I don't know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. I
mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think
about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself
coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, "Dear, dear,
you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn't!" but it is all of
no use. I hope any one who may read what I write will understand that
if these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it
must be because I have really something to do with them and can't be
kept out.

My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, and found
so much employment for our time that the winter days flew by us like
bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and always in the
evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although he was one of the
most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of
our society.

He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say
it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love before,
but I found them out quite soon. I could not say so, of course, or
show that I knew anything about it. On the contrary, I was so demure
and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes I considered within
myself while I was sitting at work whether I was not growing quite
deceitful.

But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and I
was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice too, so far as
any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which they
relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one
another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing
how it interested me.

"Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," Richard
would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his
pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, "that I can't
get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day--grinding away
at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down
dale, all the country round, like a highwayman--it does me so much
good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that
here I am again!"

"You know, Dame Durden, dear," Ada would say at night, with her head
upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, "I
don't want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only to sit a little
while thinking, with your dear face for company, and to hear the wind
and remember the poor sailors at sea--"

Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over
very often now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination
of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had written to a relation
of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his interest in
Richard's favour, generally; and Sir Leicester had replied in a
gracious manner that he would be happy to advance the prospects of
the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power,
which was not at all probable, and that my Lady sent her compliments
to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was
allied by remote consanguinity) and trusted that he would ever do his
duty in any honourable profession to which he might devote himself.

"So I apprehend it's pretty clear," said Richard to me, "that I shall
have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have had to do
that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the command of a
clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off the Chancellor
and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause.
He'd find himself growing thin, if he didn't look sharp!"

With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever
flagged, Richard had a carelessness in his character that quite
perplexed me, principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd
way, for prudence. It entered into all his calculations about money
in a singular manner which I don't think I can better explain than by
reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skimpole.

Mr. Jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from Mr. Skimpole
himself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money in my hands with
instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to
Richard. The number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which
Richard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number
of times he talked to me as if he had saved or realized that amount,
would form a sum in simple addition.

"My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?" he said to me when he wanted,
without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the
brickmaker. "I made ten pounds, clear, out of Coavinses' business."

"How was that?" said I.

"Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid of
and never expected to see any more. You don't deny that?"

"No," said I.

"Very well! Then I came into possession of ten pounds--"

"The same ten pounds," I hinted.

"That has nothing to do with it!" returned Richard. "I have got ten
pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can afford to
spend it without being particular."

In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacrifice
of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no good, he
carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it.

"Let me see!" he would say. "I saved five pounds out of the
brickmaker's affair, so if I have a good rattle to London and back in
a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, I shall have saved
one. And it's a very good thing to save one, let me tell you: a penny
saved is a penny got!"

I believe Richard's was as frank and generous a nature as there
possibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and in the midst of all his
wild restlessness, was so gentle that I knew him like a brother in a
few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him and would have shown
itself abundantly even without Ada's influence; but with it, he
became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be
interested and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. I am
sure that I, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking
with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on, falling
deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each
shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps
not yet suspected even by the other--I am sure that I was scarcely
less enchanted than they were and scarcely less pleased with the
pretty dream.

We were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast Mr.
Jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription, said,
"From Boythorn? Aye, aye!" and opened and read it with evident
pleasure, announcing to us in a parenthesis when he was about
half-way through, that Boythorn was "coming down" on a visit. Now who
was Boythorn, we all thought. And I dare say we all thought too--I am
sure I did, for one--would Boythorn at all interfere with what was
going forward?

"I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn," said Mr.
Jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, "more than
five and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in the
world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the loudest
boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He was then the
heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the heartiest
and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow."

"In stature, sir?" asked Richard.

"Pretty well, Rick, in that respect," said Mr. Jarndyce; "being some
ten years older than I and a couple of inches taller, with his head
thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his
hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs! There's no simile for
his lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the
house shake."

As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythorn, we
observed the favourable omen that there was not the least indication
of any change in the wind.

"But it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the
passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick--and Ada, and
little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor--that I
speak of," he pursued. "His language is as sounding as his voice. He
is always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree. In his
condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be an ogre
from what he says, and I believe he has the reputation of one with
some people. There! I tell you no more of him beforehand. You must
not be surprised to see him take me under his protection, for he has
never forgotten that I was a low boy at school and that our
friendship began in his knocking two of my head tyrant's teeth out
(he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and his man," to me, "will
be here this afternoon, my dear."

I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr.
Boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with some
curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear.
The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. The dinner was
put back an hour, and we were sitting round the fire with no light
but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst open and the hall
resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence and
in a stentorian tone: "We have been misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most
abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right
instead of to the left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the
face of the earth. His father must have been a most consummate
villain, ever to have such a son. I would have had that fellow shot
without the least remorse!"

"Did he do it on purpose?" Mr. Jarndyce inquired.

"I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his
whole existence in misdirecting travellers!" returned the other. "By
my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld when
he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I stood
before that fellow face to face and didn't knock his brains out!"

