Dutiful Friendship

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration
of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that
epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with
an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after
dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is
thinking about it--a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so
by his mother having departed this life twenty years. Some men rarely
revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their
remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection
into their mother's name. Mr. Bagnet is one of these. Perhaps his
exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl causes him usually
to make the noun-substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those occasions
are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the
bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young Woolwich's last
birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and
general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on
the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism,
accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two,
"What is your name?" and "Who gave you that name?" but there failing
in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number
three the question "And how do you like that name?" which he
propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and
improving as to give it quite an orthodox air. This, however, was a
speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event is
always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed
by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being deeply convinced
that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest
pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in
the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in
by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest
inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs of
toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief
(essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs.
Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs.
Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, Mr.
Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment
amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the
old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown
and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not
illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of
state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part, but she keeps her
state with all imaginable cheerfulness.

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by
their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting
of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers
itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of
ceremony, an honoured guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,
as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these
young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake
of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.

"At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be
done."

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill before
the fire and beginning to burn.

"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for a
queen."

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception
of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is impelled
by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the
matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the
fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to
consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of
the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast and with an admonitory poke
recalls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes
her eyes in the intensity of her relief.

"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four. To
the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up. This
afternoon?"

"Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs. Bagnet,
laughing and shaking her head.

"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young as ever
you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody knows."

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is
sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it
will be.

"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the
table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin to think
George is in the roving way again.

"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave his old
comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it."

"No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will. But if
he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he would be
off."

Mr. Bagnet asks why.

"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what
he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't be
George, but he smarts and seems put out."

"He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would put
the devil out."

"There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,
Lignum."

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of
his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction,
as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too,
are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming
these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last
dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's
place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year,
for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of
finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess
is developed in these specimens in the singular form of
guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their
breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their
legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted
the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian
exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of
these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most
severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old
girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least
of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her
digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks
without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to
understand.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the
repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept,
and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The
great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply
themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of
their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens,
inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the
present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering
of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an
expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the
young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs.
Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last
the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec
and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco,
and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl
enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this
delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very
near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, "George! Military time."

It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for
Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.

"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously.
"What's come to you?"

"Come to me?"

"Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now
don't he, Lignum?"

"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter."

"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."

"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he gone?
Dear, dear!"

"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk,
but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should
have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak
more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."

"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As
powder."

"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to
her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch
along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.
"Tell him my opinion of it."

"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"

"Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion."

"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides
and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for
me."

"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinion."

"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched
out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to
you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in
reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for
good luck, if you will, George."

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young
Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden,
yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her
airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap
you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand
shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would any one believe
this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. "I am so
out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!"

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a
pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be
got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says she,
"just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and
the two together MUST do it."

"You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very
well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues
have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. 'Twas dull
work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him."

"What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your
roof."

"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there
he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know
his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped
out of that."

"Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.

"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his
heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's mind.
His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up
in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And
to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end
in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly--it
made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you."

"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the
health altogether."

"You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."

So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses
the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony
of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these
occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies
having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the
mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers
it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the
assembled company in the following terms.

"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's
march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!" which
the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a
well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the
present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a
man!"

Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick keen
man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.

"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"

"Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.

"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party
enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George,
at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with
you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's
children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me
children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR
father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!"

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says Mr.
Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in.
Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of
these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight
and ten."

"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.

"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one
mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much
so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do
you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's
cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do
you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a
second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my
dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet
forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr.
Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive
so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him
that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this
evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never heard
of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't intend to tell
me you've been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for?
You haven't got anything on your mind, you know."

"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.

"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on
your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR minds,
eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young
fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. I
ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am."

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own.

"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I
haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as
fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. So it
is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.
What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"

There is no way out of that yard.

"Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought there
might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard that
took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No,
I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it
is!"

Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.

"How are your spirits now, George?"

"All right now," returns the trooper.

"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have been
otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to
be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of spirits, is it,
ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, George;
what could you have on your mind!"

Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety
of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly
his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief
eclipse and shines again.

"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring to
Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young Woolwich.
"And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say. For he's too
old to be your boy, ma'am."

