Esther's Narrative

Richard had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass a
few days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Woodcourt, who,
having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger and having
written to my guardian, "by her son Allan's desire," to report that
she had heard from him and that he was well "and sent his kind
remembrances to all of us," had been invited by my guardian to make a
visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearly three weeks. She took
very kindly to me and was extremely confidential, so much so that
sometimes she almost made me uncomfortable. I had no right, I knew
very well, to be uncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt
it was unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not quite
help it.

She was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her hands
folded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked to me
that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was her being
so upright and trim, though I don't think it was that, because I
thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been the general
expression of her face, which was very sparkling and pretty for an
old lady. I don't know what it was. Or at least if I do now, I
thought I did not then. Or at least--but it don't matter.

Of a night when I was going upstairs to bed, she would invite me
into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair;
and, dear me, she would tell me about Morgan ap-Kerrig until I
was quite low-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses from
Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinnwillinwodd (if those are the right
names, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite fiery
with the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what they
were (being in Welsh), further than that they were highly eulogistic
of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.

"So, Miss Summerson," she would say to me with stately triumph,
"this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever my son
goes, he can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not have money, but
he always has what is much better--family, my dear."

I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-Kerrig in
India and China, but of course I never expressed them. I used to say
it was a great thing to be so highly connected.

"It IS, my dear, a great thing," Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. "It has
its disadvantages; my son's choice of a wife, for instance, is
limited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family is
limited in much the same manner."

Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much as to
assure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance between us
notwithstanding.

"Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and always with some
emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionate
heart, "was descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoorts of
MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in the Royal
Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of the last
representatives of two old families. With the blessing of heaven he
will set them up again and unite them with another old family."

It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used to try,
only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because--but I need not be so
particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me change it.

"My dear," she said one night, "you have so much sense and you look
at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of life that
it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family matters of
mine. You don't know much of my son, my dear; but you know enough of
him, I dare say, to recollect him?"

"Yes, ma'am. I recollect him."

"Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of character,
and I should like to have your opinion of him."

"Oh, Mrs. Woodcourt," said I, "that is so difficult!"

"Why is it so difficult, my dear?" she returned. "I don't see it
myself."

"To give an opinion--"

"On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT'S true."

I didn't mean that, because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house a
good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my guardian.
I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever in his
profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness to Miss
Flite were above all praise.

"You do him justice!" said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my hand. "You
define him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in his profession
faultless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, I must confess he
is not without faults, love."

"None of us are," said I.

"Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to
correct," returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head. "I
am so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear, as a
third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness itself."

I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could have
been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the
pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.

"You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted, "but I don't
refer to his profession, look you."

"Oh!" said I.

"No," said she. "I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He is
always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has
been, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has never really
cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing this to do any
harm or to express anything but politeness and good nature. Still,
it's not right, you know; is it?"

"No," said I, as she seemed to wait for me.

"And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear."

I supposed it might.

"Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should be more
careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others. And he
has always said, 'Mother, I will be; but you know me better than
anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm--in short, mean
nothing.' All of which is very true, my dear, but is no
justification. However, as he is now gone so far away and for an
indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and
introductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, my dear,"
said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles, "regarding your
dear self, my love?"

"Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?"

"Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek
his fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek YOUR fortune
and to find a husband, Miss Summerson? Hey, look you! Now you blush!"

I don't think I did blush--at all events, it was not important if I
did--and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I had
no wish to change it.

"Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet to
come for you, my love?" said Mrs. Woodcourt.

"If you believe you are a good prophet," said I.

"Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very
worthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very happy."

"That is a good fortune," said I. "But why is it to be mine?"

"My dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it--you are so busy,
and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that there's
suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody, my love,
will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than I
shall."

It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I think it
did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that night
uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to
confess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still. I
would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old
lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it. It gave me
the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought she was
a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth.
Now I suspected that she was very cunning, next moment I believed her
honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple. And after
all, what did it matter to me, and why did it matter to me? Why could
not I, going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by
her fire and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least
as well as to anybody else, and not trouble myself about the harmless
things she said to me? Impelled towards her, as I certainly was, for
I was very anxious that she should like me and was very glad indeed
that she did, why should I harp afterwards, with actual distress and
pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over again in
twenty scales? Why was it so worrying to me to have her in our house,
and confidential to me every night, when I yet felt that it was
better and safer somehow that she should be there than anywhere else?
These were perplexities and contradictions that I could not account
for. At least, if I could--but I shall come to all that by and by,
and it is mere idleness to go on about it now.

So when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose her but was
relieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came down, and Caddy brought
such a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation.

First Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) that I
was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet said, was no
news at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonsense. Then Caddy
told us that she was going to be married in a month and that if Ada
and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl in the
world. To be sure, this was news indeed; and I thought we never
should have done talking about it, we had so much to say to Caddy,
and Caddy had so much to say to us.

It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over his
bankruptcy--"gone through the Gazette," was the expression Caddy
used, as if it were a tunnel--with the general clemency and
commiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs in
some blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, and had
given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, I should
think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and had satisfied
every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man. So, he had
been honourably dismissed to "the office" to begin the world again.
What he did at the office, I never knew; Caddy said he was a
"custom-house and general agent," and the only thing I ever
understood about that business was that when he wanted money more
than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardly ever found
it.

As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming this shorn
lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in Hatton Garden
(where I found the children, when I afterwards went there, cutting
the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and choking themselves
with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between him and old Mr.
Turveydrop; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very humble and meek, had
deferred to Mr. Turveydrop's deportment so submissively that they had
become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr. Turveydrop, thus
familiarized with the idea of his son's marriage, had worked up his
parental feelings to the height of contemplating that event as being
near at hand and had given his gracious consent to the young couple
commencing housekeeping at the academy in Newman Street when they
would.

"And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?"

"Oh! Poor Pa," said Caddy, "only cried and said he hoped we might get
on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn't say so before Prince,
he only said so to me. And he said, 'My poor girl, you have not been
very well taught how to make a home for your husband, but unless you
mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you had better murder
him than marry him--if you really love him.'"

"And how did you reassure him, Caddy?"

"Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low and
hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't help crying myself.
But I told him that I DID mean it with all my heart and that I hoped
our house would be a place for him to come and find some comfort in
of an evening and that I hoped and thought I could be a better
daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentioned Peepy's coming
to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again and said the children
were Indians."

"Indians, Caddy?"

"Yes," said Caddy, "wild Indians. And Pa said"--here she began to
sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world--"that
he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was their
being all tomahawked together."

Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jellyby did
not mean these destructive sentiments.