"Teeth, you mean?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, really making the whole
house vibrate. "What, you have not forgotten it yet! Ha, ha, ha! And
that was another most consummate vagabond! By my soul, the
countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the blackest image
of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a
field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most unparalleled despot
in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him like a rotten tree!"

"I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now, will you come
upstairs?"

"By my soul, Jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to refer to
his watch, "if you had been married, I would have turned back at the
garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the Himalaya
Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself at this
unseasonable hour."

"Not quite so far, I hope?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"By my life and honour, yes!" cried the visitor. "I wouldn't be
guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house
waiting all this time for any earthly consideration. I would
infinitely rather destroy myself--infinitely rather!"

Talking thus, they went upstairs, and presently we heard him in his
bedroom thundering "Ha, ha, ha!" and again "Ha, ha, ha!" until the
flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion and
to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard him
laugh.

We all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was a
sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice,
and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he
spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go
off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly prepared
to have it so confirmed by his appearance when Mr. Jarndyce presented
him. He was not only a very handsome old gentleman--upright and
stalwart as he had been described to us--with a massive grey head, a
fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become
corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it
no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but
for the vehement emphasis in which it was constantly required to
assist; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so
chivalrously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much
sweetness and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing
to hide, but showed himself exactly as he was--incapable, as Richard
said, of anything on a limited scale, and firing away with those
blank great guns because he carried no small arms whatever--that
really I could not help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat
at dinner, whether he smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led
by Mr. Jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up
his head like a bloodhound and gave out that tremendous "Ha, ha, ha!"

"You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!" replied the
other. "He IS the most wonderful creature! I wouldn't take ten
thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole
support in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and attachment,
a phenomenon. And his father before him was one of the most
astonishing birds that ever lived!"

The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so
tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his
forefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted
on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently expressing the
most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of
a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good
illustration of his character, I thought.

"By my soul, Jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit of
bread to the canary to peck at, "if I were in your place I would
seize every master in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning and
shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones
rattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, by
fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do
it for you with the greatest satisfaction!" (All this time the very
small canary was eating out of his hand.)

"I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at
present," returned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, "that it would be greatly
advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole
bar."

"There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on the
face of the earth!" said Mr. Boythorn. "Nothing but a mine below it
on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and
precedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to it
also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son the
Accountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown to
atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it
in the least!"

It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he
recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed, he threw
up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country
seemed to echo to his "Ha, ha, ha!" It had not the least effect in
disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete and who
hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side and now
on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as if he were no
more than another bird.

"But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed right of
way?" said Mr. Jarndyce. "You are not free from the toils of the law
yourself!"

"The fellow has brought actions against ME for trespass, and I have
brought actions against HIM for trespass," returned Mr. Boythorn. "By
heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally impossible
that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be Sir Lucifer."

"Complimentary to our distant relation!" said my guardian laughingly
to Ada and Richard.

"I would beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's pardon," resumed
our visitor, "if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of
the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite unnecessary
and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance."

"Or he keeps us," suggested Richard.

"By my soul," exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing another volley,
"that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the
most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by
some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station of life but
a walking-stick's! The whole of that family are the most solemnly
conceited and consummate blockheads! But it's no matter; he should
not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets melted into one and
living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like the ivory
balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by his agent, or secretary,
or somebody, writes to me 'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, presents
his compliments to Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, and has to call his
attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old
parsonage-house, now the property of Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir
Leicester's right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of
Chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester finds it convenient to close up
the same.' I write to the fellow, 'Mr. Lawrence Boythorn presents his
compliments to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call HIS
attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of Sir
Leicester Dedlock's positions on every possible subject and has to
add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to
see the man who may undertake to do it.' The fellow sends a most
abandoned villain with one eye to construct a gateway. I play upon
that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine until the breath is
nearly driven out of his body. The fellow erects a gate in the night.
I chop it down and burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to
come over the fence and pass and repass. I catch them in humane man
traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the
engine--resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the
existence of those lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass;
I bring actions for trespass. He brings actions for assault and
battery; I defend them and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha,
ha!"

To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have
thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same
time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly
smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought
him the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good nature of
his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the
world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was a
summer joke.

"No, no," he said, "no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock! Though
I willingly confess," here he softened in a moment, "that Lady
Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I would
do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head
seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment at
twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and
presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the
breath of life through a tight waist--and got broke for it--is not
the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive,
locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!"

"Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?" said my
guardian.

"Most assuredly not!" said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him on the shoulder
with an air of protection that had something serious in it, though he
laughed. "He will stand by the low boy, always. Jarndyce, you may
rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass--with apologies to Miss
Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have pursued so
dry a subject--is there nothing for me from your men Kenge and
Carboy?"

"I think not, Esther?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Nothing, guardian."

"Much obliged!" said Mr. Boythorn. "Had no need to ask, after even my
slight experience of Miss Summerson's forethought for every one about
her." (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do it.) "I
inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course have not yet
been in town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down
here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning."

