Richard very often came to see us while we remained in London (though
he soon failed in his letter-writing), and with his quick abilities,
his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, was
always delightful. But though I liked him more and more the better I
knew him, I still felt more and more how much it was to be regretted
that he had been educated in no habits of application and
concentration. The system which had addressed him in exactly the same
manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, all varying in
character and capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks,
always with fair credit and often with distinction, but in a fitful,
dazzling way that had confirmed his reliance on those very qualities
in himself which it had been most desirable to direct and train. They
were good qualities, without which no high place can be meritoriously
won, but like fire and water, though excellent servants, they were
very bad masters. If they had been under Richard's direction, they
would have been his friends; but Richard being under their direction,
they became his enemies.

I write down these opinions not because I believe that this or any
other thing was so because I thought so, but only because I did think
so and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and did. These
were my thoughts about Richard. I thought I often observed besides
how right my guardian was in what he had said, and that the
uncertainties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to his
nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt that
he was part of a great gaming system.

Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon when my guardian was
not at home, in the course of conversation I naturally inquired after
Richard.

"Why, Mr. Carstone," said Mrs. Badger, "is very well and is, I assure
you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosser used to say
of me that I was always better than land a-head and a breeze a-starn
to the midshipmen's mess when the purser's junk had become as tough
as the fore-topsel weather earings. It was his naval way of
mentioning generally that I was an acquisition to any society. I may
render the same tribute, I am sure, to Mr. Carstone. But I--you won't
think me premature if I mention it?"

I said no, as Mrs. Badger's insinuating tone seemed to require such
an answer.

"Nor Miss Clare?" said Mrs. Bayham Badger sweetly.

Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy.

"Why, you see, my dears," said Mrs. Badger, "--you'll excuse me
calling you my dears?"

We entreated Mrs. Badger not to mention it.

"Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so,"
pursued Mrs. Badger, "so perfectly charming. You see, my dears, that
although I am still young--or Mr. Bayham Badger pays me the
compliment of saying so--"

"No," Mr. Badger called out like some one contradicting at a public
meeting. "Not at all!"

"Very well," smiled Mrs. Badger, "we will say still young."

"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Badger.

"My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities of
observing young men. There were many such on board the dear old
Crippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with Captain Swosser
in the Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity of knowing and
befriending the midshipmen under Captain Swosser's command. YOU never
heard them called the young gentlemen, my dears, and probably would
not understand allusions to their pipe-claying their weekly accounts,
but it is otherwise with me, for blue water has been a second home to
me, and I have been quite a sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo."

"A man of European reputation," murmured Mr. Badger.

"When I lost my dear first and became the wife of my dear second,"
said Mrs. Badger, speaking of her former husbands as if they were
parts of a charade, "I still enjoyed opportunities of observing
youth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo's lectures was a large
one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent scientific man
seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it could impart, to
throw our house open to the students as a kind of Scientific
Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade and a mixed
biscuit for all who chose to partake of those refreshments. And there
was science to an unlimited extent."

"Remarkable assemblies those, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Badger
reverentially. "There must have been great intellectual friction
going on there under the auspices of such a man!"

"And now," pursued Mrs. Badger, "now that I am the wife of my dear
third, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits of observation which
were formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser and adapted to new
and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of Professor Dingo. I
therefore have not come to the consideration of Mr. Carstone as a
neophyte. And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he
has not chosen his profession advisedly."

Ada looked so very anxious now that I asked Mrs. Badger on what she
founded her supposition.

"My dear Miss Summerson," she replied, "on Mr. Carstone's character
and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition that probably he
would never think it worth-while to mention how he really feels, but
he feels languid about the profession. He has not that positive
interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he has any decided
impression in reference to it, I should say it was that it is a
tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young men like Mr.
Allan Woodcourt who take it from a strong interest in all that it can
do will find some reward in it through a great deal of work for a
very little money and through years of considerable endurance and
disappointment. But I am quite convinced that this would never be the
case with Mr. Carstone."

"Does Mr. Badger think so too?" asked Ada timidly.

"Why," said Mr. Badger, "to tell the truth, Miss Clare, this view of
the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Badger mentioned it. But
when Mrs. Badger put it in that light, I naturally gave great
consideration to it, knowing that Mrs. Badger's mind, in addition to
its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage of being formed by
two such very distinguished (I will even say illustrious) public men
as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy and Professor Dingo. The
conclusion at which I have arrived is--in short, is Mrs. Badger's
conclusion."

"It was a maxim of Captain Swosser's," said Mrs. Badger, "speaking in
his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot
make it too hot; and that if you only have to swab a plank, you
should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to me that
this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to the nautical
profession.

"To all professions," observed Mr. Badger. "It was admirably said by
Captain Swosser. Beautifully said."

"People objected to Professor Dingo when we were staying in the north
of Devon after our marriage," said Mrs. Badger, "that he disfigured
some of the houses and other buildings by chipping off fragments of
those edifices with his little geological hammer. But the professor
replied that he knew of no building save the Temple of Science. The
principle is the same, I think?"

"Precisely the same," said Mr. Badger. "Finely expressed! The
professor made the same remark, Miss Summerson, in his last illness,
when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his little hammer
under the pillow and chipping at the countenances of the attendants.
The ruling passion!"

Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr. and
Mrs. Badger pursued the conversation, we both felt that it was
disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated to
us and that there was a great probability of its being sound. We
agreed to say nothing to Mr. Jarndyce until we had spoken to Richard;
and as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have a very serious
talk with him.

So after he had been a little while with Ada, I went in and found my
darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to consider him thoroughly
right in whatever he said.

"And how do you get on, Richard?" said I. I always sat down on the
other side of him. He made quite a sister of me.

"Oh! Well enough!" said Richard.

"He can't say better than that, Esther, can he?" cried my pet
triumphantly.

I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course I
couldn't.

"Well enough?" I repeated.

"Yes," said Richard, "well enough. It's rather jog-trotty and
humdrum. But it'll do as well as anything else!"

"Oh! My dear Richard!" I remonstrated.

"What's the matter?" said Richard.

"Do as well as anything else!"