"No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be weltering in
their blood," said Caddy, "but he means that they are very
unfortunate in being Ma's children and that he is very unfortunate in
being Ma's husband; and I am sure that's true, though it seems
unnatural to say so."

I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed.

"Oh! You know what Ma is, Esther," she returned. "It's impossible to
say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it often enough;
and when she IS told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if I was
I don't know what--a steeple in the distance," said Caddy with a
sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head and says 'Oh, Caddy,
Caddy, what a tease you are!' and goes on with the Borrioboola
letters."

"And about your wardrobe, Caddy?" said I. For she was under no
restraint with us.

"Well, my dear Esther," she returned, drying her eyes, "I must do the
best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind
remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question
concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it and
would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows nor
cares."

Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother,
but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am
afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much
to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such
discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a
little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This was her staying
with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all
three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and
saving, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of
her stock. My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was,
we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out
again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be
squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby had found in the
docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her. What my
guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would
be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for no more
than her wedding-dress and bonnet. He agreed to this compromise, and
if Caddy had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat
down to work.

She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her
fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could not help
reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly
with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over
that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she, and my
darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out of the town,
and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.

Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious "to learn housekeeping,"
as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of her learning
housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that I
laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion when she
proposed it. However, I said, "Caddy, I am sure you are very welcome
to learn anything that you can learn of ME, my dear," and I showed
her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways. You would have
supposed that I was showing her some wonderful inventions, by her
study of them; and if you had seen her, whenever I jingled my
housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, certainly you might have
thought that there never was a greater imposter than I with a blinder
follower than Caddy Jellyby.

So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, and
backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, the
three weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Caddy to see
what could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind to take
care of my guardian.

When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished lodging in
Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or three times, where
preparations were in progress too--a good many, I observed, for
enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few for putting
the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the house--but
our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent for the
wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand with some
faint sense of the occasion.

The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs.
Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the
back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with
waste-paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be
littered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinking strong
coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by
appointment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a
decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellyby came home,
he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. There he got
something to eat if the servant would give him anything, and then,
feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about Hatton
Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambled up and tumbled down
the house as they had always been accustomed to do.

The production of these devoted little sacrifices in any presentable
condition being quite out of the question at a week's notice, I
proposed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as we could on
her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should
confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama's room, and a
clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good deal of
attention, the lattice-work up her back having widened considerably
since I first knew her and her hair looking like the mane of a
dustman's horse.

Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the best means
of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to come and look
at it spread out on Caddy's bed in the evening after the unwholesome
boy was gone.

"My dear Miss Summerson," said she, rising from her desk with her
usual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridiculous preparations,
though your assisting them is a proof of your kindness. There is
something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the idea of Caddy being
married! Oh, Caddy, you silly, silly, silly puss!"

She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes
in her customary far-off manner. They suggested one distinct idea to
her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head, "My
good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might have
been equipped for Africa!"

On our going downstairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me whether this
troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday. And on
my replying yes, she said, "Will my room be required, my dear Miss
Summerson? For it's quite impossible that I can put my papers away."

I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be wanted
and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere. "Well, my
dear Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, "you know best, I dare say.
But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy has embarrassed me to that
extent, overwhelmed as I am with public business, that I don't know
which way to turn. We have a Ramification meeting, too, on Wednesday
afternoon, and the inconvenience is very serious."

"It is not likely to occur again," said I, smiling. "Caddy will be
married but once, probably."

"That's true," Mrs. Jellyby replied; "that's true, my dear. I suppose
we must make the best of it!"

The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed on the
occasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely
from her writing-table while Caddy and I discussed it, occasionally
shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a superior
spirit who could just bear with our trifling.

The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary confusion
in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty; but at
length we devised something not very unlike what a common-place
mother might wear on such an occasion. The abstracted manner in which
Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up to having this attire tried on
by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which she would then
observe to me how sorry she was that I had not turned my thoughts to
Africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour.

The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that if
Mrs. Jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul's or
Saint Peter's, the sole advantage they would have found in the size
of the building would have been its affording a great deal of room to
be dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to the family which it
had been possible to break was unbroken at the time of those
preparations for Caddy's marriage, that nothing which it had been
possible to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that no domestic
object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child's knee
to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate
upon it.

Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat when he
was at home with his head against the wall, became interested when he
saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish some order among
all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help. But such
wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when they were
opened--bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Jellyby's caps,
letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood,
wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper bags,
footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby's bonnets, books
with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candle ends put out
by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks, nutshells,
heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds,
umbrellas--that he looked frightened, and left off again. But he came
regularly every evening and sat without his coat, with his head
against the wall, as though he would have helped us if he had known
how.

"Poor Pa!" said Caddy to me on the night before the great day, when
we really had got things a little to rights. "It seems unkind to
leave him, Esther. But what could I do if I stayed! Since I first
knew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over again, but it's
useless. Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house directly. We
never have a servant who don't drink. Ma's ruinous to everything."

Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low
indeed and shed tears, I thought.

"My heart aches for him; that it does!" sobbed Caddy. "I can't help
thinking to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with Prince,
and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma. What a
disappointed life!"

"My dear Caddy!" said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round from the
wail. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say three
words together.

"Yes, Pa!" cried Caddy, going to him and embracing him
affectionately.

"My dear Caddy," said Mr. Jellyby. "Never have--"

"Not Prince, Pa?" faltered Caddy. "Not have Prince?"

"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Jellyby. "Have him, certainly. But, never
have--"

I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn that
Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth after
dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He opened his
mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy
manner.

"What do you wish me not to have? Don't have what, dear Pa?" asked
Caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck.

"Never have a mission, my dear child."

Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again, and
this was the only time I ever heard him make any approach to
expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question. I suppose he
had been more talkative and lively once, but he seemed to have been
completely exhausted long before I knew him.

I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely looking
over her papers and drinking coffee that night. It was twelve o'clock
before we could obtain possession of the room, and the clearance it
required then was so discouraging that Caddy, who was almost tired
out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried. But she soon
cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed.

In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quantity
of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay. The plain
breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy was perfectly charming. But
when my darling came, I thought--and I think now--that I never had
seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's.

We made a little feast for the children upstairs, and we put Peepy at
the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her bridal dress,
and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy cried to think
that she was going away from them and hugged them over and over again
until we brought Prince up to fetch her away--when, I am sorry to
say, Peepy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop downstairs, in
a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignly blessing Caddy
and giving my guardian to understand that his son's happiness was his
own parental work and that he sacrificed personal considerations to
ensure it. "My dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop, "these young people
will live with me; my house is large enough for their accommodation,
and they shall not want the shelter of my roof. I could have
wished--you will understand the allusion, Mr. Jarndyce, for you
remember my illustrious patron the Prince Regent--I could have
wished that my son had married into a family where there was more
deportment, but the will of heaven be done!"

Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party--Mr. Pardiggle, an
obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who
was always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs.
Pardiggle's mite, or their five boys' mites. Mr. Quale, with his hair
brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining very much, was
also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the
accepted of a young--at least, an unmarried--lady, a Miss Wisk, who
was also there. Miss Wisk's mission, my guardian said, was to show
the world that woman's mission was man's mission and that the only
genuine mission of both man and woman was to be always moving
declaratory resolutions about things in general at public meetings.
The guests were few, but were, as one might expect at Mrs. Jellyby's,
all devoted to public objects only. Besides those I have mentioned,
there was an extremely dirty lady with her bonnet all awry and the
ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose neglected
home, Caddy told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but whose church
was like a fancy fair. A very contentious gentleman, who said it was
his mission to be everybody's brother but who appeared to be on terms
of coolness with the whole of his large family, completed the party.

A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardly
have been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean mission as the
domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among them;
indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, before we sat
down to breakfast, that the idea of woman's mission lying chiefly in
the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on the part of
her tyrant, man. One other singularity was that nobody with a
mission--except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I have formerly
said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody's mission--cared at all
for anybody's mission. Mrs. Pardiggle being as clear that the only
one infallible course was her course of pouncing upon the poor and
applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat; as Miss Wisk
was that the only practical thing for the world was the emancipation
of woman from the thraldom of her tyrant, man. Mrs. Jellyby, all the
while, sat smiling at the limited vision that could see anything but
Borrioboola-Gha.

But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the ride
home instead of first marrying Caddy. We all went to church, and Mr.
Jellyby gave her away. Of the air with which old Mr. Turveydrop, with
his hat under his left arm (the inside presented at the clergyman
like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up into his wig,
stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids during the
ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never say enough to do
it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report as prepossessing in
appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened to the proceedings,
as part of woman's wrongs, with a disdainful face. Mrs. Jellyby, with
her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all
the company.

We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head of
the table and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy had previously stolen
upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was
Turveydrop. But this piece of information, instead of being an
agreeable surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in such transports
of kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sent for but accede
to the proposal that he should be admitted to the breakfast table. So
he came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs. Jellyby, after saying, in
reference to the state of his pinafore, "Oh, you naughty Peepy, what
a shocking little pig you are!" was not at all discomposed. He was
very good except that he brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I
had given him before we went to church) and WOULD dip him head first
into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth.

My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and his
amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenial
company. None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his, or
her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk about even
that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but my
guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy and the
honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly.
What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think, for all
the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr.
Turveydrop--and old Mr. Thurveydrop, in virtue of his deportment,
considering himself vastly superior to all the company--it was a very
unpromising case.

At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go and when all her
property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take her
and her husband to Gravesend. It affected us to see Caddy clinging,
then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother's neck with
the greatest tenderness.

"I am very sorry I couldn't go on writing from dictation, Ma," sobbed
Caddy. "I hope you forgive me now."

"Oh, Caddy, Caddy!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "I have told you over and over
again that I have engaged a boy, and there's an end of it."

"You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? Say you are
sure before I go away, Ma?"

"You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, "do I look angry, or have
I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry? How CAN you?"

"Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!"

Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. "You romantic child,"
said she, lightly patting Caddy's back. "Go along. I am excellent
friends with you. Now, good-bye, Caddy, and be very happy!"

Then Caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hers as
if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took place in the
hall. Her father released her, took out his pocket handkerchief, and
sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall. I hope he
found some consolation in walls. I almost think he did.

And then Prince took her arm in his and turned with great emotion and
respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment was
overwhelming.

"Thank you over and over again, father!" said Prince, kissing his
hand. "I am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration
regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Caddy."

"Very," sobbed Caddy. "Ve-ry!"

"My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "and dear daughter, I have done
my duty. If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and looks
down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will be my
recompense. You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son and daughter, I
believe?"

"Dear father, never!" cried Prince.

"Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop!" said Caddy.

"This," returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be. My children, my
home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will never leave
you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, you contemplate an
absence of a week, I think?"

"A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week."

"My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even under the present
exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. It is highly
important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if at all
neglected, are apt to take offence."

"This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner."

"Good!" said Mr. Turveydrop. "You will find fires, my dear Caroline,
in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment. Yes, yes,
Prince!" anticipating some self-denying objection on his son's part
with a great air. "You and our Caroline will be strange in the upper
part of the premises and will, therefore, dine that day in my
apartment. Now, bless ye!"

They drove away, and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby or at
Mr. Turveydrop, I did not know. Ada and my guardian were in the same
condition when we came to talk it over. But before we drove away too,
I received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment from Mr.
Jellyby. He came up to me in the hall, took both my hands, pressed
them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. I was so sure of his
meaning that I said, quite flurried, "You are very welcome, sir. Pray
don't mention it!"

"I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian," said I when we
three were on our road home.

"I hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see."

"Is the wind in the east to-day?" I ventured to ask him.

He laughed heartily and answered, "No."

"But it must have been this morning, I think," said I.

He answered "No" again, and this time my dear girl confidently
answered "No" too and shook the lovely head which, with its blooming
flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring. "Much YOU
know of east winds, my ugly darling," said I, kissing her in my
admiration--I couldn't help it.

Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a
long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it
gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east wind
where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went, there
was sunshine and summer air.