"I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns
Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying.
Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket compares the
faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy is
George's godson.

"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme cordiality.
"I must shake hands over again with George's godson. Godfather and
godson do credit to one another. And what do you intend to make of
him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?"

Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful."

"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in
a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you!
'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman up! COULD
you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call
upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs
the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket, much
enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the
burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much musical
taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to
express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the
harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once
chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom,
and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is
asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening,
he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young
Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have
been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a
maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar--Mr. Bucket's own
words are "to come up to the scratch."

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of pleasure
on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of
him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to
get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. Mr.
Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his
acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old
girl's next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and
consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it
is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs.
Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that
day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day
in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope
that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner,
sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without private
ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that
sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the
confines of domestic bliss.

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an
acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the
subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits
to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and
observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking
cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket,
with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the
children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken
for an absent friend.

"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you
recommend me such a thing?"

"Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.

"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
"You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't," says
Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't commit
yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay too large
a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage
and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man
must live, and ought to it."

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.

"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten
to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite
information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability
of having a small stock collected there for approval.

"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for
one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions
of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says Mr. Bucket,
taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they go down the
little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them,
Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket "almost
clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him."

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Wait half
a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first." Immediately
afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour,
where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have
endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you
whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody,
George."

"Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against
you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don't happen to
have heard of a murder?"

"Murder!"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I say,
you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"No. Where has there been a murder?"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself.
I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder
in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was
shot last night. I want you for that."

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out
upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and
that you suspect ME?"

"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is
certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten
o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."

"Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it
flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!"

"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very often
there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been
heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--I
don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that he may
have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous
fellow."

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.

"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise,
"my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant.
I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hundred guineas,
offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always
been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if
that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as
any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear
to you that I must have you, and that I'm damned if I don't have you.
Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?"

Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
"Come," he says; "I am ready."

"George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterer
manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge,
George, and such is my duty."

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his
two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are they
comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as
is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pair in my pocket."
This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to
execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his
customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see,
George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about
the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your feelings when I come out,
and brought this on purpose. There! Who's the wiser?"

"Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one more good
turn and pull my hat over my eyes."

"Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so."

"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," Mr.
George hurriedly replies. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat forward."

So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and
conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

Oh, finally, a little comic relief! It's Mrs. Bagnet's birthday and she gets the full treatment: food badly prepared by her husband, house badly cleaned by her children, and a little party afterwards. She loves it, Mr. Bagnet loves it, the kids love it - they are an amazingly happy and normal family, and it's a huge relief to just read about some non-dysfunctional people for a change. Oh, but here comes Mr. George to join the party, and we're back to the Dickensian horrors. He's trying to be cheerful, but he's pale and shaking and generally not OK. He says he's sad because of Jo's death and because it makes him think of Gridley's death too. The Bagnets try to comfort him, when into the house pops...Bucket! Bucket does an amazing, elaborate routine of pretending to be one of Mr. George's old friends who just happened to see him as he was walking by. Bucket is charming, loves kids, and generally makes himself the life of the party. The Bagnets love him, and they assume that he's very good friends with Mr. George. Even Mr. George is kind of buying it. The reason Bucket's thing is so believable is that he really does seem like a nice enough guy, not a phony. Plus, honestly, there's no way not to like the Bagnets. Finally Mr. George gets up to leave and Bucket says he'll walk with him. Outside Bucket quickly corners Mr. George and places him in custody...for Tulkinghorn's murder! Lots of bad circumstantial evidence here: Mr. George was hanging around Tulkinghorn's place a lot, and Tulkinghorn yelled at him that one time he came after business hours. Also, Mr. George has no alibi and admits that he was there at Tulkinghorn's door at the time of the shooting. Bucket slaps on the handcuffs, covers them with Mr. George's cloak for dignity's sake, and leads him away.