"I don't think there's any harm in that, Dame Durden," said Ada,
looking so confidingly at me across him; "because if it will do as
well as anything else, it will do very well, I hope."

"Oh, yes, I hope so," returned Richard, carelessly tossing his hair
from his forehead. "After all, it may be only a kind of probation
till our suit is--I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit.
Forbidden ground! Oh, yes, it's all right enough. Let us talk about
something else."

Ada would have done so willingly, and with a full persuasion that we
had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. But I thought
it would be useless to stop there, so I began again.

"No, but Richard," said I, "and my dear Ada! Consider how important
it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is towards your
cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnest without any
reservation. I think we had better talk about this, really, Ada. It
will be too late very soon."

"Oh, yes! We must talk about it!" said Ada. "But I think Richard is
right."

What was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so pretty,
and so engaging, and so fond of him!

"Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard," said I, "and they
seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for the
profession."

"Did they though?" said Richard. "Oh! Well, that rather alters the
case, because I had no idea that they thought so, and I should not
have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The fact is, I don't
care much about it. But, oh, it don't matter! It'll do as well as
anything else!"

"You hear him, Ada!" said I.

"The fact is," Richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and half
jocosely, "it is not quite in my way. I don't take to it. And I get
too much of Mrs. Bayham Badger's first and second."

"I am sure THAT'S very natural!" cried Ada, quite delighted. "The
very thing we both said yesterday, Esther!"

"Then," pursued Richard, "it's monotonous, and to-day is too like
yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day."

"But I am afraid," said I, "this is an objection to all kinds of
application--to life itself, except under some very uncommon
circumstances."

"Do you think so?" returned Richard, still considering. "Perhaps! Ha!
Why, then, you know," he added, suddenly becoming gay again, "we
travel outside a circle to what I said just now. It'll do as well as
anything else. Oh, it's all right enough! Let us talk about something
else."

But even Ada, with her loving face--and if it had seemed innocent and
trusting when I first saw it in that memorable November fog, how much
more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and trusting
heart--even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So I
thought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard that if he were
sometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he never
meant to be careless of Ada, and that it was a part of his
affectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance of a
step that might influence both their lives. This made him almost
grave.

"My dear Mother Hubbard," he said, "that's the very thing! I have
thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself
for meaning to be so much in earnest and--somehow--not exactly being
so. I don't know how it is; I seem to want something or other to
stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my darling
cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don't settle down to constancy
in other things. It's such uphill work, and it takes such a time!"
said Richard with an air of vexation.

"That may be," I suggested, "because you don't like what you have
chosen."

"Poor fellow!" said Ada. "I am sure I don't wonder at it!"

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried
again, but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I
could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and while
he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him!

"You see, my precious girl," said Richard, passing her golden curls
through and through his hand, "I was a little hasty perhaps; or I
misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don't seem to lie in
that direction. I couldn't tell till I tried. Now the question is
whether it's worth-while to undo all that has been done. It seems
like making a great disturbance about nothing particular."

"My dear Richard," said I, "how CAN you say about nothing
particular?"

"I don't mean absolutely that," he returned. "I mean that it MAY be
nothing particular because I may never want it."

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly
worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone. I
then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenial
pursuit.

"There, my dear Mrs. Shipton," said Richard, "you touch me home. Yes,
I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me."

"The law!" repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.

"If I went into Kenge's office," said Richard, "and if I were placed
under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the--hum!--the
forbidden ground--and should be able to study it, and master it, and
to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being properly
conducted. I should be able to look after Ada's interests and my own
interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at Blackstone and
all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour."

I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hankering
after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes cast
a shade on Ada's face. But I thought it best to encourage him in any
project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be quite sure
that his mind was made up now.

"My dear Minerva," said Richard, "I am as steady as you are. I made a
mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won't do so any more, and
I'll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is, you know,"
said Richard, relapsing into doubt, "if it really is worth-while,
after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing particular!"

This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all that
we had said already and to our coming to much the same conclusion
afterwards. But we so strongly advised Richard to be frank and open
with Mr. Jarndyce, without a moment's delay, and his disposition was
naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought him out at once
(taking us with him) and made a full avowal. "Rick," said my
guardian, after hearing him attentively, "we can retreat with honour,
and we will. But we must be careful--for our cousin's sake, Rick, for
our cousin's sake--that we make no more such mistakes. Therefore, in
the matter of the law, we will have a good trial before we decide. We
will look before we leap, and take plenty of time about it."

Richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he
would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Kenge's
office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on the
spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the caution that we
had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself with sitting down
among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his one unvarying
purpose in life from childhood had been that one which now held
possession of him. My guardian was very kind and cordial with him,
but rather grave, enough so to cause Ada, when he had departed and we
were going upstairs to bed, to say, "Cousin John, I hope you don't
think the worse of Richard?"

"No, my love," said he.

"Because it was very natural that Richard should be mistaken in such
a difficult case. It is not uncommon."

"No, no, my love," said he. "Don't look unhappy."

"Oh, I am not unhappy, cousin John!" said Ada, smiling cheerfully,
with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bidding him
good night. "But I should be a little so if you thought at all the
worse of Richard."

"My dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I should think the worse of him only
if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should be
more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor Rick,
for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing! He has
time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of him? Not
I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!"

"No, indeed, cousin John," said Ada, "I am sure I could not--I am
sure I would not--think any ill of Richard if the whole world did. I
could, and I would, think better of him then than at any other time!"

So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his
shoulders--both hands now--and looking up into his face, like the
picture of truth!

"I think," said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, "I think it
must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall
occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the
father. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman. Pleasant
slumbers! Happy dreams!"

This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes with
something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well
remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richard
when she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little while
since he had watched them passing down the room in which the sun was
shining, and away into the shade; but his glance was changed, and
even the silent look of confidence in me which now followed it once
more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it had originally
been.

Ada praised Richard more to me that night than ever she had praised
him yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her
clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I kissed
her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil and happy
she looked.

For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I sat up
working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but I was
wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don't know why. At least I don't
think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don't think it
matters.