Mrs. Woodcourt comes to visit Bleak House for a couple of weeks. Which...OK, imagine you really like somebody, who may or may not like you back, and then his or her mother comes to stay at your house. Yeah, a little stressful. Mrs. Woodcourt is constantly harping on how super awesome their family tree is and how Alan is the descendant of some long-ago king. Esther claims not to really understand what she's getting at, but she's also crazily anxious about everything the old lady says and does. Mrs. Woodcourt then busts out with the prediction that Esther will marry some rich older dude. Finally she leaves, much to everyone's relief. Caddy comes to visit, and everyone starts trying to help plan the wedding and her future. The Jellybys have had to move, since Mr. Jellyby has lost everything and declared bankruptcy. He makes Caddy promise to keep a decent house when she and Prince are married. Apparently the state of his own house makes him want to kill the whole family, which is super sad, but also funny, because he is the meekest, mildest, nicest man ever. The bankruptcy also means that he can't outfit Caddy for her marriage - literally. Back in the day the bride would have to bring a bunch of clothes, linens, and things with her when she got married. Esther, Ada, and Caddy do their best to work out a wardrobe for her. Also, Esther and Caddy try to straighten up the Jellybys' house so the wedding brunch can be held there. This is a monumental task, since the place is crazy dirty - like, Hoarders level. They also try to make Mrs. Jellyby look presentable. She is, as usual, totally distracted by Africa and couldn't care less about the whole "my daughter is getting married" thing. She's kind of psycho. Mr. Jellyby, cheered up by all the effort, tells Caddy to "never have a Mission" . Caddy cries about how unhappy her parents' marriage is and promises to make her house a second home for her dad. The wedding itself is lovely and uneventful. The wedding brunch guests are Mrs. Jellyby's activist friends and the super-self-important Mr. Turveydrop. Each only cares about his or her own pet project, and no one can hold a normal conversation. It's a good thing Jarndyce is there. He is somehow able to create conversation among these self-absorbed idiots. Mr. Turveydrop makes the newlyweds promise yet again to always take care of him, then lets them go on their weeklong honeymoon. Mrs. Jellyby lets Caddy go with barely a second thought or glance. They really haven't had such good parental models, these two.

Caddy Jellyby and Prince Turveydrop have a church wedding; Esther and Ada serve as bridesmaids. The newlyweds are to have a week's honeymoon at Gravesend . Allan Woodcourt's mother mentions to Esther that her son, Allan, has the "fault" of paying attention to girls in whom he has no real interest. The wedding guests include a Miss Wisk, a fanatic on the subject of women's emancipation.

The "happy ending" for Caddy and Prince foreshadows the happy marriage later on of Esther and Allan Woodcourt. The mention of Allan prevents readers from forgetting about a character who will become more and more important but who is not now a part of the action. A traditionalist on the subject of the family, and a critic of all fanaticism, Dickens takes the opportunity to satirize a proponent of women's liberation.

"Esther's Narrative" Esther says that a lady named Mrs. Woodcourt has come to stay for a few days at Bleak House. Mrs. Woodcourt quickly befriends Esther, which Esther finds annoying. Esther claims not to really know why she finds her so annoying. Then she says that she does know why, but that it doesn't matter. Mrs. Woodcourt tells Esther all about her son, Allan, and his marriage prospects. She predicts that Esther will marry someone rich and much older. This all makes Esther uncomfortable, and sometimes she suspects Mrs. Woodcourt of being "cunning. Esther then digresses and wonders why it was so annoying to talk to Mrs. Woodcourt and yet at the same time wonders why it's so important to her that Mrs. Woodcourt like her. She says she'll explain all this eventually. When Mrs. Woodcourt leaves, Caddy Jellyby visits. Caddy says she is getting married in a month. She and Esther agree that Caddy should stay at Bleak House for a few weeks so Esther and Ada can help her make a dress. Esther also helps Caddy learn housekeeping. After three weeks, Esther goes to stay with Caddy at her new home for a week. Esther must convince Mrs. Jellyby that the marriage is really happening and that she must find something to wear. Esther and Caddy try to clean the Jellyby home, which proves to be a daunting task. Mr. Jellyby tells Caddy never to have a mission. The wedding guests include Mr. Jarndyce, the Pardiggles, Mr. Quayle, and Mr. Quayle's fiancee, Miss Wisk. Mr. Jarndyce says that Miss Wisk's mission is to prove that the only true mission is to make grand, public resolutions. Miss Wisk also claims that to say that a woman's mission is only in the domestic realm is "slander. Esther observes that no one with a mission cares for anyone else's mission. The wedding complete, Caddy and Prince go on a weeklong vacation. Mr. Jarndyce and Esther hope the marriage will be successful

Esther's Narrative Allan Woodcourt's mother comes to visit Bleak House after her son is gone to sea. She is constantly lecturing to Esther of her son's Welsh lineage and how her son is limited in his choice of a wife, like the royal family. She asks Esther what she thinks of her son. Esther replies that Allan's kindness to Miss Flite puts him above praise. The mother is pleased. She explains that her son does have a fault, though. He pays attention to ladies but does not really mean anything by it. She asks Esther her future plans, and she says she is happy where she is. Mrs. Woodcourt predicts Esther will marry someone old and rich. Esther does not know what to make of her, whether she is genuine, or cunning, but she is happy when she leaves. Caddy comes to visit Esther a month before her marriage, and Esther and Ada help her sew her trousseau. Mr. Jarndyce buys her wedding dress. Esther helps Caddy clean up her home for a wedding breakfast, and that includes dressing the parents, and getting their co-operation. Mrs. Jellby is annoyed at being interrupted in her important work for Africa. Mr. Jellby is climbing out of debt by himself, and his one piece of advice to his daughter on her marriage is "Never have a Mission, my dear child" . Caddy's wedding goes off perfectly with Esther and Ada and Mr. Jarndyce to help keep things in line. The Pardiggles come, and Mr. Quale, and a Miss Wisk, who does not believe women should be in the home. Caddy and Prince leave for their honeymoon. Esther asks Mr. Jarndyce if there is an east wind, and he says no, that wherever she is, there can be no east wind.

Commentary on Chapter XXX It is obvious Mrs. Woodcourt's sole purpose for the visit to Bleak House is to discourage the match between her son and Esther. Esther says she is confused by Mrs. Woodcourt's motives, but they are clear to the reader. She hints that Esther is beneath Allan in rank, and that Allan was not serious in his attentions to Esther. It is obvious that her son must be in love with Esther if his mother is going to so much trouble to discourage her. Esther thinks Mrs. Woodcourt a tiresome snob about Welsh pedigree and how important it is. She satirically notes: "I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan and Kerrig in India and China" . People of self-importance are only so in their own small circle. Mrs. Woodcourt tries to put the idea in Esther's head that she will marry an older man, twenty-five years her senior. This is an obvious reference to Mr. Jarndyce, and it seems the first inkling she has of such a prospect. She does not tell the reader her reaction except she is "uncomfortable" all night. Caddy's wedding is both comic and emotional, and the support given by Jarndyce and friends is the only real support she gets. The breakfast is peopled by guests who are not interested in any cause but their own. They have no human feeling or connection. Dickens is especially satirical about the feminist, Miss Wisk, who believes women should not be in the home, for in his eyes, the only refuge of society is in the family. Strong loving women are the true heroes of his novels.