Mr. Bagnet is preparing a birthday dinner for his wife. George Rouncewell has been invited; at precisely 4:30 in the afternoon he arrives, still somewhat distracted and depressed by the death of little Jo, but also delighted to be in the company of amiable old friends. Mr. Bagnet is preparing a birthday dinner for his wife. George Rouncewell has been invited; at precisely 4:30 in the afternoon he arrives, still somewhat distracted and depressed by the death of little Jo, but also delighted to be in the company of amiable old friends. Unannounced and unexpected, Detective Bucket appears. Extremely congenial, he ingratiates himself with the whole group, including the children. He notices that George seems distracted. They leave together and Bucket arrests George on the charge of having murdered Tulkinghorn, who had, on one occasion, cried out "a threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow," words referring to Gridley but taken to refer to George. George is put in jail. Bucket collects the handsome reward offered by Sir Leicester for the capture of his lawyer's murderer.

The plot continues to develop much like a detective story. Bucket's character becomes more distinct. However, there is no sense of climax here; the reader is virtually certain that George cannot be Tulkinghorn's killer.

"Dutiful Friendship" The narrator describes Mrs. Bagnet's birthday celebration. Mr. Bagnet prepares an elaborate dinner and tells Mrs. Bagnet that George will surely visit. She says she fears George may be about to resume his wandering ways, but Mr. Bagnet disagrees. At dinnertime, George arrives. He is pale and tells the Bagnets that the young boy he'd taken in has died. Later, Bucket arrives, saying he spotted George through the window. The Bagnets' two daughters greet him excitedly, instantly enraptured with him. Mrs. Bagnet tells him that George is upset, but George won't explain. Mrs. Bagnet asks if Bucket has a family; he has a wife but no children. Bucket suddenly compliments the Bagnets' backyard and asks if there's any way out of it; there isn't. The Bagnets' son, Woolwich, entertains them with the fife. Bucket continues to be congenial and warm, livening up the evening immensely, and George begins to like him. When George eventually gets up to leave, Bucket gets up to leave with him. Before going, Bucket asks Mr. Bagnet the price of a violoncello and says he'll return tomorrow to look at a few. George and Bucket walk down the street with their arms linked. Suddenly, Bucket roughly pushes George into a public house and arrests him. George is flabbergasted. Bucket says he is arrested for the murder of Tulkinghorn, which happened last night. George is horrified to realize that he was there last night. Bucket says he knows George was often there, that they often quarreled, and that one time Tulkinghorn called George a "threatening, murderous, dangerous" man. Bucket says Sir Leicester is offering a reward to anyone who finds the murderer. He puts handcuffs on George and leads him away

Dutiful Friendship It is Mrs. Bagnet's birthday party, and her family cook dinner for her. Mr. George shows up to drink a birthday toast as he always does, but Mrs. Bagnet sees there is something wrong. George admits he is sad because Jo had just died the day before. It reminds him of Gridley's death, and of Tulkinghorn who was responsible, "a flinty old rascal" . Just then Inspector Bucket shows up at the party, saying he is interested in buying a musical instrument. He charms the Bagnets, plays with the children, drinks a toast, but George remains sour. Bucket asks if there is any way out of the yard. Mrs. Bagnet says no. After an evening of fun, in which the Bagnets invite the Inspector for next year's party, Bucket walks out with Mr. George and away from the Bagnets, he arrests George for murdering Tulkinghorn. George is surprised but goes quietly and peacefully.

Commentary on Chapter XLIX Bucket is a comic character who represents the law and pursues his victims, but with sympathy and compassion. Here, he refuses to ruin Mrs. Bagnet's birthday party and actually joins in, the life of the party. He arrests Mr. George as a likely suspect because he has been seen around Tulkinghorn's place, arguing with him, and open about his hatred of the man. Bucket asks him for his alibi, and George admits he was at Tulkinghorn's about the time of the murder. He does not object or defend himself. Dickens uses the plot strategy of all murder mysteries. He sets up several characters with motives for the murder, but doesn't show who did it. Almost always, the wrong person is arrested first. Mr. George is direct with his feelings, but does not act like a murderer, yet he is docile when arrested. The reader is equally surprised at his arrest, because we believe it was Lady Dedlock. Now it seems there could have been more than one person waiting for Tulkinghorn to come home.