I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very
pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and a
satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat
at a little distance from the piano listening to the music--and he
had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music,
for his face showed it--that I asked my guardian as we sat at the
backgammon board whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married.

"No," said he. "No."

"But he meant to be!" said I.

"How did you find out that?" he returned with a smile. "Why,
guardian," I explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding
what was in my thoughts, "there is something so tender in his manner,
after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and--"

Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have just
described him.

I said no more.

"You are right, little woman," he answered. "He was all but married
once. Long ago. And once."

"Did the lady die?"

"No--but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all his
later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of
romance yet?"

"I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say
that when you have told me so."

"He has never since been what he might have been," said Mr. Jarndyce,
"and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant
and his little yellow friend. It's your throw, my dear!"

I felt, from my guardian's manner, that beyond this point I could not
pursue the subject without changing the wind. I therefore forbore to
ask any further questions. I was interested, but not curious. I
thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when I
was awakened by Mr. Boythorn's lusty snoring; and I tried to do that
very difficult thing, imagine old people young again and invested
with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep before I had succeeded,
and dreamed of the days when I lived in my godmother's house. I am
not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects to know whether it is
at all remarkable that I almost always dreamed of that period of my
life.

With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Carboy to
Mr. Boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would wait upon
him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid the bills,
and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as compact
as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and Richard
took advantage of a very fine day to make a little excursion, Mr.
Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy's clerk and then was to go
on foot to meet them on their return.

Well! I was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, adding up
columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making a great
bustle about it when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. I had had
some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be the young
gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and I was glad to see
him, because he was associated with my present happiness.

I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had an
entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid
gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house
flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little
finger. Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with
bear's-grease and other perfumery. He looked at me with an attention
that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat until the
servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and uncrossing
his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant ride,
and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked at him, but I found
him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and curious way.

When the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs to Mr.
Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for
him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would partake.
He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door,
"Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?" I replied yes, I
should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look.

I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much
embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be to
wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to leave
him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some
time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a long one,
and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his room was at
some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a
high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation.

At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the
conference. "My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's a Tartar!"

"Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I.

Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the
carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt
quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The
sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation on
me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under which
he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.

He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.

"What will you take yourself, miss? You'll take a morsel of
something?"

"No, thank you," said I.

"Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?" said Mr. Guppy,
hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.

"Nothing, thank you," said I. "I have only waited to see that you
have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?"

"No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure. I've everything that I
can require to make me comfortable--at least I--not comfortable--I'm
never that." He drank off two more glasses of wine, one after
another.

I thought I had better go.

"I beg your pardon, miss!" said Mr. Guppy, rising when he saw me
rise. "But would you allow me the favour of a minute's private
conversation?"

Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.

"What follows is without prejudice, miss?" said Mr. Guppy, anxiously
bringing a chair towards my table.

"I don't understand what you mean," said I, wondering.

"It's one of our law terms, miss. You won't make any use of it to my
detriment at Kenge and Carboy's or elsewhere. If our conversation
shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am not to be
prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In short, it's in
total confidence."

"I am at a loss, sir," said I, "to imagine what you can have to
communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but
once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury."

"Thank you, miss. I'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient." All this
time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with his handkerchief
or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his
right. "If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I
think it might assist me in getting on without a continual choke that
cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant."

He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of moving well
behind my table.

"You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you miss?" said Mr.
Guppy, apparently refreshed.

"Not any," said I.

"Not half a glass?" said Mr. Guppy. "Quarter? No! Then, to proceed.
My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy's, is two
pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon you, it
was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened
period. A rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of
five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve
months from the present date. My mother has a little property, which
takes the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an
independent though unassuming manner in the Old Street Road. She is
eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. She never interferes, is
all for peace, and her disposition easy. She has her failings--as who
has not?--but I never knew her do it when company was present, at
which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt
liquors. My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is
lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the
'ealthiest outlets. Miss Summerson! In the mildest language, I adore
you. Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a
declaration--to make an offer!"

Mr. Guppy went down on his knees. I was well behind my table and not
much frightened. I said, "Get up from that ridiculous position
immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise
and ring the bell!"

"Hear me out, miss!" said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands.

"I cannot consent to hear another word, sir," I returned, "Unless you
get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as
you ought to do if you have any sense at all."

He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so.

"Yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said with his hand upon his
heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the
tray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul recoils
from food at such a moment, miss."

"I beg you to conclude," said I; "you have asked me to hear you out,
and I beg you to conclude."

"I will, miss," said Mr. Guppy. "As I love and honour, so likewise I
obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before the
shrine!"

"That is quite impossible," said I, "and entirely out of the
question."

"I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray and
regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were not
directed to him, with his late intent look, "I am aware that in a
worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a
poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! No, don't ring--I have been
brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of
general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence,
got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what means
might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing your
fortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you? I know
nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had your
confidence, and you set me on?"