Nurse and Patient

I had not been at home again many days when one evening I went
upstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulder and
see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a trying
business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen,
but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated,
and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle into
corners like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd to see what old letters
Charley's young hand had made, they so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and
tottering, it so plump and round. Yet Charley was uncommonly expert
at other things and had as nimble little fingers as I ever watched.

"Well, Charley," said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in which
it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed
in all kinds of ways, "we are improving. If we only get to make it
round, we shall be perfect, Charley."

Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn't join
Charley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.

"Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time."

Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut
her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride
and half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.

"Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor person of
the name of Jenny?"

"A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes."

"She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and said
you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young lady's little
maid--meaning you for the young lady, miss--and I said yes, miss."

"I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley."

"So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used to
live--she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name of
Liz, miss?"

"I think I do, Charley, though not by name."

"That's what she said!" returned Charley. "They have both come back,
miss, and have been tramping high and low."

"Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?"

"Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters in her copy
as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would
have been excellent. "And this poor person came about the house three
or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss--all she wanted,
she said--but you were away. That was when she saw me. She saw me
a-going about, miss," said Charley with a short laugh of the greatest
delight and pride, "and she thought I looked like your maid!"

"Did she though, really, Charley?"

"Yes, miss!" said Charley. "Really and truly." And Charley, with
another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round
again and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tired of
seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing
before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner,
and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the
pleasantest way.

"And where did you see her, Charley?" said I.

My little maid's countenance fell as she replied, "By the doctor's
shop, miss." For Charley wore her black frock yet.

I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said no. It
was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down to
Saint Albans and was tramping he didn't know where. A poor boy,
Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. "Like as Tom might
have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father," said Charley,
her round eyes filling with tears.

"And she was getting medicine for him, Charley?"

"She said, miss," returned Charley, "how that he had once done as
much for her."

My little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded so
closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had no great
difficulty in reading her thoughts. "Well, Charley," said I, "it
appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round to
Jenny's and see what's the matter."

The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veil, and
having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and
made herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressed her
readiness. So Charley and I, without saying anything to any one, went
out.

It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. The
rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little intermission
for many days. None was falling just then, however. The sky had
partly cleared, but was very gloomy--even above us, where a few stars
were shining. In the north and north-west, where the sun had set
three hours before, there was a pale dead light both beautiful and
awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloud waved up like a sea
stricken immovable as it was heaving. Towards London a lurid glare
overhung the whole dark waste, and the contrast between these two
lights, and the fancy which the redder light engendered of an
unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseen buildings of the city and
on all the faces of its many thousands of wondering inhabitants, was
as solemn as might be.

I had no thought that night--none, I am quite sure--of what was soon
to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that when we had
stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and when we went
upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impression of myself
as being something different from what I then was. I know it was then
and there that I had it. I have ever since connected the feeling with
that spot and time and with everything associated with that spot and
time, to the distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and
the sound of wheels coming down the miry hill.

It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to the place
where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found it quieter than
I had previously seen it, though quite as miserable. The kilns were
burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with a pale-blue glare.

We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the
patched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother of the
little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of the
poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy, supported
by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. He held under his
arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; and as he tried
to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook. The
place was closer than before and had an unhealthy and a very peculiar
smell.

I had not lifted my veil when I first spoke to the woman, which was
at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly and
stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.

His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evident
that I stood still instead of advancing nearer.

"I won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy; "I
ain't a-going there, so I tell you!"

I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a low
voice, "Don't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to his head," and
said to him, "Jo, Jo, what's the matter?"

"I know wot she's come for!" cried the boy.

"Who?"

"The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with her to the
berryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't like the
name on it. She might go a-berryin ME." His shivering came on again,
and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.

"He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am," said
Jenny softly. "Why, how you stare! This is MY lady, Jo."

"Is it?" returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his arm
held out above his burning eyes. "She looks to me the t'other one. It
ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but she looks to me the
t'other one."

My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness and
trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly up
to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse.
Except that no such attendant could have shown him Charley's youthful
face, which seemed to engage his confidence.

"I say!" said the boy. "YOU tell me. Ain't the lady the t'other
lady?"

Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him
and made him as warm as she could.

"Oh!" the boy muttered. "Then I s'pose she ain't."

"I came to see if I could do you any good," said I. "What is the
matter with you?"

"I'm a-being froze," returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard gaze
wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and then froze, and then
burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's all sleepy, and
all a-going mad-like--and I'm so dry--and my bones isn't half so much
bones as pain.

"When did he come here?" I asked the woman.

"This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the town. I had
known him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo?"

"Tom-all-Alone's," the boy replied.

Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very
little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll it
heavily, and speak as if he were half awake.

"When did he come from London?" I asked.

"I come from London yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed and
hot. "I'm a-going somewheres."

"Where is he going?" I asked.

"Somewheres," repeated the boy in a louder tone. "I have been moved
on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since the t'other one
give me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsby, she's always a-watching, and
a-driving of me--what have I done to her?--and they're all a-watching
and a-driving of me. Every one of 'em's doing of it, from the time
when I don't get up, to the time when I don't go to bed. And I'm
a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-going. She told me, down in
Tom-all-Alone's, as she came from Stolbuns, and so I took the
Stolbuns Road. It's as good as another."

He always concluded by addressing Charley.

"What is to be done with him?" said I, taking the woman aside. "He
could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew
where he was going!"

"I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancing
compassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know better, if they could
only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake, and I've
given him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to try if any one will
take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her child, but I call it
mine); but I can't keep him long, for if my husband was to come home
and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out and might do him
a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!"

The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got up
with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. When the
little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at it, took it out
of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don't know. There she
was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she were living
in Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma again.

The friend had been here and there, and had been played about from
hand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was too
early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at last
it was too late. One official sent her to another, and the other sent
her back again to the first, and so backward and forward, until it
appeared to me as if both must have been appointed for their skill in
evading their duties instead of performing them. And now, after all,
she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running and was
frightened too, "Jenny, your master's on the road home, and mine's
not far behind, and the Lord help the boy, for we can do no more for
him!" They put a few halfpence together and hurried them into his
hand, and so, in an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he
shuffled out of the house.

"Give me the child, my dear," said its mother to Charley, "and thank
you kindly too! Jenny, woman dear, good night! Young lady, if my
master don't fall out with me, I'll look down by the kiln by and by,
where the boy will be most like, and again in the morning!" She
hurried off, and presently we passed her hushing and singing to her
child at her own door and looking anxiously along the road for her
drunken husband.

I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest I should
bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we must not leave
the boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do much better than I did,
and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind, glided on before
me, and presently we came up with Jo, just short of the brick-kiln.