Esther's Narrative

It happened that when I came home from Deal I found a note from Caddy
Jellyby (as we always continued to call her), informing me that her
health, which had been for some time very delicate, was worse and
that she would be more glad than she could tell me if I would go to
see her. It was a note of a few lines, written from the couch on
which she lay and enclosed to me in another from her husband, in
which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude. Caddy was now
the mother, and I the godmother, of such a poor little baby--such a
tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance that seemed to be scarcely
anything but cap-border, and a little lean, long-fingered hand,
always clenched under its chin. It would lie in this attitude all
day, with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used to
imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. Whenever it was moved
it cried, but at all other times it was so patient that the sole
desire of its life appeared to be to lie quiet and think. It had
curious little dark veins in its face and curious little dark marks
under its eyes like faint remembrances of poor Caddy's inky days, and
altogether, to those who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous
little sight.

But it was enough for Caddy that SHE was used to it. The projects
with which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther's education,
and little Esther's marriage, and even for her own old age as the
grandmother of little Esther's little Esthers, was so prettily
expressive of devotion to this pride of her life that I should be
tempted to recall some of them but for the timely remembrance that I
am getting on irregularly as it is.

To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me which had
been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago when
she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She almost--I think I
must say quite--believed that I did her good whenever I was near her.
Now although this was such a fancy of the affectionate girl's that I
am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might have all the force of
a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I set off to Caddy, with my
guardian's consent, post-haste; and she and Prince made so much of me
that there never was anything like it.

Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went again. It
was a very easy journey, for I had only to rise a little earlier in
the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeeping matters
before leaving home.

But when I had made these three visits, my guardian said to me, on my
return at night, "Now, little woman, little woman, this will never
do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant coaching
will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a while and
take possession of our old lodgings."

"Not for me, dear guardian," said I, "for I never feel tired," which
was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such request.

"For me then," returned my guardian, "or for Ada, or for both of us.
It is somebody's birthday to-morrow, I think."

"Truly I think it is," said I, kissing my darling, who would be
twenty-one to-morrow.

"Well," observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously,
"that's a great occasion and will give my fair cousin some necessary
business to transact in assertion of her independence, and will make
London a more convenient place for all of us. So to London we will
go. That being settled, there is another thing--how have you left
Caddy?"

"Very unwell, guardian. I fear it will be some time before she
regains her health and strength."

"What do you call some time, now?" asked my guardian thoughtfully.

"Some weeks, I am afraid."

"Ah!" He began to walk about the room with his hands in his pockets,
showing that he had been thinking as much. "Now, what do you say
about her doctor? Is he a good doctor, my love?"

I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary but
that Prince and I had agreed only that evening that we would like his
opinion to be confirmed by some one.

"Well, you know," returned my guardian quickly, "there's Woodcourt."

I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For a moment
all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr. Woodcourt seemed
to come back and confuse me.

"You don't object to him, little woman?"

"Object to him, guardian? Oh no!"

"And you don't think the patient would object to him?"

So far from that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have a
great reliance on him and to like him very much. I said that he was
no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often in his kind
attendance on Miss Flite.

"Very good," said my guardian. "He has been here to-day, my dear, and
I will see him about it to-morrow."

I felt in this short conversation--though I did not know how, for she
was quiet, and we interchanged no look--that my dear girl well
remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when no
other hands than Caddy's had brought me the little parting token.
This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, and Caddy too, that
I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House and that if I avoided
that disclosure any longer I might become less worthy in my own eyes
of its master's love. Therefore, when we went upstairs and had waited
listening until the clock struck twelve in order that only I might be
the first to wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday and to
take her to my heart, I set before her, just as I had set before
myself, the goodness and honour of her cousin John and the happy life
that was in store for me. If ever my darling were fonder of me at
one time than another in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest
of me that night. And I was so rejoiced to know it and so comforted
by the sense of having done right in casting this last idle
reservation away that I was ten times happier than I had been before.
I had scarcely thought it a reservation a few hours ago, but now that
it was gone I felt as if I understood its nature better.

Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacant, and in
half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had never gone
away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us to celebrate my darling's birthday,
and we were as pleasant as we could be with the great blank among us
that Richard's absence naturally made on such an occasion. After that
day I was for some weeks--eight or nine as I remember--very much with
Caddy, and thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this time than
any other since we had first come together, except the time of my own
illness. She often came to Caddy's, but our function there was to
amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confidential
manner. Whenever I went home at night we were together, but Caddy's
rest was broken by pain, and I often remained to nurse her.