I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be my
interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination, and
he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to go
away immediately.

"Cruel miss," said Mr. Guppy, "hear but another word! I think you
must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when I
waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that I
could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps
of the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was
well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have
walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby's house only to
look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of to-day,
quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its
pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. If I
speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful
wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it."

"I should be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my hand
upon the bell-rope, "to do you or any one who was sincere the
injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably
expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good
opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank
you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not proud. I
hope," I think I added, without very well knowing what I said, "that
you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish
and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's business."

"Half a minute, miss!" cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was about to
ring. "This has been without prejudice?"

"I will never mention it," said I, "unless you should give me future
occasion to do so."

"A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better at any
time, however distant--THAT'S no consequence, for my feelings can
never alter--of anything I have said, particularly what might I not
do, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or
dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs.
Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient."

I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his written
card upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed. Raising my
eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after he had
passed the door.

I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments
and getting through plenty of business. Then I arranged my desk, and
put everything away, and was so composed and cheerful that I thought
I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. But, when I went
upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning to laugh
about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry
about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little while and felt as
if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been
since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in the garden.

Esther apologizes for spending so much time talking about herself. To which the answer is obviously "Huh?" - since in reality she is constantly leaving herself out or putting herself down. So this is just more of that. Richard and Ada are falling in love. No worries, back then it was totally cool for cousins to get together. And it doesn't seem like they're first cousins or anything. In any case, Esther thinks it's adorable. Such a cute couple! But she is also worried about Richard's idiotic rationalizations about money. He is not a saver. After some time, Jarndyce gets a letter and is psyched to announce that his childhood friend Lawrence Boythorn is coming to visit. They met at school, when Boythorn saved Jarndyce from some bullies. Jarndyce says Boythorn is large, loud, brave, very emphatic, and generally awesome. Boythorn arrives late and bursts into the house yelling about some jerk who gave him bad directions. He alternates between saying that things are amazingly awesome and that they're terrible and whoever is responsible for them should be shot. Jarndyce clearly loves him. At dinner there's more of the same, except now Boythorn's pet, a tiny yellow bird that's so domesticated it doesn't need a cage, sits on his head and eats out of his hand. So Boythorn clearly has a lot of bark and not much bite. Also, it turns out that he is Sir Leicester Dedlock's neighbor, and they are constantly suing each other and fighting over the borders between their estates. After dinner Esther notices how Boythorn watches Ada and Richard. Later she asks Jarndyce whether Boythorn was ever married. Jarndyce says no, but Esther guesses he was supposed to be married. She's a smart cookie. It turns out that something happened to Boythorn's fiancee, and he has never been the same since. Esther thinks about this, then dozes off and dreams about her Aunt's house. The next morning Guppy from Kenge and Carboy's office swings by Bleak House. Esther recognizes him as the young man who helped her in the court building the first time she came to London. Guppy hems and haws a bit, and then...proposes marriage to Esther! Readers everywhere say, "what the...?" Esther lets him down as gently as possible. Guppy says that despite her saying no, he will promote her interests as best as he can. Whatever that means. Esther gets rid of him as quickly as she can, then goes upstairs. Thinking about his proposal first makes her laugh. Then it makes her cry. Aww.

Impractical, restless, and undirected, Richard Carstone is ill-prepared to obtain a position of any kind. To help him, Mr. Jarndyce writes to one of Richard's distant relatives, Sir Leicester Dedlock, but all prospects of help from him seem bleak. Esther, meanwhile, is convinced by unmistakable signs that Richard and Ada are in love. Old Lawrence Boythorn comes to Bleak House for a visit. He is an intense human being, a creature of extremes, but well-meaning and, in fact, lovable. A litigious person, he happens to be suing Sir Leicester, whom he dislikes; for Lady Dedlock, however, he has only affection and admiration. In connection with Boythorn's legal action, Mr. Guppy arrives at Bleak House. While there, he shocks Esther by proposing to her. She rejects him firmly and he leaves greatly discouraged.

The portrayal of Richard as unformed and somewhat irrational prepares us for his eventual failure. Boythorn contributes to the book's energy, humor, and variety in character. He also reinforces our tendency to be somewhat sympathetic toward Lady Dedlock despite her obvious limitations. Esther's response to Mr. Guppy's proposal of marriage confirms our impression of her good taste and sound judgment.