I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle under
his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he still carried
his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though he went
bare-headed through the rain, which now fell fast. He stopped when we
called to him and again showed a dread of me when I came up, standing
with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his
shivering fit.

I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he had some
shelter for the night.

"I don't want no shelter," he said; "I can lay amongst the warm
bricks."

"But don't you know that people die there?" replied Charley.

"They dies everywheres," said the boy. "They dies in their
lodgings--she knows where; I showed her--and they dies down in
Tom-all-Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according
to what I see." Then he hoarsely whispered Charley, "If she ain't the
t'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there THREE of 'em then?"

Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened at
myself when the boy glared on me so.

But he turned and followed when I beckoned to him, and finding that
he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight home. It
was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but one man. I
doubted if we should have got home without assistance, the boy's
steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint, however,
and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may say so strange
a thing.

Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of the
window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could be
called wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went into
the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr. Skimpole,
who had come down by the coach, as he frequently did without notice,
and never bringing any clothes with him, but always borrowing
everything he wanted.

They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servants had
gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seat with
Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that had been found
in a ditch.

"This is a sorrowful case," said my guardian after asking him a
question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. "What do you
say, Harold?"

"You had better turn him out," said Mr. Skimpole.

"What do you mean?" inquired my guardian, almost sternly.

"My dear Jarndyce," said Mr. Skimpole, "you know what I am: I am a
child. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have a constitutional
objection to this sort of thing. I always had, when I was a medical
man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very bad sort of fever about
him."

Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room again
and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as we stood
by.

"You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily at
us. "Well, I dare say it may be; but I AM a child, and I never
pretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, you only
put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than he was, you
know. Even make him better off, if you like. Give him sixpence, or
five shillings, or five pound ten--you are arithmeticians, and I am
not--and get rid of him!"

"And what is he to do then?" asked my guardian.

"Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with his
engaging smile, "I have not the least idea what he is to do then. But
I have no doubt he'll do it."

"Now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my guardian, to whom I
had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, "is it
not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and rumpling his
hair, "that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner, his
hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well taken
care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?"

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll pardon the
simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who is
perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why ISN'T he a prisoner
then?"

My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture of
amusement and indignation in his face.

"Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I should
imagine," said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. "It seems to me
that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way more
respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him into
prison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and
consequently more of a certain sort of poetry."

"I believe," returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, "that
there is not such another child on earth as yourself."

"Do you really?" said Mr. Skimpole. "I dare say! But I confess I
don't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubt
born with an appetite--probably, when he is in a safer state of
health, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our young
friend's natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our young
friend says in effect to society, 'I am hungry; will you have the
goodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' Society, which has taken
upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of spoons and
professes to have a spoon for our young friend, does NOT produce that
spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says 'You really must excuse
me if I seize it.' Now, this appears to me a case of misdirected
energy, which has a certain amount of reason in it and a certain
amount of romance; and I don't know but what I should be more
interested in our young friend, as an illustration of such a case,
than merely as a poor vagabond--which any one can be."

"In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting worse."

"In the meantime," said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as Miss Summerson,
with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting worse.
Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets still
worse."

The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never forget.

"Of course, little woman," observed my guardian, turning to me, "I
can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going there
to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in his
condition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a very
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the
wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till
morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll do that."

"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the piano as
we moved away. "Are you going back to our young friend?"

"Yes," said my guardian.

"How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!" returned Mr. Skimpole
with playful admiration. "You don't mind these things; neither does
Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go anywhere, and do
anything. Such is will! I have no will at all--and no won't--simply
can't."

"You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?" said my
guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half
angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an accountable
being.

"My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his
pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. You
can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he
sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. But it
is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. Miss
Summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for the
administration of detail that she knows all about it."

We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed to
do, which Charley explained to him again and which he received with
the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on at
what was done as if it were for somebody else. The servants
compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,
we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the house
carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It was pleasant to
observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to be a
general impression among them that frequently calling him "Old Chap"
was likely to revive his spirits. Charley directed the operations and
went to and fro between the loft-room and the house with such little
stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him. My
guardian himself saw him before he was left for the night and
reported to me when he returned to the growlery to write a letter on
the boy's behalf, which a messenger was charged to deliver at
day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and inclined to
sleep. They had fastened his door on the outside, he said, in case of
his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not make any
noise without being heard.

Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone all
this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic
airs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with
great expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the
drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come
into his head "apropos of our young friend," and he sang one about a
peasant boy,

   "Thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam,
    Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home."

quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he told
us.

He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutely
chirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what a
happy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in his glass
of negus, "Better health to our young friend!" and supposed and gaily
pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittington to become
Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he would establish the
Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses, and a little
annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had no doubt, he
said, that our young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his
way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what Harold Skimpole was, Harold
Skimpole had found himself, to his considerable surprise, when he
first made his own acquaintance; he had accepted himself with all his
failings and had thought it sound philosophy to make the best of the
bargain; and he hoped we would do the same.

Charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see, from
my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; and I went
to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.

There was more movement and more talking than usual a little before
daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out of my
window and asked one of our men who had been among the active
sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about the
house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.

"It's the boy, miss," said he.

"Is he worse?" I inquired.

"Gone, miss.

"Dead!"

"Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off."

At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left, and
the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed that he
had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with an empty
cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if that were so; and
it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of any kind was
missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, we all yielded to
the painful belief that delirium had come upon him in the night and
that, allured by some imaginary object or pursued by some imaginary
horror, he had strayed away in that worse than helpless state; all of
us, that is to say, but Mr. Skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in
his usual easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend
that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him,
and that he had with great natural politeness taken himself off.

Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. The
brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two women
were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, and
nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather had for
some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to admit
of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, and rick and
stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round, lest the
boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead; but nothing
was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. From the time when
he was left in the loft-room, he vanished.

The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased even
then, but that my attention was then diverted into a current very
memorable to me.

As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, and as
I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble. Looking up,
I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.

"Charley," said I, "are you so cold?"

"I think I am, miss," she replied. "I don't know what it is. I can't
hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this same time, miss.
Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill."

I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door of
communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and locked
it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the
key.

Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, "Not now, my dearest. Go
away. There's nothing the matter; I will come to you presently." Ah!
It was a long, long time before my darling girl and I were companions
again.

Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved her to my
room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurse her. I
told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it was necessary that I
should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeing my darling above
all. At first she came very often to the door, and called to me, and
even reproached me with sobs and tears; but I wrote her a long letter
saying that she made me anxious and unhappy and imploring her, as she
loved me and wished my mind to be at peace, to come no nearer than
the garden. After that she came beneath the window even oftener than
she had come to the door, and if I had learnt to love her dear sweet
voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn to love
it then, when I stood behind the window-curtain listening and
replying, but not so much as looking out! How did I learn to love it
afterwards, when the harder time came!