With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love and their
home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was! So self-denying,
so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account, so afraid
of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassisted labours of her
husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop; I had never known the
best of her until now. And it seemed so curious that her pale face
and helpless figure should be lying there day after day where dancing
was the business of life, where the kit and the apprentices began
early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy
waltzed by himself in the kitchen all the afternoon.

At Caddy's request I took the supreme direction of her apartment,
trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter and more
airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every
day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay my small small
namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work or read to her. It
was at one of the first of these quiet times that I told Caddy about
Bleak House.

We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all we had Prince, who in
his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit
softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the very
little child. Whatever Caddy's condition really was, she never failed
to declare to Prince that she was all but well--which I, heaven
forgive me, never failed to confirm. This would put Prince in such
good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from his pocket and
play a chord or two to astonish the baby, which I never knew it to do
in the least degree, for my tiny namesake never noticed it at all.

Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionally, with her
usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond her
grandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a young Borrioboolan
on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, as serene, and as
untidy, she would say, "Well, Caddy, child, and how do you do
to-day?" And then would sit amiably smiling and taking no notice of
the reply or would sweetly glide off into a calculation of the number
of letters she had lately received and answered or of the
coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola-Gha. This she would always do
with a serene contempt for our limited sphere of action, not to be
disguised.

Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning to night and
from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions. If the
baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should make him
uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, it was
surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddy
required any little comfort that the house contained, she first
carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. In
return for this consideration he would come into the room once a day,
all but blessing it--showing a condescension, and a patronage, and a
grace of manner in dispensing the light of his high-shouldered
presence from which I might have supposed him (if I had not known
better) to have been the benefactor of Caddy's life.

"My Caroline," he would say, making the nearest approach that he
could to bending over her. "Tell me that you are better to-day."

"Oh, much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop," Caddy would reply.

"Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Summerson. She is not quite
prostrated by fatigue?" Here he would crease up his eyelids and kiss
his fingers to me, though I am happy to say he had ceased to be
particular in his attentions since I had been so altered.

"Not at all," I would assure him.

"Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss Summerson. We
must spare nothing that will restore her. We must nourish her. My
dear Caroline"--he would turn to his daughter-in-law with infinite
generosity and protection--"want for nothing, my love. Frame a wish
and gratify it, my daughter. Everything this house contains,
everything my room contains, is at your service, my dear. Do not," he
would sometimes add in a burst of deportment, "even allow my simple
requirements to be considered if they should at any time interfere
with your own, my Caroline. Your necessities are greater than mine."

He had established such a long prescriptive right to this deportment
(his son's inheritance from his mother) that I several times knew
both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by these
affectionate self-sacrifices.

"Nay, my dears," he would remonstrate; and when I saw Caddy's thin
arm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be melted too, though
not by the same process. "Nay, nay! I have promised never to leave
ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and I ask no other
return. Now, bless ye! I am going to the Park."

He would take the air there presently and get an appetite for his
hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrong, but I never
saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, except
that he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy and would take the
child out walking with great pomp, always on those occasions sending
him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a
halfpenny in his pocket. But even this disinterestedness was attended
with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge, for before Peepy was
sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with the professor of
deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at the expense of Caddy and
her husband, from top to toe.

Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he used to
come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice how she was,
and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt
to say anything more, I liked him very much. If he found me bustling
about doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as
if with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got
any further. His sole occupation was to sit with his head against the
wall, looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite
divest my mind of a fancy that they understood one another.

I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because he was
now Caddy's regular attendant. She soon began to improve under his
care, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the pains he
took that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I saw a good deal
of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not so much as might be
supposed, for knowing Caddy to be safe in his hands, I often slipped
home at about the hours when he was expected. We frequently met,
notwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myself now, but I still
felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still WAS sorry
for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in his professional
engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet no settled projects
for the future.

It was when Caddy began to recover that I began to notice a change in
my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me,
because I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing
in themselves and only became something when they were pieced
together. But I made it out, by putting them together, that Ada was
not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her tenderness for
me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a moment doubt that;
but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to
me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.

