Jo's Will

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the high
church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morning
light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan revolves in
his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. "It surely is a
strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart of a civilized world
this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of
than an unowned dog." But it is none the less a fact because of its
strangeness, and the difficulty remains.

At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still
really following. But look where he will, he still beholds him close
to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from brick
to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along,
glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing
in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on, considering
with a less divided attention what he shall do.

A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be
done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses and
comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his
right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, kneading
dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty repast to Jo
is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw
the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions
as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him.
"I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down
his food, "but I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't care for
eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo stands shivering
and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. "Draw
breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." He might add,
"And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."

Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand,
but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure of
wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He begins to
revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We may repeat that
dose, Jo," observes Allan after watching him with his attentive face.
"So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, and then go on again."

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with his
back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and down in
the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him without
appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to perceive that
he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can brighten, his
face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice
of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of these signs of
improvement, Allan engages him in conversation and elicits to his no
small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its
consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. When he has
finished his story and his bread, they go on again.

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of
refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite,
Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered.
But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer
lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much
obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other
than the interesting Judy, is tart and spare in her replies. These
sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite and her
birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to
that neighbouring place, where Miss Flite (who rises early that she
may be punctual at the divan of justice held by her excellent friend
the Chancellor) comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and
with open arms.

"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious,
distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions,
but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--more so
than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has
no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a
doorway, and tells her how he comes there.

"Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have a
fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me."

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to consider;
but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. Blinder is
entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room.
"Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands after a twentieth
repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To be sure! Of course! My dear
physician! General George will help us out."

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, and
would be, though Miss Flite had not already run upstairs to put on
her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with
her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician in her
disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General George,
whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce and takes a
great interest in all connected with her, Allan is induced to think
that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, for his
encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and
they repair to the general's. Fortunately it is not far.

From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long entry,
and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He
also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding
towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no
stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and
dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his light
shirt-sleeves.

"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute.
Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp
hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, and
at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. He
winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and another salute.

"Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.

"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but I am
only a sea-going doctor."

"Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket
myself."

Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readily on
that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe,
which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing.
"You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I know by
experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and since it's
equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence by putting
it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all he knows
about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.

"And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the
whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.

"That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this difficulty
about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if I could
procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not
stay there many hours if he could be so much as got there. The same
objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I had the patience to be
evaded and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to
get him into one, which is a system that I don't take kindly to."

"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.

"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he
is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered
him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person
to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything."

"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George. "But you have not
mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?"

"The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket."

"Bucket the detective, sir?"

"The same man."

"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper after blowing out
a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so far
correct that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." Mr. George smokes
with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite in silence.

"Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know that
this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have it
in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.
Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor
lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent
people and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, following the direction of
the trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted,
as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one in
this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for
him beforehand?"

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little man
standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted
figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After a few more
puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little man,
and the little man winks up at the trooper.

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I would
willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all
agreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it a privilege
to do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in
the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You see what the
place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the
same would meet your views. No charge made, except for rations. We
are not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. We are
liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a moment's notice. However,
sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at
your service."

With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the whole
building at his visitor's disposal.

"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the medical
staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortunate
subject?"

Allan is quite sure of it.

"Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, "we
have had enough of that."

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.
"Still I am bound to tell you," observes Allan after repeating his
former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and
that he may be--I do not say that he is--too far gone to recover."

"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper.

"Yes, I fear so."

"Then, sir," returns the trooper in a decisive manner, "it appears to
me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the sooner he
comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!"

Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of command;
and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought
in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's Tockahoopo Indians; he is not
one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being wholly unconnected with
Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he
is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made
article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a
common creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. Homely
filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in
him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of English
soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts
that perish. Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the
sole of thy foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing
interesting about thee.

He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddled
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know
that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he
is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He
is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in
creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor
of humanity.

"Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."

Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a
moment, and then down again.

"He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room
here."

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. After
a little more consideration and some backing and changing of the foot
on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful."

"You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be
obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,
whatever you do, Jo."

"Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favourite
declaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get
myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir,
'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."

"I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to speak
to you."

"My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazingly broad
and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down and get a
thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the trooper speaks,
he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the
little cabins. "There you are, you see! Here is a mattress, and here
you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as Mr., I ask your pardon,
sir"--he refers apologetically to the card Allan has given him--"Mr.
Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be
aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there's another thing I would
recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil,
come here!"

Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here is a
man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently, it
is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor
creature. You do, don't you, Phil?"

"Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.