They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the door
wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada had vacated
that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and airy. There
was not a servant in or about the house but was so good that they
would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of the day or night
without the least fear or unwillingness, but I thought it best to
choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada and whom I could
trust to come and go with all precaution. Through her means I got out
to take the air with my guardian when there was no fear of meeting
Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any more than
in any other respect.

And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavy
danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of day
and night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired by such
a gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Charley holding her
head in my arms--repose would come to her, so, when it would come to
her in no other attitude--I silently prayed to our Father in heaven
that I might not forget the lesson which this little sister taught
me.

I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks would
change and be disfigured, even if she recovered--she was such a child
with her dimpled face--but that thought was, for the greater part,
lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, and her mind
rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed and the little
children, she still knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my
arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the
wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I used to
think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies that the baby
who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to them in their
need was dead!

There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to me,
telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she was
sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charley would
speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she could
to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buried who was
the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of the ruler's
daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of death. And
Charley told me that when her father died she had kneeled down and
prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might be raised up and
given back to his poor children, and that if she should never get
better and should die too, she thought it likely that it might come
into Tom's mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would I show
Tom how these people of old days had been brought back to life on
earth, only that we might know our hope to be restored to heaven!

But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, there
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of. And
there were many, many when I thought in the night of the last high
belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in God, on
the part of her poor despised father.

And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slowly turned the
dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to mend.
The hope that never had been given, from the first, of Charley being
in outward appearance Charley any more soon began to be encouraged;
and even that prospered, and I saw her growing into her old childish
likeness again.

It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening, I
felt that I was stricken cold.

Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of her
illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I felt at
tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that I was
rapidly following in Charley's steps.

I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to
return my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk
with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression that
I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside
myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at
times--with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too
large altogether.

In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Charley, with which view I said, "You're getting quite strong,
Charley, are you not?'

"Oh, quite!" said Charley.

"Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?"

"Quite strong enough for that, miss!" cried Charley. But Charley's
face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in MY
face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom,
and said "Oh, miss, it's my doing! It's my doing!" and a great deal
more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.

"Now, Charley," said I after letting her go on for a little while,
"if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you. And
unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for
yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley."

"If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. "Oh, my
dear, my dear! If you'll only let me cry a little longer. Oh, my
dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she
clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears--"I'll be good."

So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.

"Trust in me now, if you please, miss," said Charley quietly. "I am
listening to everything you say."

"It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don't think I am well and that you are going to nurse
me."

For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "And in the
morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not be
quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Charley,
and say I am asleep--that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep.
At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let no one
come."

Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. I
have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day,
and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first
morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.

On the second morning I heard her dear voice--Oh, how dear
now!--outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech
being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softly, "Don't disturb her, Charley, for the world!"

"How does my own Pride look, Charley?" I inquired.

"Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the curtain.

"But I know she is very beautiful this morning."

"She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. "Still looking up
at the window."

With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when
raised like that!

I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.

"Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her way
into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to the
last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon me for
one moment as I lie here, I shall die."

"I never will! I never will!" she promised me.

"I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me for a
little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,
Charley; I am blind."

Esther is teaching Charley how to write. It's not going too well, even though Charley has great hand-eye coordination. Charley tells Esther she has seen Jenny, the brickmaker's wife, getting medicine for a poor boy. Esther decides to go investigate. When she and Charley get to the cottage where Jenny and her friend Liz are staying, they see Jo, who is clearly suffering from some kind of severe fever. He loses it when he sees Esther, getting her confused with the veiled lady and the French maid and yelling that he doesn't want to go back to the cemetery. No one knows what he's talking about, of course, and they figure he is delirious. Suddenly Jenny realizes that her husband is on his way home, drunk as usual, and everyone has to clear out before he gets there. It's clear that he beats her all the time, and she doesn't want to set him off. Meanwhile, Jo is getting worse. This is before antibiotics, and any old infection could just kill you. People were dying from pink-eye all the time. Esther and Charley make him follow them home to Bleak House, even though Jo is kind of terrified of Esther. At home Skimpole flips out and tells them that Jo clearly has a terrible fever and they need to get him the heck out of there - even if that means he's going to die. Jarndyce is all, um, no. They take as much care of Jo as possible and put him in the barn overnight. So anyway, the next morning, Jo is gone. No, not dead, actually gone - he vamoosed in the middle of the night. They spend five days trying to find him, but no luck. But... Charley catches whatever he had and becomes extremely ill. Esther takes care of her exclusively. She forbids Ada to come anywhere near them, closes off their part of the house, and takes extreme disinfecting precautions. Charley gets worse, and worse, and worse. She is delirious, talks about her family, raves a little, and then... gets better! Yay! Except, no. Because now Esther is sick too. Charley, since she just got over whatever the illness is, was immune, so she can take care of Esther. Esther doesn't tell the rest of the house that she is ill yet. The next day she wakes up... blind. Wait, what? Oh, man!

Seriously ill, Jo has left London and "moved on" to lodge at a brick-maker's house at St. Albans. The brickmakers' wives have sought assistance for Jo from city officials, but to no avail. They now come to Esther for help, and she has Jo placed in a loft of Mr. Jarndyce's stables. Skimpole warns Mr. Jarndyce that Jo has a dangerous, communicable disease. Charley Neckett attends Jo and contracts his disease shortly after the boy disappears. Esther then nurses Charley, but shortly after Charley recovers, Esther herself comes down with the disease and becomes temporarily blind.

Pathos dominates the story at this point as Jo's suffering intensifies and Esther herself is stricken. Jo's disappearance and Esther's blindness are dramatic and seemingly important developments, and as such, they excite our interest in seeing how things will turn out. The illness contracted in turn by Jo, Charley, and Esther is almost certainly smallpox; it was rife in Dickens' era, as it had been in earlier times.