"Signs and Tokens" Esther expresses astonishment that she is still writing about herself. She says that Richard is very fond of Ada and that they are falling in love. Esther hides their secret. Richard thinks of becoming a sailor. Mr. Jarndyce writes to a relative named Sir Leicester Dedlock to see if he can advance Richard's career, but Sir Dedlock confesses that he can be of no help. Richard is not bothered by this news. Esther observes that Richard is quite careless, although he believes himself to be very cautious. She explains herself by telling us that when Mr. Jarndyce repaid the money she and Richard had loaned Skimpole, Richard spent the money quickly and considers it to be profit since he had assumed the money was gone forever. One morning, Mr. Jarndyce gets a letter from an old classmate named Lawrence Boythorn. Jarndyce describes him as loud, impetuous, and hearty, with incredibly strong lungs and a tendency to speak in extremes. When Boythorn visits Bleak House, he proves himself to speak always in superlatives and to have a house-shaking laugh. Everyone likes him. At dinner, Boythorn introduces his small pet bird, who sits on his head. Boythorn tells Jarndyce he should be more forceful in settling the Jarndyce and Jarndyce lawsuit. Boythorn describes a trespassing suit he is involved in with his neighbor, Sir Leicester. He hates the whole family, although his anger is mitigated by his laugh and the bird sitting on his head. Later in the evening, Esther asks Jarndyce if Boythorn had ever been married, and, hearing that he hasn't, asserts that Boythorn looks so kind that surely he wanted to have been. Jarndyce says she is right, and that a woman broke his heart. Now he is alone except for the bird. In the morning, Kenge and Carboy's clerk, Mr. Guppy, arrives to see Boythorn. Esther is happy to see him and tells him that she will serve him lunch when he has finished his meeting. He asks if she will be there, and she says yes. At lunch, Mr. Guppy reveals that he is in love with her and wants to marry her. Esther is horrified and refuses him. He tells her that his feelings will never change and that she should contact him if she changes her mind. Once he is gone, Esther cries

When Esther, Richard, and Ada arrive at Bleak House, they have many chances to form first impressions of places and people. They first see Bleak House in the distance, on a hill. As they head quickly toward it, the house appears to disappear in the trees. The house's initial elusiveness suggests that seeing it completely--that is, understanding the house, its inhabitants, and what goes on within its walls--will prove difficult once the trio finally makes it their home. Their first impression of Mr. Jarndyce is formed in the chaos of their arrival, although his instant effusiveness and affection set them all at ease. Esther's description of the house, its many rooms, and the abundance of mismatched furniture suggests an overload of first impressions. As the house is confusing and mazelike, so too are Esther's first impressions, although Mr. Jarndyce is so welcoming that the impressions are in no way negative. Despite its name, Bleak House proves to be unintimidating and warm. Even though Esther frequently claims to be modest and uncomfortable with talking so much about herself, she clearly relishes the chance to do so and never misses an opportunity to mention her own good deeds and the praise others give her. When Mr. Jarndyce asks about their stay with the Jellybys in chapter 6, for example, Ada breathlessly tells him how wonderful Esther was with the children--details that Esther recounts in their entirety. When Mr. Jarndyce confides in Esther in the Growlery in chapter 8, he compliments her cleverness, discretion, and good advice, accolades that Esther vehemently denies but includes in her narrative nonetheless. In chapter 9, Esther goes so far as to claim, "I try to think about myself as little as possible," a claim that seems blatantly at odds with her narration so far. Esther's overabundance of self-denigration suggests that she actually holds the opposite view of herself. Mr. Skimpole and Mr. Boythorn, two vibrant characters Esther meets at Bleak House, are pleasant company but suggest that contradictions are inherent in every person. Skimpole has created a childlike image for himself, which allows him to avoid all responsibility and the consequences of his actions. He also sees himself as beneficent, although he always takes, never gives. For example, he depends on others to pay his debts for him, then believes that those people should be the grateful ones because he has given them the opportunity to be generous. Esther is confused by his twisted logic, calling it a "perplexing and extraordinary contradiction." However, she blames her confusion on her lack of cleverness. Mr. Boythorn exhibits contradictions in a less manipulative way, as his broken heart and the small pet bird that rest on his head belie his loud voice, explosive anger, and hyperbolic way of speaking. Esther herself reveals her own internal contradictions in her profession of modesty but clearly enjoys her own narration and inclusion in the tale. The story of the Ghost's Walk in chapter 7 is the first supernatural element in Bleak House and adds a layer of dark intrigue to the story. Since Bleak House was originally published as a serial, it makes sense for Dickens to include such a mystery, since it would surely compel readers to look forward to the next installment. Indeed, the second installment of the serial ends after chapter 7. Similarly, Mr. Guppy's out-of-the-blue marriage proposal in chapter 9 seems intended to add a bit of romance and melodrama to the tale. Mr. Guppy's affection seems so surprising that it's difficult to understand why Dickens would have included such a scene. On the other hand, the image of Esther sobbing to herself after Mr. Guppy leaves provides a touching, emotional moment with our heroine.

Signs and Tokens Esther watches Richard and Ada falling in love, but they hardly notice it themselves. Mr. Jarndyce writes to Sir Leicester Dedlock about Richard's prospects, and Sir Leicester writes back a gracious letter that says nothing. Richard sees he will have to work his own way in the world. Yet, Esther worries about him, for he has a thoughtlessness about spending money. Just then Mr. Jarndyce receives a visit from his old friend, Lawrence Boythorn. He explains his friend is "always in extremes" "in the superlative degree" . Boythorn is generous and kind, but speaks in a loud voice and is in litigation with Sir Leicester Dedlock over a right of way between their properties. He likes to get into battles and does nothing half way. He is jolly and likeable, and all the young people find him agreeable. Mr. Guppy comes with papers for Mr. Boythorn from Kenge and Carboy's office. He asks to see Esther alone and proposes to her. She is outraged and asks him to leave. He makes her promise not to tell anyone about it.