"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George in a martial sort of
confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a
drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay
out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--"

"Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out his
purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of
improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes the
best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her
friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the
judgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing
"which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years,
would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes the opportunity of
going out to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them
near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down
the gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him.

"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summerson
pretty well?"

Yes, it appears.

"Not related to her, sir?"

No, it appears.

"Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. "It seemed to me
probable that you might take more than a common interest in this poor
creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunate interest
in him. 'Tis MY case, sir, I assure you."

"And mine, Mr. George."

The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and bright dark
eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to approve of
him.

"Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Bucket
took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not acquainted
with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn. That's what it
is."

Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.

"Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know him to
have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting a deceased
person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir. To my sorrow."

Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is.

"What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?"

"I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,
what kind of man?"

"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping short
and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face
fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He
is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood
than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--by George!--that
has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more
dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. That's
the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"

"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."

"Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his
broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. "It's no
fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a power over me.
He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of
this place neck and crop. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won't
hold off, and he won't come on. If I have a payment to make him, or
time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don't see me,
don't hear me--passes me on to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn,
Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn passes me back again to him--he
keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same
stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well,
loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care? Nothing.
Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He
chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr.
Woodcourt," the trooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an
old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs
to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that
chance, in one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"

Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his
forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuosity
away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head
and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an
occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar,
as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a
choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about
the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration of
medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without
seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that
there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and
showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in
substance what he said in the morning, without any material
variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a
hollower sound.

"Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters Jo, "and
be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to sleep,
as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving
on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful. I'd be
more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an
unfortnet to be it."

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the
course of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr.
Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court, the
rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his
counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, an immense
desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place
of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the
traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells
and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for
business.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"

The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old
apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to
answer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--not to
put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir."

"Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, and
once--"

"It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection
breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is going to burst!" But
he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the
little counting-house and to shut the door.

"Are you a married man, sir?"

"No, I am not."

"Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. Snagsby in a
melancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my little woman
is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business and five
hundred pound!"

In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back
against his desk, protesting, "I never had a secret of my own, sir. I
can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my
little woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldn't
have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn't
have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I
find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a
burden to me."

His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he
remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don't
he!

"You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--that my
little woman is more set and determined against than Jo," says Mr.
Snagsby.

Allan asks why.

"Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump
of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should I know why? But you
are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married
person such a question!"

With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal
resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to
communicate.

"There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his
feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the
face. "At it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me,
in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little
woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself,
and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that
other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private
asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam,
sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.

But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of
the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen.
And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo's
condition, he readily engages to "look round" as early in the evening
as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the
evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a
manager as he.

Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left
alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so
far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched
by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a
crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer
with his cough of sympathy.

"I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for
nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm wery
sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what
it is that he is sorry for having done.

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos
and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says
nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good
and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me
yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you,
Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't pass a
word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I
turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him
a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to
giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin' on day and
night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I
see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby."

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve
his feelings.

"Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos
able to write wery large, p'raps?"

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer.

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo with eagerness.

"Yes, my poor boy."

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr. Sangsby,
wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldn't
be moved no furder, whether you might be so good p'raps as to write
out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos
wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to
do it, and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr.
Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I
hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could
be made to say it wery large, he might."

"It shall say it, Jo. Very large."

Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir,
and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips
down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to a case
requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this
little earth, shall meet no more. No more.

For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags over
stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken steps,
shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it
still upon its weary road.

Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurse
and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking
round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an encouraging
elevation of his one eyebrow, "Hold up, my boy! Hold up!" There, too,
is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourt almost always, both
thinking, much, how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast
in the web of very different lives. There, too, the trooper is a
frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and,
from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down
temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in
answer to his cheerful words.

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newly
arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a
while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards
him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and touches his chest
and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little
more.

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has stopped
in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. Mr.
Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest and
attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper,
signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the little hammer is next
used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.

"Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened."

"I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "I
thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot?"

"Nobody."

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?"

"No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very
near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo! Did you
ever know a prayer?"

"Never knowd nothink, sir."

"Not so much as one short prayer?"

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr.
Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to
hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out
nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen come down
Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other
'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to
theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to
us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about."

It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced and
attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a
short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong
effort to get out of bed.

"Stay, Jo! What now?"

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he
returns with a wild look.

"Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?"

"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed,
he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground,
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be
berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,'
he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have
come there to be laid along with him."

"By and by, Jo. By and by."

"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you
promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"

"I will, indeed."

"Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate
afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step
there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark,
sir. Is there any light a-comin?"

"It is coming fast, Jo."

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very
near its end.

"Jo, my poor fellow!"