"Nurse and Patient" Esther tells us that Charley isn't making much progress in her handwriting lessons. Charley asks Esther if she knew a woman named Jenny. She says that Jenny has been coming to the house hoping to see Esther and that Charley ran into her at the doctor's office. Charley tells Esther that Jenny was buying medicine for a poor orphan boy. Charley and Esther decide to visit Jenny. As they walk to her cottage, Esther observes that, on this night, she didn't yet know what was going to happen to her. At the cottage, Esther, with her veil still down, greets Jenny and looks at the boy on the floor. The boy says immediately that he won't take her to the burial ground. Jenny asks him what's the matter, calling him Jo. When Esther lifts her veil, Jo says she looks like the lady he took to the burying ground. Jo tells Esther and Charley about his sickness. Jenny shows Esther Liz's baby, whom she calls her own. She tells Esther that Jo must leave before her husband gets home. Liz arrives and says both their husbands are on their way home. Esther takes Jo home with her. At Bleak House, Esther finds Mr. Skimpole, who tells Mr. Jarndyce to send Jo away. He says Jo's illness makes him unsafe to be around. But Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther to settle him in the stable. In the morning, Jo is gone. They look for him everywhere, but to no avail. Charley, meanwhile, has gotten sick and becomes much sicker very quickly. Esther nurses her, forbidding anyone else to come into the room, including Ada. Charley nearly dies, but she slowly recovers. Esther, however, contracts smallpox and becomes very sick too. She confides in Charley, who agrees to nurse her. She gets sicker and temporarily goes blind

The idea of contagious illnesses appears twice in Bleak House: the smallpox that Jo, Charley, and Esther suffer from, as well as the contagious fervor of the Jarndyce and Jarndyce case, of which Richard is the latest victim. Both Esther and Richard are irrevocably changed by their illnesses. Although Esther survives her smallpox, she suffers greatly--even going temporarily blind--and emerges with a scarred face. Her appearance is so altered that Charley removes all the mirrors from her rooms, and for several chapters Esther doesn't attempt to see what she looks like. Although she puts up her usual strong front and resists the urge to indulge in self-pity, the very absence of any melancholy wallowing in her narrative is itself evidence of her sadness. For his part, Richard has ceased to be the loving, warm young man Mr. Jarndyce, Esther, and Ada know and love. Instead, his passion for Jarndyce and Jarndyce has made him suspicious, angry, and distant. Esther knows that she'll never be beautiful again, but she retains the hope that Richard will see the error of his ways. The complicated financial arrangement between George, Mr. Smallweed, and the Bagnets, which is nearly impossible to understand, reflects both the tangled web of Jarndyce and Jarndyce as well as the interconnecting threads of the novel's many storylines. We have the facts, or what seem to be the facts: George once borrowed money from Mr. Bagnet to buy his shooting gallery; Mr. Bagnet borrowed this money from Mr. Smallweed with the understanding that George would repay it; and Mr. Smallweed, generally willing to collect interest instead of demanding repayment, is now demanding payment in full because he's upset that George wouldn't provide the lodger's handwriting. The vaguer aspects of this situation include the many references to the "arrangement" George has with Mr. Smallweed; Mr. Smallweed's "friend in the city," who may be Richard or who may be no one at all; and George's deep devotion to the Bagnets. Dickens does not spend much time elaborating on every element of this messy grouping, and a full understanding of the particulars isn't the point. Instead, we get a clear sense that characters are linked to each other in complicated ways, that loyalties can be tested, and that motivations are not always what they seem. The shadowy dealings of Mr. Smallweed and George's growing desperation add more sinister tones to the developing plot. Esther's confession about Mr. Woodcourt at the end of chapter 35 isn't a complete surprise, but it is remarkable in that it reveals the skill and agility of Esther's storytelling. Although Esther had dropped hints earlier in her narrative about her feelings for Mr. Woodcourt, confirming those feelings here--at the moment when she knows she is no longer beautiful--heightens the emotional effect. Now we understand, in part, why she never revealed her feelings before--as the narrator, she knew that she would get smallpox and indulging in romantic speculations and digressions may therefore have been painful or even irrelevant to her. Only at this point, when discussing Mr. Woodcourt's heroics and return does Esther finally reveal that he may have loved her. This confession threatens to be egotistical, since she has just been told what a valiant hero Mr. Woodcourt is. However, the twist to her confession--that she is happy he never told her his feelings--stops it from being so. Instead, Esther reveals that she is glad she would not have to be a "chain" for him to "drag," assuming he would never love her in her changed state. This assumption, and her selfless relief that Mr. Woodcourt is free, are moving, even more so because Esther states her case so briefly and simply, almost as a reluctant afterthought.

Nurse and Patient Jenny, the bricklayer's wife, leaves a message with Charley that if Esther would come to their cottage in St. Albans, there was an urgent need. Esther and Charley go out on a cold wet night to Jenny's cottage, and Esther has a premonition of disaster. In the cottage they see the boy Jo on the floor shivering with illness. Jo seems to think that Esther is Lady Dedlock in her cloak and veil. Jenny says they found him on the street, and she cannot keep him in her cottage. They had tried to get him into some charitable institution or hospital, but officials kept putting them off. Esther and Charley take Jo home "like some wounded animal that had been found in a ditch" . Skimpole says he is not safe and should be thrown out. Mr. Jarndyce finds a loftroom by the stable to keep the boy overnight. In the morning, however, Jo is gone and though a search goes on for him for five days, no trace of him is found. Charley comes down with the illness , and as soon as Esther understands, she locks the two of them in and won't let Ada in, for it is contagious. Esther explains to her guardian why she wants them to be secluded. Charley almost dies, and Esther is afraid she will be disfigured by the pox if she lives, but she pulls through and is not scarred. Then Esther falls ill and is nursed by Charley. For Esther, it is harder. She goes blind.

Commentary on Chapter XXXI Dickens uses the incidence of the smallpox to show how all the classes are related. Disease cares nothing for class, though it may be bred in the slums. The slum people are hardest hit by disease and die in greater numbers, many in the street, as Jo was trying to do, because he was homeless. The rich try to isolate everything disagreeable in the poor section of town, but pestilence wings its way to the houses of anyone and everyone. Jo is thus a messenger of fate. Smallpox was a particularly frightening plague in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries all over the world, eradicated only in the twentieth century. Over half of the victims died, and if one survived, there could be other complications, like pneumonia, blindness or scarring. It was highly contagious through airborne mucous droplets and began with a rash and high fever. The pustules formed, drained, and got scabs, leaving scars. Vaccination attempts began in the eighteenth century, and finally, in 1980, the World Health Organization declared the global elimination of smallpox. The debate over Jo goes on at Bleak House, with Mr. Skimpole philosophizing on the assumption of the poor to be taken care of, and Mr. Jarndyce angry that the hospitals won't take him. Meanwhile, Charley and Esther help Jo and are themselves stricken. Esther gets a premonition of her life changing just as they get close to London: "Towards London, a lurid glare overhung the whole dark waste" and she knows the moment she "had it" . The cities and slums with their large populations and lack of fresh air were breeding grounds for disease.