Commentary on Chapter IX Esther begins to hint of a problem with Richard--his carelessness with money matters. He is generous and unthinking. It will come out later that he, too, is falling under the seduction of the lawsuit, thinking he will get rich in the settlement. Boythorn is a satire on the writer, Walter Savage Landor, who lived up to his name with a hot temper and contempt for authority. He was a poet and writer from the Romantic period, known for his Imaginary Conversations. He was thrown out of Rugby and Oxford, and came into conflict with political enemies and neighbors, like Boythorn. He was otherwise a kind and gentle man with great humor and praise for others. He hated wrongs and injustice. The proposal of Guppy to Esther is out of place. He is of a lower class than Esther, doesn't know her, and so far, we have seen him doing things merely to promote himself. He is only a law clerk with great pretensions to be something more, and we still wonder why he was poking around the Dedlock's mansion.


On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more
particularly in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby,
law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's
Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in
all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls
of parchment; in paper--foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white,
whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens,
ink, India-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and
wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs,
diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands--glass
and leaden--pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, and other small
office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention, ever
since he was out of his time and went into partnership with Peffer.
On that occasion, Cook's Court was in a manner revolutionized by the
new inscription in fresh paint, PEFFER AND SNAGSBY, displacing the
time-honoured and not easily to be deciphered legend PEFFER only. For
smoke, which is the London ivy, had so wreathed itself round Peffer's
name and clung to his dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite
quite overpowered the parent tree.

Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not expected there,
for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard
of St. Andrews, Holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring
past him all the day and half the night like one great dragon. If he
ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to air himself again in
Cook's Court until admonished to return by the crowing of the
sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street,
whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he
knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it--if
Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of Cook's Court, which no
law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly,
and no one is the worse or wiser.

In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby's "time"
of seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer in the same
law-stationering premises a niece--a short, shrewd niece, something
too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like
a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. The
Cook's Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of
this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a
solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her
up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for
a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited
internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held,
had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever
of the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originated, it
either never reached or never influenced the ears of young Snagsby,
who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's
estate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in Cook's
Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby and the niece are one; and the
niece still cherishes her figure, which, however tastes may differ,
is unquestionably so far precious that there is mighty little of it.

Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the
neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing to proceed
from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court very often. Mr.
Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dulcet
tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining
head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He
tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in Cook's
Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at
the clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shop with a heavy
flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin in company with his two
'prentices, he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. From
beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in
its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in
the voice already mentioned; and haply, on some occasions when these
reach a sharper pitch than usual, Mr. Snagsby mentions to the
'prentices, "I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!"

This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before now sharpened
the wit of the Cook's Courtiers to remark that it ought to be the
name of Mrs. Snagsby, seeing that she might with great force and
expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormy character.
It is, however, the possession, and the only possession except fifty
shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with
clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to
have been christened Augusta) who, although she was farmed or
contracted for during her growing time by an amiable benefactor of
his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail to have been
developed under the most favourable circumstances, "has fits," which
the parish can't account for.

Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten
years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits, and
is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint
that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink,
or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be
near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. She is a
satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'prentices, who feel
that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the
breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can
always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsby, who
thinks it a charity to keep her. The law-stationer's establishment
is, in Guster's eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. She believes
the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with
its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant
apartment in Christendom. The view it commands of Cook's Court at one
end (not to mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Coavinses'
the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other she regards as a
prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil--and
plenty of it too--of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby and of Mrs.
Snagsby looking at Mr. Snagsby are in her eyes as achievements of
Raphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many
privations.

Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the
business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches the
tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays,
licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges no
responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner,
insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the
neighbouring wives a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, and
even out in Holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habitually
call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the
wives') position and Mrs. Snagsby's, and their (the husbands')
behaviour and Mr. Snagsby's. Rumour, always flying bat-like about
Cook's Court and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, does say
that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr. Snagsby is
sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the
spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It is even observed that the
wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining
example in reality look down upon him and that nobody does so with
greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lord is more
than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of
correction. But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's
being in his way rather a meditative and poetical man, loving to walk
in Staple Inn in the summer-time and to observe how countrified the
sparrows and the leaves are, also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a
Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were
old times once and that you'd find a stone coffin or two now under
that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his
imagination, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, and
Masters of the Rolls who are deceased; and he gets such a flavour of
the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he HAS heard say
that a brook "as clear as crystal" once ran right down the middle of
Holborn, when Turnstile really was a turnstile, leading slap away
into the meadows--gets such a flavour of the country out of this that
he never wants to go there.