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let me
catch hold of your hand."

"Jo, can you say what I say?"

"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."

"Our Father."

"Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir."

"Which art in heaven."

"Art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?"

"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name!"

"Hallowed be--thy--"

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right
reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around
us every day.

Woodcourt takes Jo out of the slums. He buys him some food. Jo is all excited to eat but then realizes that he has no appetite. Uh-oh - that's never a good sign. Well, that, and the title of this chapter is kind of a spoiler, no? Woodcourt makes Jo eat anyway, and Jo tells him the story of the lady in the veil who wanted to see Nemo's haunts. The two go to see Miss Flite to try to find Jo a place to stay. Of course, Krook's shop is now gone, and Judy Smallweed tells them where they can find Miss Flite now. She's staying in Gridley's old room. Miss Flite is super excited to see Woodcourt, her old doctor, and immediately comes up with the idea of having Jo rest up at Mr. George's place. Mr. George and Woodcourt like each other right away, and Mr. George is always psyched to do something for Esther's sake. Woodcourt reveals that the man who took Jo out of Bleak House that night was... Bucket. He completes the circle by saying that Bucket is associated with Tulkinghorn, and that's where Jo was taken the last time Bucket got him. In any case, since Jo is now no longer contagious, Mr. George is happy to take him in. Mr. George's assistant Phil takes the boy to get a bath and some new clothes. Everything is all arranged, and Jo tries to recover for a couple of days, drifting in and out of delirium and asking often for Mr. Snagsby. Finally Woodcourt goes to find Snagsby, tells him about Jo, and gets him to come down to visit, even though Snagsby is worried about Mrs. Snagsby and what she would think or say. Snagsby is shaken by Jo's state, leaves a bunch of money for him, and is generally very moved. He's a pretty nice guy. Jo asks Snagsby to write a really big note when he dies, in really, really big letters, saying that he's sorry he got Esther sick and didn't mean to do it. Awww. Finally, the tear-jerking death scene. It's very sad. Jo dies. This recap can't really do it justice - just go read it. But first, a quick Shmoop brain snack: there are a couple of Dickens novels where young children die - see for instance, Nell in Little Nell and Paul Jr. in Dombey and Son. He would write the serialized parts so that each death would come for the special Christmas edition. People loved these. Actually, it was sort of morbid - he would get fan letters asking him to please kill off some more children in his novels, since he wrote about this so movingly. Oh, those wacky Victorians.

Allan and Jo continue to walk. At a breakfast stall, Jo, although he has become a starveling, is able to eat only a tiny amount. Examining the boy, Allan finds him quite ill and gives him a little wine, which helps. Jo is then able to eat, and as he does so, he tells the doctor "the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its consequences." Uncertain of where to find a place of temporary refuge for the boy, Allan locates Miss Flite; she suggests George's shooting gallery. Jo's fear of Bucket is somewhat eased when George and Phil Squod volunteer to take care of the boy. George himself is preoccupied with the possibility that Tulkinghorn will close him down because of debts. Snagsby visits Jo and gives him four half-crowns. The child remains confused about the identities of Lady Dedlock, Esther, and Hortense. He knows no prayer and yet senses that "It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground." Allan begins to say the Lord's Prayer; Jo dies after repeating a few phrases of it. Allan and Jo continue to walk. At a breakfast stall, Jo, although he has become a starveling, is able to eat only a tiny amount. Examining the boy, Allan finds him quite ill and gives him a little wine, which helps. Jo is then able to eat, and as he does so, he tells the doctor "the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its consequences." Uncertain of where to find a place of temporary refuge for the boy, Allan locates Miss Flite; she suggests George's shooting gallery. Jo's fear of Bucket is somewhat eased when George and Phil Squod volunteer to take care of the boy. George himself is preoccupied with the possibility that Tulkinghorn will close him down because of debts. Snagsby visits Jo and gives him four half-crowns. The child remains confused about the identities of Lady Dedlock, Esther, and Hortense. He knows no prayer and yet senses that "It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground." Allan begins to say the Lord's Prayer; Jo dies after repeating a few phrases of it.

By what he learns from Jo, Allan Woodcourt is drawn more deeply into matters that most intensely concern Esther. Dickens' portrayals of the deaths of innocent children were favorably received by readers in his day. In the death of Jo, Dickens implies the callousness and improvision of the London world of 1853.