At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that I
would leave myself not a moment's leisure to be low-spirited. For I
naturally said, "Esther! You to be low-spirited. YOU!" And it really
was time to say so, for I--yes, I really did see myself in the glass,
almost crying. "As if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead
of everything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart!" said I.

If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it
directly, but not being able to do that, I took out of my basket some
ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was busy
with at that time and sat down to it with great determination. It was
necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and I resolved to
go on with it until I couldn't keep my eyes open, and then to go to
bed.

I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairs in
a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to a stop
for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to get it. To
my great surprise, on going in I found my guardian still there, and
sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought, his book lay
unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered
confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering
among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face looked worn.
Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly, I stood still
for a moment and should have retired without speaking had he not, in
again passing his hand abstractedly through his hair, seen me and
started.

"Esther!"

I told him what I had come for.

"At work so late, my dear?"

"I am working late to-night," said I, "because I couldn't sleep and
wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and look
weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?"

"None, little woman, that YOU would readily understand," said he.

He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that I inwardly repeated,
as if that would help me to his meaning, "That I could readily
understand!"

"Remain a moment, Esther," said he, "You were in my thoughts."

"I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?"

He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. The change
was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so much
self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating, "None
that I could understand!"

"Little woman," said my guardian, "I was thinking--that is, I have
been thinking since I have been sitting here--that you ought to know
of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next to nothing."

"Dear guardian," I replied, "when you spoke to me before on that
subject--"

"But since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meant to
say, "I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and my
having anything to tell you, are different considerations, Esther. It
is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know."

"If you think so, guardian, it is right."

"I think so," he returned very gently, and kindly, and very
distinctly. "My dear, I think so now. If any real disadvantage can
attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth a
thought, it is right that you at least of all the world should not
magnify it to yourself by having vague impressions of its nature."

I sat down and said after a little effort to be as calm as I ought to
be, "One of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these words:
'Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time
will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this better, and
will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.'" I had covered my face
with my hands in repeating the words, but I took them away now with a
better kind of shame, I hope, and told him that to him I owed the
blessing that I had from my childhood to that hour never, never,
never felt it. He put up his hand as if to stop me. I well knew that
he was never to be thanked, and said no more.

"Nine years, my dear," he said after thinking for a little while,
"have passed since I received a letter from a lady living in
seclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it
unlike all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me (as
it told me in so many words), perhaps because it was the writer's
idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me, perhaps because it was mine to
justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl then twelve years
old, in some such cruel words as those which live in your
remembrance. It told me that the writer had bred her in secrecy from
her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that if
the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she would be
left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It asked me to
consider if I would, in that case, finish what the writer had begun."

I listened in silence and looked attentively at him.

"Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium
through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and the
distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of the
need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she was
quite innocent. I felt concerned for the little creature, in her
darkened life, and replied to the letter."

I took his hand and kissed it.

"It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose to see the
writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with the
world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would appoint one.
I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her own accord and not of
his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. That she was, if there
were any ties of blood in such a case, the child's aunt. That more
than this she would never (and he was well persuaded of the
steadfastness of her resolution) for any human consideration
disclose. My dear, I have told you all."

I held his hand for a little while in mine.

"I saw my ward oftener than she saw me," he added, cheerily making
light of it, "and I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy.
She repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, every
hour in every day!"

"And oftener still," said I, "she blesses the guardian who is a
father to her!"

At the word father, I saw his former trouble come into his face. He
subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but it had been
there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt as if they
had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated, wondering, "That I
could readily understand. None that I could readily understand!" No,
it was true. I did not understand it. Not for many and many a day.

"Take a fatherly good night, my dear," said he, kissing me on the
forehead, "and so to rest. These are late hours for working and
thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, little
housekeeper!"

I neither worked nor thought any more that night. I opened my
grateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me and
its care of me, and fell asleep.

We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He came to take
leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. He was going to
China and to India as a surgeon on board ship. He was to be away a
long, long time.

I believe--at least I know--that he was not rich. All his widowed
mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his
profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very
little influence in London; and although he was, night and day, at
the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of gentleness
and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. He was
seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly
seems to belong to anything.

I think--I mean, he told us--that he had been in practice three or
four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three
or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was
bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going
away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a
pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his art among
those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it
had a high opinion of him.

When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for
the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes,
but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a long time
ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan
ap-Kerrig--of some place that sounded like Gimlet--who was the most
illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations
were a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his life
in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and
a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his
praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it,
Mewlinnwillinwodd.

Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great
kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would
remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below
it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in
India who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be
picked up with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would
suffice for the descendant from such a line without birth, which must
ever be the first consideration. She talked so much about birth that
for a moment I half fancied, and with pain--But what an idle fancy to
suppose that she could think or care what MINE was!

Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was
too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring
the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian
for his hospitality and for the very happy hours--he called them the
very happy hours--he had passed with us. The recollection of them, he
said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always
treasured. And so we gave him our hands, one after another--at least,
they did--and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada's hand--and to
mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!

I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the
servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and
papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and
another. I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by
the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had no
expectation of seeing!

"Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, "what beautiful flowers!"

She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.

"Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. "They are the loveliest
I ever saw."

"Prince, my dear?" said I in a whisper.

"No," answered Caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me to
smell. "Not Prince."

"Well, to be sure, Caddy!" said I. "You must have two lovers!"

"What? Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Caddy.

"Do they look like that sort of thing?" I repeated, pinching her
cheek.

Caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come for
half an hour, at the expiration of which time Prince would be waiting
for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the window,
every now and then handing me the flowers again or trying how they
looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, she took me into
my room and put them in my dress.

"For me?" said I, surprised.

"For you," said Caddy with a kiss. "They were left behind by
somebody."

"Left behind?"

"At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. "Somebody who has been very good
to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these
flowers behind. No, no! Don't take them out. Let the pretty little
things lie here," said Caddy, adjusting them with a careful hand,
"because I was present myself, and I shouldn't wonder if somebody
left them on purpose!"

"Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Ada, coming laughingly
behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. "Oh, yes, indeed
they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sort of thing.
Oh, very like it indeed, my dear!"