The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully
effective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his
shop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim
westward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. The crow
flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden into
Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those
shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in
nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still
remain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman
helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars,
flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--as
would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less. Here, among
his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where
the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day,
quiet at his table. An oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.

Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of
the present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from
attention, able to afford it. Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned,
mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables
with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the
holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one,
environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where
he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks
that give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on
the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that
can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. Very few loose papers
are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not referring
to it. With the round top of an inkstand and two broken bits of
sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of
indecision is in his mind. Now the inkstand top is in the middle, now
the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. That's not it. Mr.
Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again.

Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory
staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and
he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office.
He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at
elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened
with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a common way. He wants no
clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped.
His clients want HIM; he is all in all. Drafts that he requires to be
drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in the temple on mysterious
instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made are made at the
stationers', expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man in
the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage than any
crossing-sweeper in Holborn.

The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top,
the little sand-box. So! You to the middle, you to the right, you to
the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now or
never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on
his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the
middle-aged man out at elbows, "I shall be back presently." Very
rarely tells him anything more explicit.

Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came--not quite so straight, but
nearly--to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby's,
Law-Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law-Writing executed in
all its branches, &c., &c., &c.

It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a
balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers about
Snagsby's door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one
and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend into
the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door
just now and saw the crow who was out late.

"Master at home?"

Guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the
kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two
daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two
second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two
'prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely
awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won't
grow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will.

"Master at home?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears, glad
to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and
veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture
of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off.

Mr. Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts a
bit of bread and butter. Says, "Bless my soul, sir! Mr. Tulkinghorn!"

"I want half a word with you, Snagsby."

"Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man
round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir." Snagsby has
brightened in a moment.

The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse,
counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing
round, on a stool at the desk.

"Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby."

"Yes, sir." Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his hand,
modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid man, is
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save
words.

"You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately."

"Yes, sir, we did."

"There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly
feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong
coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather
like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I
looked in to ask you--but I haven't got it. No matter, any other time
will do. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this."

"Who copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat
on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a
twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. "We gave this out,
sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that
time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to
my book."

Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of
the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyes
the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down
a page of the book, "Jewby--Packer--Jarndyce."

"Jarndyce! Here we are, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. "To be sure! I might
have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges
just over on the opposite side of the lane."

Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the
law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.

"WHAT do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo, sir. Here
it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at eight
o'clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine."

"Nemo!" repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin for no one."

"It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby submits
with his deferential cough. "It is a person's name. Here it is, you
see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight o'clock;
brought in Thursday morning, half after nine."

The tail of Mr. Snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of Mrs.
Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by
deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs.
Snagsby, as who should say, "My dear, a customer!"

"Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. "Our law-writers, who
live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but
it's the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a
written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the
King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth. You know
the kind of document, sir--wanting employ?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of
Coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in Coavinses'
windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of
several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. Mr.
Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance
over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions
with his mouth to this effect: "Tul-king-horn--rich--in-flu-en-tial!"

"Have you given this man work before?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours."

"Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he
lived?"

"Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a--" Mr. Snagsby makes
another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter were insurmountable
"--at a rag and bottle shop."

"Can you show me the place as I go back?"

"With the greatest pleasure, sir!"

Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his
black coat, takes his hat from its peg. "Oh! Here is my little
woman!" he says aloud. "My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one
of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with
Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir--I shan't be two minutes, my
love!"

Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps
at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office,
refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently
curious.

"You will find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby,
walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to
the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. But they're a wild lot in
general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never
wants sleep. He'll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long
as ever you like."

It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full
effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and
against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against
plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against the
general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has
interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest
business of life; diving through law and equity, and through that
kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what
and collects about us nobody knows whence or how--we only knowing in
general that when there is too much of it we find it necessary to
shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and
bottle shop and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise,
lying and being in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln's Inn, and kept,
as is announced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one Krook.

"This is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer.

"This is where he lives, is it?" says the lawyer unconcernedly.
"Thank you."

"Are you not going in, sir?"

"No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good
evening. Thank you!" Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his
little woman and his tea.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He goes
a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Krook, and
enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so
in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by
a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-headed
candle in his hand.

"Pray is your lodger within?"

"Male or female, sir?" says Mr. Krook.

"Male. The person who does copying."

Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an
indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute.

"Did you wish to see him, sir?"

"Yes."

"It's what I seldom do myself," says Mr. Krook with a grin. "Shall I
call him down? But it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir!"

"I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!" Mr. Krook, with his
cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after
Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Hi-hi!" he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly
disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat
expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.

"Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know
what they say of my lodger?" whispers Krook, going up a step or two.

"What do they say of him?"

"They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know
better--he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so
black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he'd as soon make that
bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. That's my advice!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark door
on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and
accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.

The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if
he had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease,
and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as
if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In the corner
by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness
marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged old portmanteau
on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger
one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. The
floor is bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of
rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the
darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn
together, and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine
might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon the bed.