"Jo's Will" Woodcourt and Jo stop for breakfast, and Woodcourt puts his hand on Jo's chest, telling him to breathe. He can't breathe easily. Jo then tells Woodcourt about his recent adventures, including the story about the woman in the veil whom he led to the graveyard. They approach Krook's old shop. Miss Flite isn't there anymore; Judy Smallweed tells him she now lives with a Mrs. Blinder in Bell Yard. Woodcourt and Jo find her, and she greets Woodcourt happily. She tells Woodcourt that Jo can hide with "General George," and she leads them to George's Shooting Gallery. Woodcourt tells George that Jo needs a place to hide, since he fears a man who seems to be everywhere. Woodcourt tells George that the man hunting for Jo is Inspector Bucket. George responds that Jo is welcome to stay with him and Phil. Woodcourt warns George that Jo is ill and may not get better. George introduces Jo to Phil, saying that Phil once lived on the street too. George tells Woodcourt that he is certain that Bucket took Jo to Tulkinghorn when he scuttled him away from Bleak House. George asserts that Tulkinghorn is a bad person. Woodcourt visits Mr. Snagsby. Snagsby, uneasy, tells Woodcourt to speak quietly so that Mrs. Snagsby doesn't hear them. Snagsby says that although he's never had a secret, he's always getting involved in other people's secrets. He says that someone has instructed him not to talk about Jo. But he agrees to visit Jo. Jo is happy to see Snagsby and asks him to write out the facts of what happened after Jo has moved on as far as he can go, so that other people know he never meant to cause any harm. Snagsby agrees. The narrator says that Snagsby and Jo will never meet again. When Woodcourt visits Jo, Jo is worse. Woodcourt leads Jo in a prayer, and Jo soon dies

Jo's Will Woodcourt takes Jo to find a place for him. He seeks Miss Flite at Krook's but the Smallweeds have evicted her. She now lives at Mrs. Blinder's in Bell Yard in Gridley's old room. Miss Flite says Mr. George will help, so they go to the shooting gallery. Mr. George and Woodcourt hit it off, and Woodcourt tells him it is Inspector Bucket who is looking for the boy. Mr. George offers to take the boy explaining, "We are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil" . Phil takes Jo out to get a bath and new clothes, and when he returns, Jo is put to bed and nursed by Phil. Mr. George tells Woodcourt about Tulkinghorn and Bucket having a hold over him, and he is in danger of losing the gallery at any minute. He makes some threatening remark that if he could fight the man, "he'd go down, sir!" . Woodcourt brings Mr. Jarndyce to the gallery, who warns the whole thing must be kept quiet. Jo keeps speaking of Mr. Snagsby, so Woodcourt brings him to see Jo. Jo is glad to see him, and asks Mr. Snagsby if he could do one thing for him--to write very large so everyone can see that he is sorry he did it , and that Mr. Woodcourt cried over it, and he hopes he can forgive him. He thinks if the writing is very large, he might be forgiven. Jo asks to be buried with Nemo in the same beggar's cemetery. Woodcourt, seeing Jo is almost gone asks him if he knows any prayers. He doesn't, so Woodcourt has him repeat the Lord's Prayer after him. Jo dies.

Commentary on Chapter XLVII Jo the beggar is a connecting link in the story to the whole set of evil characters as well as the set of good characters. He is a sort of litmus test of the other characters' pity and virtue. Esther, however, has paid a big price for her charity, and we learn from Jo's confession that Woodcourt has cried over her disfigurement. Jo feels so sorry and guilty he infected Esther with disease that his last wish is for Snagsby to write his repentance very large so he may be forgiven. He wants to be laid in the beggar's graveyard next to his friend, Captain Hawdon. The last paragraph of the chapter is the famous social indictment that begins, "Dead, your Majesty . . . and dying thus around us every day" . Mr. George feels for Jo, as he is also a "vagabond" pursued by Bucket and Tulkinghorn. He describes the sadistic cruelty of Tulkinghorn to Woodcourt, saying, "He is a slow-torturing kind of man" . He tortures his victims--George, Lady Dedlock, Hortense and Jo--holding his power over them, prolonging their fear that at any minute they could be ruined or put in jail. The other important detail here is that George threatens Tulkinghorn verbally.


Closing In

The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house
in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past doze in
their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long
drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In town the
Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through
the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock Mercuries, with ashes (or
hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great humility,
loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The
fashionable world--tremendous orb, nearly five miles round--is in
full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its appointed
distances.

Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where
all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and
refinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has scaled
and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she of old reposed
in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under
her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance
that what she is to those around her she will remain another day,
it is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to
yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown
more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says of
her that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but rather
larming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who WILL
getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore, he
is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravat
loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from
the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the last who
might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Of all women
she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.

One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in his
turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and prepared to
throw it off.