Now, I could not understand this, and I was so anxious for the
happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set me
thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed this
something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my
head that she was a little grieved--for me--by what I had told her
about Bleak House.

How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don't know. I had no
idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I was not
grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy. Still,
that Ada might be thinking--for me, though I had abandoned all such
thoughts--of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so easy
to believe that I believed it.

What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and show
her that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as brisk and
busy as possible, and that I had tried to be all along. However, as
Caddy's illness had certainly interfered, more or less, with my home
duties--though I had always been there in the morning to make my
guardian's breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughed and said
there must be two little women, for his little woman was never
missing--I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I went about
the house humming all the tunes I knew, and I sat working and working
in a desperate manner, and I talked and talked, morning, noon, and
night.

And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.

"So, Dame Trot," observed my guardian, shutting up his book one night
when we were all three together, "so Woodcourt has restored Caddy
Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?"

"Yes," I said; "and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to be
made rich, guardian."

"I wish it was," he returned, "with all my heart."

So did I too, for that matter. I said so.

"Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew if we knew how. Would we
not, little woman?"

I laughed as I worked and replied that I was not sure about that, for
it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there might be
many who could ill spare him. As Miss Flite, and Caddy herself, and
many others.

"True," said my guardian. "I had forgotten that. But we would agree
to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough to work with
tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own happy home and
his own household gods--and household goddess, too, perhaps?"

That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.

"To be sure," said my guardian. "All of us. I have a great regard for
Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him
delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an
independent man with that just kind of pride which he possesses. And
yet I would be glad to do it if I might or if I knew how. He seems
half inclined for another voyage. But that appears like casting such
a man away."

"It might open a new world to him," said I.

"So it might, little woman," my guardian assented. "I doubt if he
expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that he
sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortune
encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?"

I shook my head.

"Humph," said my guardian. "I am mistaken, I dare say." As there was
a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl's
satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I worked
which was a favourite with my guardian.

"And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?" I asked
him when I had hummed it quietly all through.

"I don't quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was
likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country."

"I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him
wherever he goes," said I; "and though they are not riches, he will
never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least."

"Never, little woman," he replied.

I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian's
chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was
now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite, and I saw, as she
looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and that tears
were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be placid and
merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set her loving heart at
rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.

So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder--how little thinking
what was heavy on her mind!--and I said she was not quite well, and
put my arm about her, and took her upstairs. When we were in our own
room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I was so
unprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in me; I
never thought she stood in need of it.

"Oh, my dear good Esther," said Ada, "if I could only make up my mind
to speak to you and my cousin John when you are together!"

"Why, my love!" I remonstrated. "Ada, why should you not speak to
us!"

Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.

"You surely don't forget, my beauty," said I, smiling, "what quiet,
old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the
discreetest of dames? You don't forget how happily and peacefully my
life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain that you
don't forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can never be."

"No, never, Esther."

"Why then, my dear," said I, "there can be nothing amiss--and why
should you not speak to us?"

"Nothing amiss, Esther?" returned Ada. "Oh, when I think of all these
years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old
relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!"

I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not to
answer otherwise than by cheering her, and so I turned off into many
little recollections of our life together and prevented her from
saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not before, I returned
to my guardian to say good night, and then I came back to Ada and sat
near her for a little while.

She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was a
little changed. I had thought so more than once lately. I could not
decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was
changed, but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked
different to me. My guardian's old hopes of her and Richard arose
sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, "She has been anxious
about him," and I wondered how that love would end.

When I had come home from Caddy's while she was ill, I had often
found Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and I had
never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near her,
which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawer, but I still
rather wondered what the work could be, for it was evidently nothing
for herself.

And I noticed as I kissed my dear that she lay with one hand under
her pillow so that it was hidden.

How much less amiable I must have been than they thought me, how much
less amiable than I thought myself, to be so preoccupied with my own
cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only rested with me
to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace!

But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. And I awoke in it next
day to find that there was still the same shade between me and my
darling.