For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork,
lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just
within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt and
trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral
darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length of
its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of
winding-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his
whiskers and his beard--the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the
scum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the room is,
foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes
those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the
general sickliness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco,
there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium.

"Hallo, my friend!" he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick
against the door.

He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away,
but his eyes are surely open.

"Hallo, my friend!" he cries again. "Hallo! Hallo!"

As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long goes
out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shutters
staring down upon the bed.

New people coming through. First, Mr. Snagsby, who is a law stationer. You guessed it - he has a special shop selling blank legal forms, parchment, pens, sealing wax, etc. The other thing he does is send out law documents to be copied . He is married to Mrs. Snagsby, who is the third woman we've met so far who wears the pants in the marriage. And yet again, it's not doing any favors for her appeal. She is loud, jealous, domineering, and controlling. They have a couple of daughters, a couple of shop assistants, and a young woman named Guster who is kind of a jack-of-all-trades. She is an epileptic orphan from the workhouse. One day Tulkinghorn is working in his office in London. It's stuffy, filled with antiques, and generally unpleasant. The ceilings have paintings on them, and in his office is a picture of Allegory pointing his finger down at the viewer. Tulkinghorn leaves, and goes over to Snagsby's. This is totally unusual, because Tulkinghorn is way too important a person to every go to the stationer's himself. He is all cool and nonchalant and asks Snagsby who did the legal copy on the document Lady Dedlock was fascinated by earlier. Snagsby tells him about the law writer who rents the second-floor room at Krook's. His name is Nemo. Tulkinghorn is all "what?" because Nemo means "no one" in Latin. Brain snack! Other characters named "No one" include Captain Nemo, the Indian explorer in Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Odysseus, the hero of Homer's Odyssey, who escapes from the cyclops Polyphemus by telling him his name is "outis", or "no man" in Greek . So Tulkinghorn goes over to Krook's. Krook tells him that word on the street has it that Nemo has sold his soul to the devil, "but you and I know better - don't buy" . They go into Nemo's room and find him lying with his eyes open on the bed, totally out of it. Tulkinghorn smells opium, and neither of them can shake Nemo awake. Stay tuned! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!

"The Law-writer" The narrator takes over. He introduces Mr. Snagsby, Law-Stationer, who deals with legal documents at his firm, Peffer and Snagsbywith. Peffer is never seen in court anymore and may be insane. A niece lived with Peffer in the law-stationering office, a woman Snagsby eventually married. The Snagsbys live with a young woman named Guster, a charity case prone to throwing hysterical fits. Mrs. Snagsby takes care of all aspects of the business, and many men consider her to be the model wife. A crow flies across the sky toward Lincoln's Inn, where we find Mr. Tulkinghorn's home. Inside, everything is locked up. This is both his house and his office. He goes out and walks to the Snagsby's house, where he meets with Mr. Snagsby. He tells Snagsby that some of the Jarndyce and Jarndyce documents he copied lately had very nice writing. He asks Snagsby who wrote them, and Snagsby answers that they were written by a man named Nemo. He takes Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook's shop where Nemo lives. Mr. Tulkinghorn thanks Snagsby for showing him and says he will come back another time. Tulkinghorn, however, doubles back and goes into the shop. Krook gives him a candle and tells him where to find Nemo. Tulkinghorn knocks on the door, opens it, and his candle goes out. The room smells terrible and is a mess. A man is lying on the bed. Tulkinghorn greets him loudly, but the man doesn't wake up

The Law Writer This chapter returns to third-person and describes the Law-Stationer's shop in Cook's Court, London, bordering Chancery Lane. Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby run the shop, though Mrs. Snagsby is the real boss. Mr. Snagsby rarely says a word. A crow's length away from Snagsby is Mr. Tulkinghorn, the lawyer, living by himself in a big old house with the figure of Allegory, a Roman soldier, painted on the ceiling. The lawyer is described as "an Oyster of the old school" . Mr. Tulkinghorn goes to Mr. Snagsby and asks him to identify the law-copier who wrote the Jarndyce document he has with him. Snagsby looks at his records and says it is done by Nemo who lives at Krook's. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes to Krook's and asks to see Nemo. Krook tells him the rumor that Nemo has sold himself to the devil. Tulkinghorn goes to his room and finds Nemo dead from an overdose of opium.

Commentary on Chapter X The fainting of Lady Dedlock over the writing on the document is somehow connected to this man Nemo who has died from opium. Tulkinghorn notes that Nemo means "No man" in Latin. Nemo is an anonymous and grubby law copyist, in poverty, about forty-five, which is the age of Lady Dedlock. Tulkinghorn, desirous of knowing the family secrets, is following out his lead, perhaps connected to whatever Guppy was looking for at the Dedlock mansion. Tulkinghorn's epithet is "oyster of the old school," meaning, he knows how to find and keep secrets without talking, but perhaps using them to his advantage.