Richard's not doing too well at Mr. Badger's private med school. He's not used to working, studying, or really doing much of anything, and the whole "learning about how people's bodies work" thing is boring for him. Mr. and Mrs. Badger come over one day to talk to Esther and Ada about Richard's not really being cut out to be a doctor. Esther is kind of worried about this because, well, what profession doesn't require doing work? Later she and Ada chat with Richard about this. He's totally wishy-washy but figures that medicine will do about as well as anything else until his ship comes in and he hits the Chancery lawsuit lottery. This is obviously bad news all around. Esther is really freaking out now because Richard is just turning into a gambler, hoping for the big score without making any backup plans. It's concerning not just because of him, but because he's going to have to support Ada and whatever babies they have as well, since Ada can't get a job . Richard is like, "Oh, but what if I studied law instead?" He's all excited to get into Kenge's office and learn how to keep a close eye on the Jarndyce case. This is obviously a way, way terrible idea. But Richard seems so into it that Jarndyce agrees to talk to Kenge and make it happen. Still, he's starting to get permanent worried eyes every time he looks at Ada. That night Esther can't sleep for some reason. She does some work around the house and bumps into Jarndyce, who is sitting staring at the fire, deep in thought. Out of the blue, they start talking about Esther's background. Well, it's not really out of the blue, but it seems that way because of the way Esther is telling the story. Jarndyce decides to tell Esther what little he knows about her origins. When she was 12, he got a letter from a crazy-sounding woman who told him that Esther had been raised in secret from birth, and that every possible trace of who her parents were was erased. Also, he could never meet this woman, her aunt, and had to go through Kenge. Esther starts crying at the memory of her horrible childhood and her repugnant aunt. Then she cries more, out of gratitude to Jarndyce. She tells him he is like a father to her. This immediately freaks him out. She doesn't really know why. Guys, lest we forget, since the novel keeps calling her an old woman - she's about 21 years old at this point. And now the whole story comes out. Turns out that earlier that day Mr. Woodcourt had been to Bleak House with his mother to tell them that he was about to sail to China as a ship's doctor. He has no money and has to take whatever job he can get. Still, he's super sad to be leaving the place where he spent so many happy hours. Meanwhile, his mother is droning on and on about how fancy their family is and how they are descended from a very important line of Welsh people and can trace their family back through many generations to some king or other. Esther makes like she doesn't really get why Mrs. Woodcourt won't get off this hobby horse. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with her, could it? Alan Woodcourt and his mom leave and Esther starts doing housework like crazy to keep from being sad. Suddenly Caddy Jellyby comes over and gives her a bouquet that "Somebody" left at Miss Flite's. Ada is psyched about this bouquet and thinks it has a lot of meaning behind it. Esther tries to downplay it. It's all a little high-school-drama all of a sudden.

From the Badgers, Esther and Ada learn that Richard is not taking his medical apprenticeship seriously. Later, Richard admits as much and says that he may abandon medicine and take up law. For Ada's sake, Esther and Mr. Jarndyce are alarmed. Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther what he knows about her past. He had agreed to become her guardian if and when her aunt died. The next day, Allan Woodcourt, accompanied by his mother, comes to say goodbye. Allan is bound for the Orient as a ship's surgeon. The following morning, Caddy Jellyby delivers flowers that Allan left, seemingly on purpose, for Esther.

Esther's quickening curiosity about her past parallels Lady Dedlock's pursuit of the facts about Nemo. To some readers, this parallel may suggest the possibility of a close connection between Esther and Lady Dedlock. There can no longer be any doubt that eventually Allan Woodcourt and Esther will be brought together.

"Esther's Narrative" Esther says that Richard visits London frequently. Esther loves Richard but regrets that he seems unable to concentrate and lacks ambition. Mr. and Mrs. Badger arrive one day and tell Esther that Richard is a fine young man, but Mrs. Badger confesses that she thinks he has chosen his profession badly. He is not passionate enough about it. Mr. Badger agrees. When Richard arrives the next day, he confirms that he isn't that interested in medicine, but that it's good enough. He says each day is too much like the one before, which Esther points out is how life generally is. She and Ada encourage him to change direction. Richard says he might like to work with Mr. Kenge and study law. Mr. Jarndyce supports the decision, although he seems troubled when he looks at Ada. Esther says she has trouble sleeping, but she is evasive about why. She tries to talk herself out of her low spirits and go to sleep, but she can't. She begins doing some embroidery and goes downstairs to find some silk. She comes across Mr. Jarndyce, who is still awake and looks troubled. He tells her she should know more about her history. He tells her that he got a letter describing a young orphan whom the writer had been raising. The writer feared that if she died, the child would be alone, and so she wrote to ask Mr. Jarndyce if he would serve as guardian if that should happen. He wrote back saying yes. He had to agree never to see the writer but to send a confidential agent, so Mr. Jarndyce appointed Mr. Kenge. The writer said she was the child's aunt. Mr. Jarndyce says he is so happy to have taken on this child--Esther. Esther replies gratefully that he is like a father to her, a comment that seems to bother him. Esther doesn't understand his reaction. The next day, Mr. Woodcourt arrives for a brief visit before going away on a long trip to China and India. Esther tells us that he isn't rich and is seven years older than she is, although she says these details are irrelevant. She says everyone is sorry that he's leaving. He brings his mother to dinner. Mrs. Woodcourt is confident that he will meet some English ladies in India and that birth and lineage are of utmost importance. Esther wonders idly what Mrs. Woodcourt would think of her own birth. After they leave, Caddy arrives with a small bouquet of flowers. Esther assumes they are from Prince Turveydrop because they look like flowers from a lover. Caddy reveals that they were actually left behind at Miss Flite's by someone for Esther. She hints that this person was very good to Miss Flite and was going away on a trip. Later, Ada laughs and teases Esther about the flowers being from a lover. Esther doesn't reveal who they are all referring to

Esther's Narrative Esther contemplates Richard Carstone's declining fortune, blaming first his classical education in which he was allowed to slip by without learning good habits, and secondly, the Chancery suit that "imparted to his nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester" . The Badgers visit Esther and Ada one day and mention that Richard is not really suited to the profession of medicine. When Esther mentions it to Richard, he admits he is bored with medicine and prefers the law. That way he can keep an eye on the case. Mr. Jarndyce is not happy but allows Richard to be a clerk with Mr. Kenge. Esther finds Mr. Jarndyce awake late in the night and knows he is worrying. He seems to be worrying about her and tells her what he knows of her origins. Her aunt had written to him about her case, and he had watched over her, but he does not know who her parents are. Esther says she could never have had a better father than Mr. Jarndyce. He appears troubled by this. The next day, Mr. Allan Woodcourt comes to bid them good by. Due to financial difficulties he has to become a ship's doctor and will be gone for a long time. His mother is with him and carries on about their Welsh pedigree and how her son will marry well. After he leaves, she receives a bouquet of flowers from Mr. Woodcourt.