Wow, all of a sudden it's birthday season in the novel. Now Ada is about to turn 21. Also, Caddy just had a baby and is now pretty sick. The baby is named Esther, and the grown-up Esther comes every day to take care of Caddy. Jarndyce suggests getting Woodcourt to take a look at her. Esther kind of jumps at the name, but obviously he's a great doctor, and Caddy is their friend. Turns out he's been to dinner at Bleak House without Esther's knowledge. Anyway, Caddy has other visitors too. Mostly totally useless ones. Prince comes, obviously, to check on his wife and daughter. He's cutely helpless. Mrs. Jellyby comes, doesn't listen to anything Caddy says, and just drones on about Africa without caring about her granddaughter. Mr. Turveydrop comes, pretends to be very self-sacrificing for Caddy's sake, then goes back to business as usual. And Mr. Jellyby comes too. He clearly loves his daughter but just sits there and does nothing. He's a passive lump. Slowly, under Woodcourt's care, Caddy starts to get better. Esther notices that something is wrong with Ada. She seems upset or worried or something that Esther can't really pin down. Esther immediately decides that Ada is concerned about Esther marrying Jarndyce, which, as we will find out soon enough, is a big ol' case of projection. Esther decides to chat about her upcoming marriage with Ada and tells her how it's a really good decision. Ada is all, "well, OK." That night Ada goes to sleep still upset by something.

Caddy and Prince Turveydrop have a baby girl, but Caddy is ill and feels sure that she will get better if Esther visits her. Esther makes three visits, and then Mr. Jarndyce suggests that it would be more convenient all around if he, Ada, and Esther all went to London for a protracted stay. He also makes arrangements for Allan Woodcourt to become Caddy's doctor. Caddy and Prince Turveydrop have a baby girl, but Caddy is ill and feels sure that she will get better if Esther visits her. Esther makes three visits, and then Mr. Jarndyce suggests that it would be more convenient all around if he, Ada, and Esther all went to London for a protracted stay. He also makes arrangements for Allan Woodcourt to become Caddy's doctor. Allan and Esther meet frequently. Eventually, Esther tells Ada and Caddy about Mr. Jarndyce's proposal of marriage. Caddy recovers her health. Allan seems "half inclined for another voyage." Esther notices a slight change -- "a quiet sorrow" -- in Ada's behavior, but cannot determine its cause.

Caddy's illness becomes the means by which Esther and Allan get to know each other better. Our curiosity is aroused about the unexplained change in Ada.

"Esther's Narrative" Esther gets a letter from Caddy, who now has a rather strange-looking baby and is in poor health. Caddy says that good things always happen to her when she's with Esther. Esther begins visiting Caddy in London every day. Mr. Jarndyce says they should live in London for a while so that she can visit more easily. He suggests that Woodcourt become Caddy's doctor, and Esther agrees. She finally tells Ada she's going to marry Mr. Jarndyce. Esther spends a great deal of time with Caddy, who insists to everyone that she is getting better even though she is very sick. She actually does begin to get better, however, when Woodcourt becomes her doctor. Esther sees Woodcourt very often and is certain that he still pities her. She begins to notice a change in Ada and suspects that she's upset about Esther's plans to marry Mr. Jarndyce. As Caddy recovers, Mr. Jarndyce talks to Esther about how wonderful Woodcourt is and how he wishes he could make Woodcourt rich. He speculates that Woodcourt may take another trip and suspects that Woodcourt has been disappointed in some way. One night, Ada begins crying and tells Esther she doesn't know how she can speak to her and Mr. Jarndyce. Esther, thinking this is because of their impending marriage, assures Ada of their affection for her and their happily planned future. She notices that Ada falls asleep with one hand under her pillow

