Bleak House

'Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady – my Lady – has placed near her person, was brought up at the village school outside the gates?'

'Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and handsomely supported by this family.'

'Then, Mr. Rouncewell,' returns Sir Leicester, 'the application of what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.'

'Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say,' the ironmaster is reddening a little, 'that I do not regard the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's wife?'

From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this minute, to the whole framework of society: from the whole framework of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in consequence of people (ironmasters, lead-mistresses, and what not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are called– necessarily and for ever, according to Sir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of their stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the Dedlock mind.

'My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!' She has given a faint indication of intending to speak. 'Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education, and our views of – in short, all our views – are so diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellant to your feelings, and repellant to my own. This young woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from that notice and favour, or if she chooses to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions – you will allow me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he is not accountable for them to me – who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young woman's position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms; and here we beg – if you will be so good – to leave the subject.'

The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but she says nothing. He then rises and replies:

'Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention, and only to observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night!'

'Mr. Rouncewell,' says Sir Leicester, with all the nature of a gentleman shining in him, 'it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least.'

'I hope so,' adds my Lady.

'I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night, in order to reach a distant part of the country, punctually at an appointed time in the morning.'

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure; Sir Leicester ringing the bell, and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.

When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the fire; and, inattentive to the Ghost's Walk, looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.

'Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?'

'O! My Lady!'

My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling:

'Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson?'

'Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love with him – yet.'

'Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves you, yet?'

'I think he likes me a little, my Lady.' And Rosa burst into tears.

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!

'Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are attached to me.'

'Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do, to show how much.'

'And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even for a lover?'

'No, my Lady! O no!' Rosa looks up for the first time, quite frightened at the thought.

'Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to be happy, and will make you so – if I can make anybody happy on this earth.'

Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and, standing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady's eyes are on the fire.

In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life? Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk, and think what step does it most resemble? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little child's feet, ever coming on – on – on? Some melancholy influence is upon her; or why should so proud a lady close the doors, and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate?

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir Leicester, at breakfast-time, of the obliteration of landmarks, and opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin of the batch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a stake in the country – or the pension list – or something – by fraud and wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme, as if there were a general rising in the North of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets– for it is one appurtenance of their cousinship, that, however difficult they may find it to keep themselves, they must keep maids and valets – the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.

Chapter XXIX

The young man

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Leicester is reading, with infinite gravity and state, when the door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange announcement:

'The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy.'

Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice:

'The young man of the name of Guppy?'

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

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

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

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

'It's quite right. I gave him those directions,' says my Lady. 'Let the young man wait.'

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

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

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

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

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

'And could you not take the same means of rendering a conversation unnecessary? Can you not still?'

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

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

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

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

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

'Now, I may say to your ladyship at once,' says Mr. Guppy, a little emboldened, 'it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive – in fact, almost blackguardly.' After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the contrary, and not receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds. 'If it had been Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your ladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I have the pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn – at least we move when we meet one another – and if it had been any business of that sort, I should have gone to him.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Lady removes her eyes from him no more.

'No.'

'Not like your ladyship's family?'

'No.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I don't know. I think so. Yes.'

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

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

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

'My God!'

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

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

'I have heard it before.'

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

'No.'

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

'And what is that tome?'

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

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

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

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

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