Commentary on Chapter XVII Esther is the typical Victorian heroine, who above all must be humble and not assume too much. Esther has also been brought up to have no self-esteem, and she seems not to understand the love others have for her. We have to read between the lines of her over-modest narrative chapters, as she is too innocent to pull together all the implications. Her account is direct and pointed when it comes to describing other people but is vague regarding herself. We are led to understand in this chapter that she has two suitors besides Mr. Guppy. Allan Woodcourt is obviously interested in her but too poor to marry. He does not ask Esther to wait, but they both feel something for each other. She is happy to receive his bouquet. Mr. Jarndyce is upset when Esther refers to him as a father, for he seems to feel a stronger affection for her. He is twice her age, and it seems he would not stand in the way of a younger suitor, but he constantly tells her of her great value, and no doubt wants her to marry someone deserving. He has made Esther his companion and confidante. He tries to bring up her background because this would be an important point in terms of marriage. From the clear signals of Woodcourt's mother, she will not want her son to marry someone beneath the family. Esther is illegitimate, a social handicap in these times. She knows she might have trouble marrying.


A New Lodger

The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle river
very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy
saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of his
penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrument into
his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk any ill will,
but he must do something, and it must be something of an unexciting
nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual
energies under too heavy contribution. He finds that nothing agrees
with him so well as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool,
and stab his desk, and gape.

Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken
out a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr. Guppy's
two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Richard
Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr. Carstone is for
the time being established in Kenge's room, whereat Mr. Guppy chafes.
So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the
confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce
in the Old Street Road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good
enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming,
he would have got it painted.

Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a stool
in Kenge and Carboy's office of entertaining, as a matter of course,
sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such person wants
to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he
shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the strength of these
profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains
to counterplot when there is no plot, and plays the deepest games of
chess without any adversary.

It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, to find
the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce and
Jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure
can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a third
saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy's office, to
wit, Young Smallweed.

Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke Chick
Weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boy is
much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something under fifteen and
an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood to entertain a
passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in the neighbourhood of Chancery
Lane and for her sake to have broken off a contract with another
lady, to whom he had been engaged some years. He is a town-made
article, of small stature and weazen features, but may be perceived
from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. To become
a Guppy is the object of his ambition. He dresses at that gentleman
(by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds
himself entirely on him. He is honoured with Mr. Guppy's particular
confidence and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his
experience, on difficult points in private life.

Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning after trying
all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and after
several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of
cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent
drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and
stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propounds for Mr.
Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more you drink the
thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a
state of hopeless languor.

While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn,
surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomes
conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below
and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the same time,
a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressed voice cries,
"Hip! Gup-py!"

"Why, you don't mean it!" says Mr. Guppy, aroused. "Small! Here's
Jobling!" Small's head looks out of window too and nods to Jobling.

"Where have you sprung up from?" inquires Mr. Guppy.

"From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it any
longer. I must enlist. I say! I wish you'd lend me half a crown. Upon
my soul, I'm hungry."

Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run to
seed in the market-gardens down by Deptford.

"I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare. I
want to get some dinner."

"Will you come and dine with me?" says Mr. Guppy, throwing out the
coin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly.

"How long should I have to hold out?" says Jobling.

"Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,
returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head.

"What enemy?"

"A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?"

"Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?" says Mr.
Jobling.

Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares with much
earnestness that he "can't stand it."

"You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring it down.
But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on our staircase and
read. It's a quiet place."

Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious Smallweed
supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally drops his eye upon
him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted
with waiting and making an untimely departure. At last the enemy
retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling up.

"Well, and how are you?" says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him.

"So, so. How are you?"

Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling
ventures on the question, "How is SHE?" This Mr. Guppy resents as a
liberty, retorting, "Jobling, there ARE chords in the human mind--"
Jobling begs pardon.

"Any subject but that!" says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment of his
injury. "For there ARE chords, Jobling--"

Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.

During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of the
dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,
"Return immediately." This notification to all whom it may concern,
he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tall hat at the
angle of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his, informs his patron
that they may now make themselves scarce.

Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house, of
the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang,
where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, is supposed to
have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed, of whom it
may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whom years are
nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish
wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain
there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, has Smallweed; and he
drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his
collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it,
whatever it is. In short, in his bringing up he has been so nursed by
Law and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp, to account
for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices
that his father was John Doe and his mother the only female member of
the Roe family, also that his first long-clothes were made from a
blue bag.

Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in the window
of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of
peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, Mr.
Smallweed leads the way. They know him there and defer to him. He has
his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald
patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterwards. It is of
no use trying him with anything less than a full-sized "bread" or
proposing to him any joint in cut unless it is in the very best cut.
In the matter of gravy he is adamant.

Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread experience,
Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet, turning
an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats the catalogue
of viands and saying "What do YOU take, Chick?" Chick, out of the
profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and French
beans--and don't you forget the stuffing, Polly" (with an unearthly
cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the like
order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded. Quickly the
waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of the Tower of
Babel but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers.
Mr. Smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys
intelligent benignity into his ancient eye and winks upon her. Then,
amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a
clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which
brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more
nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost
of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and
steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated
atmosphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break
out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the
legal triumvirate appease their appetites.

Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require.
His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening
nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. The same
phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at
the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed
circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a
shabby air.

His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for some
little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and
ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in
theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank you, Guppy," says Mr.
Jobling, "I really don't know but what I WILL take another."

Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.

Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is half
way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at
his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out his
legs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of contentment,
Mr. Guppy says, "You are a man again, Tony!"

"Well, not quite yet," says Mr. Jobling. "Say, just born."

"Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summer cabbage?"

"Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know but what I
WILL take summer cabbage."

Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of
"Without slugs, Polly!" And cabbage produced.

"I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife and fork
with a relishing steadiness.

"Glad to hear it."

"In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling.

He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as
Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over the
ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by a
veal and ham and a cabbage.

"Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend about
pastry?"

"Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly.

"Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there, are
you? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take a marrow
pudding."

Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in a pleasant
humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, by command of
Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires," and to those "three small rums."
This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr. Jobling puts up
his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to
himself), leans against the wall, and says, "I am grown up now,
Guppy. I have arrived at maturity."

"What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about--you don't mind
Smallweed?"

"Not the least in the world. I have the pleasure of drinking his good
health."

"Sir, to you!" says Mr. Smallweed.

"I was saying, what do you think NOW," pursues Mr. Guppy, "of
enlisting?"

"Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is one
thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is another
thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, What am I
to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr. Jobling,
pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an
English stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying, and
mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or more so."

Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so."

"If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as when
you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over
to see that house at Castle Wold--"

Mr. Smallweed corrects him--Chesney Wold.

"Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) If any
man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the present time
as I literally find myself, I should have--well, I should have
pitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water
with an air of desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at his
head."

"Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,"
remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else in the
gig."

"Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was on the wrong
side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round."

That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in their
being beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round! As
though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming" triangular!

"I had confident expectations that things would come round and be all
square," says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression and
perhaps of meaning too. "But I was disappointed. They never did. And
when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to people
that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of
borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion. And of any
new professional connexion too, for if I was to give a reference
to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up. Then what's a
fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way and living cheap
down about the market-gardens, but what's the use of living cheap
when you have got no money? You might as well live dear."

"Better," Mr. Smallweed thinks.

"Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have
been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr. Jobling.
"They are great weaknesses--Damme, sir, they are great. Well,"
proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water,
"what can a fellow do, I ask you, BUT enlist?"

Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, in
his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive
manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise than
as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.

"Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual friend Smallweed--"

Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, "Gentlemen both!" and drinks.

"--Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once since
you--"

"Say, got the sack!" cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. "Say it, Guppy. You
mean it."

"No-o-o! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.

"Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and I have
mentioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have lately thought
of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?"

"I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. "He was not
ours, and I am not acquainted with him."

"He IS ours, Jobling, and I AM acquainted with him," Mr. Guppy
retorts. "Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted with him
through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of
his in private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer
in argument. They may--or they may not--have some reference to a
subject which may--or may not--have cast its shadow on my existence."

As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way with boastful misery to tempt his
particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it,
to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the
human mind, both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the pitfall by
remaining silent.

"Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, "or they may not be. They
are no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. and
Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has, in
busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all
Tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe if our
mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this?"

Mr. Smallweed nods and appears greedy to be sworn.

"Now, gentlemen of the jury," says Mr. Guppy, "--I mean, now,
Jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted.
But it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want
time. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You
might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for
Snagsby."

Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Smallweed checks
him with a dry cough and the words, "Hem! Shakspeare!"

"There are two branches to this subject, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy.
"That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy in his
encouraging cross-examination-tone, "I think you know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane?"

"I know him by sight," says Mr. Jobling.

"You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?"

"Everybody knows her," says Mr. Jobling.

"Everybody knows her. VERY well. Now it has been one of my duties of
late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the
amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence of
instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in her
presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook and into
a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let.
You may live there at a very low charge under any name you like, as
quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He'll ask no questions
and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me--before the clock
strikes, if you chose. And I tell you another thing, Jobling," says
Mr. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice and become familiar
again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--always rummaging among a
litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and
write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most
extraordinary old chap, sir. I don't know but what it might be worth
a fellow's while to look him up a bit."

"You don't mean--" Mr. Jobling begins.

"I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becoming
modesty, "that I can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend
Smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can't make
him out."

Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, "A few!"

"I have seen something of the profession and something of life,
Tony," says Mr. Guppy, "and it's seldom I can't make a man out, more
or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret
(though I don't believe he is ever sober), I never came across. Now,
he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him,
and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a
smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a
money-lender--all of which I have thought likely at different
times--it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I
don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, when everything else
suits."

Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows on
the table and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling.
After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in
their pockets, and look at one another.

"If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy with a
sigh. "But there are chords in the human mind--"

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water,
Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling and
informing him that during the vacation and while things are slack,
his purse, "as far as three or four or even five pound goes," will be
at his disposal. "For never shall it be said," Mr. Guppy adds with
emphasis, "that William Guppy turned his back upon his friend!"

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that
Mr. Jobling says with emotion, "Guppy, my trump, your fist!" Mr.
Guppy presents it, saying, "Jobling, my boy, there it is!" Mr.
Jobling returns, "Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!" Mr.
Guppy replies, "Jobling, we have."

They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner,
"Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take another glass
for old acquaintance sake."

"Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy in an incidental
way.

"Did he though!" says Mr. Jobling.

"There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind that?"

"No," says Mr. Jobling, "I don't mind it; but he might as well have
died somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die at MY
place!" Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several times
returning to it with such remarks as, "There are places enough to die
in, I should think!" or, "He wouldn't have liked my dying at HIS
place, I dare say!"

However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes to
dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home,
as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. Mr.
Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and
conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. He soon
returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home and that he
has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises,
sleeping "like one o'clock."

"Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppy, "and we'll go and see him. Small,
what will it be?"

Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one
hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "Four veals and
hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer
cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six
breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four
half-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is
eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in
half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!"

Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweed
dismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take a
little admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to
read the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion to
himself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the Times to run his
eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night and to
have disappeared under the bedclothes.

Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where
they find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock, that is to say,
breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quite
insensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. On the
table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle
and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor that
even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut
and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk.

"Hold up here!" says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the old
man another shake. "Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir!"

But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with a
spirituous heat smouldering in it. "Did you ever see such a stupor as
he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy.