In Bleak House, Dickens gives his characters unusual names that evoke aspects of their personality or role in the novel. For example, Esther's last name, Summerson, evokes images of warmth and happiness, both of which aptly describe Esther's interactions with all those around her. Ada Clare is indeed "clear" in her affections for Richard Carstone, who, like his surname suggests, is stony and obstinate. Allan Woodcourt "would" indeed "court" Esther. Mr. Snagsby often finds himself getting "snagged" in other people's messes. The "lock" in the Dedlock name suggests the secret that Lady Dedlock has kept for so long, and her little-referred-to first name, Honoria, suggests the core of goodness that exists despite her guilt over her past transgressions. Skimpole, as his name clearly denotes, "skimps" on money and gets it from others. Inspector Bucket is a repository of facts and knowledge, as a bucket is a repository of water. And little Jo is as insignificant in the larger world, just as his diminutive two-letter name would suggest. Other names are associated with sounds or rhyming words in an equally evocative manner. Tulkinghorn, for instance, evokes the sneaky word "skulk," which Tulkinghorn indeed does as he gathers secrets. The "horn" of his name also suggests his desire or intention to reveal those secrets. Far from being cloying or pedantic, the names Dickens uses add texture and humor to the novel and reveal the close attention Dickens pays to every aspect of a character, however minor. Lady Dedlock dismisses Rosa to protect her from any future disgrace, not because she's unhappy with her. Rosa has served as a kind of daughter for Lady Dedlock. The kindness and affection with which she treats Rosa is much different from the haughty, cold manner in which she treats Mademoiselle Hortense, revealing that she views Rosa quite differently, as more than just a maid or attendant. Lady Dedlock, not given to warmth or physicality, at one point puts her hand on Rosa's shoulder, which enrages Mademoiselle Hortense, who was never touched at all. This demonstrative gesture suggests the maternal instincts buried deep within Lady Dedlock, which become clear when she emotionally embraces Esther and reveals their relationship. Even though dismissing Rosa seems to be cruel, it's actually the kindest thing Lady Dedlock can do. If Rosa is tainted by Lady Dedlock's secret, her chances for a good marriage to the boy she loves will be ruined. Lady Dedlock could never help, protect, or nurture her own daughter, and she is perhaps trying to compensate for her past failures by protecting Rosa. Jo's death is a truly bleak moment, and the narrator takes the time to moralize about the injustice of his death. So few people ever treated Jo with kindness, who was forced to spend his life moving on from one place to the next, never welcome anywhere. The few times when he is welcomed end only in trouble or death. Krook's lodger, for example, one of the people who treated Jo kindly, dies. When Jo is protected in the Bleak House stable, he is taken away in the middle of the night and forced back out on the street. At George's Shooting Gallery he finds a safe place from the all-knowing, all-seeing man who he believes is chasing him, but here his sickness overtakes him. When he dies, the narrator grandly proclaims his death to the world: "Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. . . . Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day." Sarcasm in evident in these lines: if we are born with compassion, it makes no sense for us to let children die on the street. The narrator sweeps all of us up in his final statement by using the inclusive "us," implicating us in Jo's death, as though we could have taken steps to stop it ourselves.

Esther's Narrative Caddy and Prince Turveydrop have a baby girl and name her after Esther. Caddy however, remains ill and feels she will get better if Esther visits her. Esther visits her three times, and then Mr. Jarndyce decides they should move to their London quarters, so it will be easier for Esther. Both Caddy and the baby are frail, and Esther spends a good part of every day nursing them. Mr. Jarndyce also arranges for Woodcourt to be Caddy's doctor, and his attention brings her to full health. Esther and Woodcourt meet often at Caddy's, and Esther decides she must make it clear to Ada and Caddy that she is engaged. During this time Esther does not spend much time with Ada but notices their relationship has changed. Ada is quiet and does not communicate. She seems full of a sorrow, but Esther does not ask her about it; she tries to cheer her up. Mr. Jarndyce says that Mr. Woodcourt "seems half inclined for another voyage" .

Commentary on Chapter L Esther hints more than she reveals, making the reader guess what is going on in the background. Ada is keeping a secret from Esther, who is too preoccupied with Caddy to get her to confide. One can guess it has to do with Richard. She keeps one hand hidden beneath her pillow. When Jarndyce mentions he wants to call in Woodcourt on Caddy's behalf, Esther is flustered: "all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr. Woodcourt seemed to come back and confuse me" . Esther's delicate timing about announcing her engagement to her friends seems to be bound up with her meeting Woodcourt so often. It seems there is still some feeling between them, and she is trying to make clear her own intentions. Mr. Jarndyce asks Esther if Woodcourt has any great disappointment in the world. She says she knows of none. Jarndyce would like to offer help to the young man but does not know how. His mentioning he might go to sea confirms the idea he could be disappointed in love.