in silence.


The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how serious my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.


Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.


"I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to do, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you. Say nothing to any one of what passes between us."

"I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust your attachment, if not your judgment. Say nothing to anyone of what passes between us."


The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be trustworthy.

Rosa promises earnestly to be trustworthy.


"Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring her chair nearer, "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from what I am to any one?"

"Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, "that I am different to you from what I am to anyone?"


"Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as you really are."

"Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But I often think I know you as you really are."


"You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor child!"


She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sits brooding, looking dreamily at her.

She says it with a kind of scorn - though not of Rosa - and sits brooding.


"Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?"

"Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you suppose it gives me pleasure to have you near me?"


"I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my heart, I wish it was so."

"I don't know, my Lady. I hope and wish it was so."


The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an explanation.


"And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say what would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very solitary."

"And if I were to say today, 'Go! Leave me!' it would give me great pain, child, and leave me very solitary."


Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady, with that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her hand upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.

Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady lays her hand upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.


"I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot. There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part, rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. All this I have done for your sake."

"I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would make you so if I could. I cannot. There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part, which mean it is far better for you that you should not remain here. I have decided that you shall not stay. I have written to the father of your lover, and he will be here today. All this I have done for your sake."


The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses her on the cheek and makes no other answer.

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses her on the cheek.


"Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and happy!"

"Be happy, child. Be beloved and happy!"


"Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought--forgive my being so free--that YOU are not happy."

"Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought - forgive me - that you are not happy."


"Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think again. Let me stay a little while!"


"I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now--not what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!"

"I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now - not what I shall be in a little while. Remember this, and keep my confidence, for my sake!"


She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves the room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the earlier ages of the world and had perished from its surface with its other departed monsters.

She leaves the room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state.


Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of her appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him first.

Mr. Rouncewell has arrived. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she goes to the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him first.


"Sir Leicester, I am desirous--but you are engaged."

"Sir Leicester, I am desirous - but you are engaged."


Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.


Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him for a moment.


"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?"


With a look that plainly says, "You know you have the power to remain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and moves towards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he darken her life.

With a look that plainly says, "You know you have the power to remain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary. Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the quiet street, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before her.


It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared into stone rather than originally built in that material. It is a street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, and from these petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (its only present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high and dry master in the House of Lords.

It is a dull street at the best of times, a street of dismal grandeur, with a complicated garnish of iron-work that entwines itself over the flights of steps, and here and there a weak little iron hoop, sacred to the memory of departed oil-lamps.


Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair, could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands. And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as if it were her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of the way.

Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands. And yet she sends a look in that direction as if it were her heart's desire to have him moved out of the way.


Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon. She was about to say?


"Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment) and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am tired to death of the matter."


"What can I do--to--assist?" demands Sir Leicester in some considerable doubt.


"Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to send him up?"


"Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way."

Sir Leicester tells the footman, "Request the iron gentleman to walk this way."


Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously.

When he comes, Sir Leicester receives him graciously.


"I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," Sir Leicester skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, "was desirous to speak with you. Hem!"

"I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. My Lady was desirous to speak with you. Hem!"


"I shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman, "to give my best attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say."


As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.

As he turns towards her, he finds she seems less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, which does not encourage openness.


"Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock listlessly, "may I be allowed to inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son respecting your son's fancy?"


It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look upon him as she asks this question.


"If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son to conquer that--fancy." The ironmaster repeats her expression with a little emphasis.

"If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said that I should seriously advise my son to conquer that - fancy."


Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very proper. The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was bound to do it. No difference in this respect between the base metals and the precious. Highly proper.


"Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple an intention with our--our fancies which renders them not altogether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest."


Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evidently adapts his tone to his reception.


"Because," proceeds my Lady, "I have been thinking of the subject, which is tiresome to me."


"And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite concur"--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us the assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion that the girl had better leave me."

"And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite concur. If you cannot assure us that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion that the girl had better leave me.


"I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind."


"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately interposes, "but perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir Leicester, magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a service of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted the notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very great--I believe unquestionably very great, sir--for a young woman in that station of life. The question then arises, should that young woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune simply because she has"--Sir Leicester, with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up his sentence--"has attracted the notice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now, has she deserved this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this our previous understanding?"

"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately interposes, "but perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has not deserved. It is her good fortune it is to have attracted the favour of an eminent lady and to live surrounded by great advantages. Should the young woman be deprived of these advantages simply because she has attracted the notice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now, has she deserved this punishment?"


"I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father. "Sir Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so unimportant--which is not to be expected--you would recollect that my first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining here."

"I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell. "Pray dismiss that from your consideration. You may recollect that my first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining here."


Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations.

Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Leicester can scarcely believe his ears.


"It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest manner before he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter into these matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--or supposes she is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them."

"It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest manner, "to enter into these matters. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many advantages that she is in love - or supposes she is, poor little fool - and unable to appreciate them."


Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman had better go.

In that case, Sir Leicester entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman had better go.


"As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion when we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds, "we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions, and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would you prefer?"

"I have told her so," says Lady Dedlock languidly. "Mr. Rouncewell, would you wish to have her sent back to the village, or would you like to take her with you?"


"Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly--"


"--I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of the incumbrance and remove her from her present position."

"I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of the incumbrance."


"And to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studied carelessness, "so should I. Do I understand that you will take her with you?"

"Do I understand that you will take her with you?"


"Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you." He makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury, swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce, skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

"Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you." The footman is instructed to bring Rosa.


Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with her near the door ready to depart.

Rosa has been crying and is still in distress. On her coming in, the ironmaster leaves his chair, and takes her arm in his.


"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her weary manner, "and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for."


"She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at going away."

"She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, "as if she were crying at going away."


"Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell with some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer to retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no doubt."

"Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell with some quickness, as if he were glad to have the lawyer to retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no doubt."


"No doubt," is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply.


Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and that she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Out, you silly little puss!" says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily. "Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!" My Lady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, "There, there, child! You are a good girl. Go away!" Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in my Lady's view, bigger and blacker than before.

Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she was happy at Chesney Wold, and that she thanks my Lady over and over again.
"Out, you silly little puss!" says the ironmaster, though not angrily. "Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!"
My Lady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, "There, there, child! You are a good girl. Go away!" Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in my Lady's view, bigger and blacker than before.


"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause of a few moments, "I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away without troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare say magnifying the importance of the thing--that it was respectful to explain to you how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world."

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell, "I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. I only regret that I did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away without troubling you. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world."


Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not mention it. Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side."


"I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a last word, revert to what I said before of my mother's long connexion with the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I would point out this little instance here on my arm who shows herself so affectionate and faithful in parting and in whom my mother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings--though of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much more."


If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his parting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.

Sir Leicester stands to return his parting salutation, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.


Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be! The power of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole time." But he can act a part too--his one unchanging character--and as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester's pair, should find no flaw in him.

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still sitting with his figure before her. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks, "The power of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole time." But he can act a part too - his one unchanging character - and as he holds the door open for her to leave the room, fifty pairs of eyes should find no flaw in him.


Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture of the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down to dinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone YET? No. What is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.

Lady Dedlock dines alone in her room today. Sir Leicester has a political meeting. She asks, still deadly pale, whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone yet? No. What is he doing? The footman thinks he is writing letters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.