"If this is his regular sleep," returns Jobling, rather alarmed,
"it'll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking."

"It's always more like a fit than a nap," says Mr. Guppy, shaking him
again. "Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fifty times
over! Open your eyes!"

After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his
visitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on another,
and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched
lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before.

"He is alive, at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. "How are you, my Lord
Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter
of business."

The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without the least
consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt to rise. They
help him up, and he staggers against the wall and stares at them.

"How do you do, Mr. Krook?" says Mr. Guppy in some discomfiture. "How
do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope you are
pretty well?"

The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or at
nothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his face against
the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it,
and then staggers down the shop to the front door. The air, the
movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these
things recovers him. He comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur
cap on his head and looking keenly at them.

"Your servant, gentlemen; I've been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake,
odd times."

"Rather so, indeed, sir," responds Mr. Guppy.

"What? You've been a-trying to do it, have you?" says the suspicious
Krook.

"Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains.

The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up,
examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down.

"I say!" he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. "Somebody's been
making free here!"

"I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. "Would you allow me to
get it filled for you?"

"Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook in high glee. "Certainly I
would! Don't mention it! Get it filled next door--Sol's Arms--the
Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know ME!"

He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy that that gentleman,
with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out and
hurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives it in
his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly.

"But, I say," he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tasting
it, "this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This is
eighteenpenny!"

"I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy.

"You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook with another taste, and his
hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. "You're a baron
of the land."

Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents his
friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the object
of their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets
beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time
to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve of him. "You'd
like to see the room, young man?" he says. "Ah! It's a good room!
Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. Hi! It's
worth twice the rent, letting alone my company when you want it and
such a cat to keep the mice away."

Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them
upstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be and
also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up
from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded--for
the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated as he is
with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other famous claims
on his professional consideration--and it is agreed that Mr. Weevle
shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy then
repair to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, where the personal
introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effected and (more
important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby are secured. They
then report progress to the eminent Smallweed, waiting at the office
in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate, Mr. Guppy explaining
that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at
the play but that there are chords in the human mind which would
render it a hollow mockery.

On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appears at
Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself
in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him
in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On the following day
Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow,
borrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite and a hammer of his
landlord and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and
knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two teacups,
milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like
a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.

But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (next
after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only
whiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection of
copper-plate impressions from that truly national work The Divinities
of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing ladies
of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined
with capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent
portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion
among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the
Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy dress,
plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of
dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every
variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing.

But fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's, weakness. To
borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening and read
about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting
across the fashionable sky in every direction is unspeakable
consolation to him. To know what member of what brilliant and
distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished
feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the no less brilliant
and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow gives him a thrill of
joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is
about, and means to be about, and what Galaxy marriages are on the
tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are in circulation, is to become
acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle
reverts from this intelligence to the Galaxy portraits implicated,
and seems to know the originals, and to be known of them.

For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices
as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to
carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of
evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not
visited by Mr. Guppy or by a small light in his likeness quenched in
a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he has inherited the
deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink--and talks to
Krook or is "very free," as they call it in the court, commendingly,
with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who
leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to Mrs. Perkins:
firstly, that if her Johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish 'em
to be identically like that young man's; and secondly, "Mark my
words, Mrs. Perkins, ma'am, and don't you be surprised, Lord bless
you, if that young man comes in at last for old Krook's money!"

Since all even mildly important law people are away on summer vacation, there's not much to do for low-level clerks like Guppy. He hangs out in his office, bored out of his mind. Guppy is paranoid about the newly arrived Richard Carstone. Guppy is obsessed with the idea that everyone is against him in the office , and plans and schemes against them in response. His friend Young Smallweed comes to visit. Young Smallweed is 15 going on 40. He's been raised on the street and in the law court and is kind of like a little old man. Young Smallweed looks up to Guppy and wants to be just like him. They are soon joined by Tony Jobling, a clerk from another law firm. The three go out for lunch. Tony brings up Esther and Guppy immediately snaps at him for mentioning it. Smallweed takes them to a neighborhood diner, where everybody knows his name, and where he apparently has the hots for a 40-year-old waitress. Seriously. Jobling starts to complain about his life. He was recently fired from his job for some misappropriation of funds . Also, he's lost a ton of money at the track. Now he's broke and thinking about enlisting in the army. Guppy commiserates but reminds him that he was equally broke when they went to check out Chesney Wold together. Then Guppy has a brainstorm. Jobling can work for Snagsby, who likes Guppy and will hire whomever he recommends. He'll be a law writer. Also, Jobling will rent Nemo's old room at Krook's place, since it's cheap and he can live there under a different name. Guppy then says that rumor has it that Krook is actually super rich and that no one can figure out what his deal really is. Maybe Jobling will be able to. This is a good plan, they all decide. Jobling and Guppy go over to Krook's. Krook is plastered and passed out. For a long time they can't wake him up, and when they do, he stumbles around completely wasted and out of it. Finally he comes to. Jobling buys him another bottle of gin, and immediately they're his best friends. Guppy introduces Jobling as Mr. Weevle, and Krook is happy to have him. Snagsby is also happy to have him. Jobling/Weevle spends his nights reading the celebrity gossip in the newspapers and hanging out with Krook. Word on the street has it that maybe he will be Krook's heir.

"A New Lodger" The narrator says that the long summer vacation continues. Mr. Guppy is restless. He and Richard work together in Kenge and Carboy's office, although Mr. Guppy is jealous that Richard is staying in Kenge's room. Mr. Guppy suspects everyone of being out to get him. He is glad that Richard spends so much time reading papers about Jarndyce and Jarndyce, since he knows only failure can come from it. Another young man is in the office as well, Young Smallweed , who works as a clerk. Although he is only fifteen he seems unusually wise. One day a man named Jobling arrives and goes to dinner with Mr. Guppy and Smallweed. Everyone at the restaurant respects Smallweed. Mr. Jobling eats copiously. They talk about Jobling's professional problems. Jobling considers enlisting, but Mr. Guppy suggests he try to get work from Mr. Snagsby. Mr. Guppy hints around at his connection to the Snagsbys--namely, what happened when he was last at their home--but he refuses to clarify. Mr. Guppy also says that he has been giving money to Miss Flite, and that he knows about Mr. Krook's lodging house. He says Mr. Krook could rent Mr. Jobling a room. Mr. Guppy reveals that he thinks Mr. Krook is very wealthy. Mr. Guppy tells Jobling that Krook's last lodger died, but Jobling doesn't mind. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling visit Krook, who is asleep. Startled, Krook tries to hit Mr. Guppy, and then he wakes up fully. Krook shows Jobling the room. Later, Mr. Guppy introduces Jobling to the Snagsbys, who agree to give him work. Jobling moves into his new room. In town, women gossip about him and speculate that he has come for Krook's money

Although Dickens has introduced many storylines in the first fifteen chapters of Bleak House, he doesn't begin to weave those storylines together until chapter 16. Near the beginning of the chapter, the narrator says, "What connexion can there have been between many people . . . who . . . have . . . been very curiously brought together!" Indeed, characters and plots that so far have seemed independent now begin to come together, and characters are revealed to be related to one another in unexpected ways. For example, we learn that Lady Dedlock knows of Jo and is strangely interested in learning what happened to Krook's dead lodger. Her appearance in Jo's hardscrabble world is surprising, and her intense reaction to the lodger's burial place is mysterious. Dickens never explicitly tells us that the woman in those scenes is Lady Dedlock, but context clues suggest that this is the case. We also learn that the Snagsby's friend Mrs. Chadband was Esther's old guardian, Rachael. Perhaps most important, we begin to see a connection between Esther and Lady Dedlock. The first clues arise when Esther visits Mr. Boythorn's home, which is next to Chesney Wold, and spots Lady Dedlock at church. When their eyes meet, Esther is stunned--she thinks she recognizes Lady Dedlock somehow, but she is certain she has never met her before. During this same visit, Lady Dedlock alludes to a time in the past when Mr. Jarndyce was well acquainted with her sister. These clues, suggestions, and interconnections add richness and intrigue to the world of Bleak House. Richard's struggle to find a vocation suggests the importance of passion in building a fulfilling life. Richard idly follows whatever path is suggested to him, never thinking very deeply about what he truly wants to do. He is happy enough in his medical studies, but the Badgers tell Esther that he is not committed enough to his work and suggest that medicine is not a "ruling passion" for him. Richard's blase acceptance of it suggests a lack of engagement with his life and an absence of ambition. Esther places so much importance on the idea of finding what one is passionate about that she encourages Richard to change fields. The idea of passion is not, however, equal to the idea of excitement. Richard, true to his indecisive, wayward nature, wants to find a career that is not so "monotonous," but Esther points out that life itself is quite monotonous. Mr. Jarndyce agrees that Richard should change paths, but the concerned look he gives Ada suggests that he is worried about Richard's restlessness and inability to commit himself completely to one single undertaking. Esther is a strong, confident narrator when she is talking about other people, but she falters and stutters when she touches on matters that are very personal to her. Her descriptions are usually vivid and detailed, and her voice is smooth and mature, but at times her storytelling breaks down entirely. For example, she tells us in chapter 17 that she was low-spirited and having trouble sleeping, but when she tries to explain why, she blurts out, "I don't know why. At least, I don't think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don't think it matters." This barely coherent babbling suggests that Esther does, indeed, know the root of her troubles but is unwilling to disclose it. This makes sense when we find out that Mr. Woodcourt is arriving the next day to say goodbye, as he leaves for a very long journey. When she describes the dinner, she stops frequently to correct her narration. "I believe--at least I know--that he was not rich," she says, and "I think--I mean, he told us--that he has been in practice three or four years." It is as though she is making an effort to be as accurate as possible in her narration, while at the same time covering up any possible hint of how she really feels about these aspects of Mr. Woodcourt's character. Her stumblings suggest that there is more to the story than she is revealing.

A New Lodger Mr. Guppy regards Richard Carstone, the new apprentice at Kenge and Carboy's, as his enemy, for no particular reason. He is glad that he is trying to slog through the Jarndyce case, for he thinks that will confuse him. The other lawyers are on vacation, and Guppy is in charge. He has his protege apprentice, Chick Smallweed of fifteen, who copies everything Guppy does. Suddenly, Tony Jobling appears, a friend of Guppy's who is out of work and starving. Guppy lends him money and invites Jobling and Smallweed to lunch. Tony Jobling gorges on the food, and Guppy tells him of a possible room and work he can get for him. Jobling seems to be a gentleman down on his luck, and Guppy places him in Mr. Nemo's old room at Krook's and gets him copy work at Snagsby's. At Krook's we learn that Mr. Krook is barely alive and soaked with alcohol. Nemo's room has been redone, but Guppy tells Jobling about Krook's mysterious papers that he keeps and how he is trying to teach himself to read so he can interpret them.

Commentary on Chapter XX History repeats itself. Guppy gets Jobling to take on the old life of Mr. Nemo and even gives him a phony name, Mr. Weevle. Jobling, like Nemo, seems to be a gentleman down on his luck, running from the law and from debt, so Guppy helps him escape the same way Nemo did, by taking a disguise, living at Krook's and becoming a copyist. Jobling was the one who accompanied Guppy to Chesney Wold and saw the portrait of Lady Dedlock and heard the legend of Ghost's Walk. Guppy is aware of Krook's enormous pile of paperwork and secrets connected to the Chancery cases, but it seems Krook is not able to interpret the evidence any more than the Lord Chancellor, because he cannot read. Guppy is nothing but an aspiring law clerk, aping his betters, and he in his turn has a protege, Smallweed, who copies him. Jobling takes up the life of Nemo, and nothing changes. Guppy suspects all other clerks of having "sinister designs upon him" and makes a "counterplot" on Richard in defense . Richard immerses himself in reading Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce, and Guppy is satisfied his "enemy" will soon be in a muddle. Richard's attempt will be no better than Krook's, for the case is indecipherable. Guppy is a clerk of no importance, but he represents the smallness of the legal profession, its pretensions, and its interference with other lives.