It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little
sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are reposing
in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures, like
overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of
seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, in the library, has
fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a
Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which she gave
audience to the young man of the name of Guppy. Rosa is with her and
has been writing for her and reading to her. Rosa is now at work upon
embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends her head over
it, my Lady watches her in silence. Not for the first time to-day.

"Rosa."

The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how serious
my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.

"See to the door. Is it shut?"

Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.

"I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust
your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to do, I
will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you. Say
nothing to any one of what passes between us."

The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be
trustworthy.

"Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring her
chair nearer, "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from
what I am to any one?"

"Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as you
really are."

"You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor child!"

She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sits
brooding, looking dreamily at her.

"Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you
suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to
me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?"

"I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my
heart, I wish it was so."

"It is so, little one."

The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark
expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an
explanation.

"And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say what would
give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very
solitary."

"My Lady! Have I offended you?"

"In nothing. Come here."

Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady, with
that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her hand
upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.

"I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would
make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot.
There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part,
rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You
must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have
written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. All
this I have done for your sake."

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she
do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses
her on the cheek and makes no other answer.

"Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and
happy!"

"Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought--forgive my being so
free--that YOU are not happy."

"I!"

"Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think
again. Let me stay a little while!"

"I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my
own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now--not
what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my
confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!"

She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves the
room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the
staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent
as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the
earlier ages of the world and had perished from its surface with its
other departed monsters.

Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of her
appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to
the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him
first.

"Sir Leicester, I am desirous--but you are engaged."

Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him
for a moment.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?"

With a look that plainly says, "You know you have the power to remain
if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and moves towards a
chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his
clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her
and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls
upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he darken her
life.

It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long
rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that
half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared
into stone rather than originally built in that material. It is a
street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to
liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their
own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry
and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone
chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines
itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, and from these
petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the
upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which
bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (its only present use),
retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of
departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals
in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an
oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high
and dry master in the House of Lords.

Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair,
could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands.
And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as if it were
her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of the way.

Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon. She was about to say?

"Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment)
and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am
tired to death of the matter."

"What can I do--to--assist?" demands Sir Leicester in some
considerable doubt.

"Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to
send him up?"

"Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request," says
Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business
term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way."

Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces
him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously.

"I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor, Mr.
Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," Sir Leicester
skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, "was desirous
to speak with you. Hem!"

"I shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman, "to give my best
attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say."

As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon
him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is
nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.

"Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock listlessly, "may I be allowed to
inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son
respecting your son's fancy?"

It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look
upon him as she asks this question.

"If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the
pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son
to conquer that--fancy." The ironmaster repeats her expression with a
little emphasis.

"And did you?"

"Oh! Of course I did."

Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very proper.
The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was bound to do
it. No difference in this respect between the base metals and the
precious. Highly proper.

"And pray has he done so?"

"Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear
not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple
an intention with our--our fancies which renders them not altogether
easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest."

Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish
meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Rouncewell is
perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evidently
adapts his tone to his reception.

"Because," proceeds my Lady, "I have been thinking of the subject,
which is tiresome to me."

"I am very sorry, I am sure."

"And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite
concur"--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us the
assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion
that the girl had better leave me."

"I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind."

"Then she had better go."

"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately interposes, "but
perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has
not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir Leicester,
magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a
service of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted the
notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the
protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages
which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very
great--I believe unquestionably very great, sir--for a young woman in
that station of life. The question then arises, should that young
woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune
simply because she has"--Sir Leicester, with an apologetic but
dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up
his sentence--"has attracted the notice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now,
has she deserved this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this
our previous understanding?"

"I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father. "Sir
Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray
dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so
unimportant--which is not to be expected--you would recollect that my
first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining
here."

Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Leicester
is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him
through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their
report of the iron gentleman's observations.

"It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest manner before
he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter into these matters
on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever
to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many
advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--or supposes she
is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them."

Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might
have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in
support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman
had better go.

"As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion when
we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds,
"we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions, and under
present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and had
better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back
to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would
you prefer?"

"Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly--"

"By all means."

"--I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of
the incumbrance and remove her from her present position."

"And to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studied
carelessness, "so should I. Do I understand that you will take her
with you?"

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

"Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from
his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you." He
makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury,
swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce,
skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the
ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with
her near the door ready to depart.

"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her weary manner,
"and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a
very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for."

"She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little
forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at going
away."

"Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell with
some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer
to retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows
no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no
doubt."

"No doubt," is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply.

Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she
was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and that
she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Out, you silly little puss!"
says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily.
"Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!" My Lady merely waves her off
with indifference, saying, "There, there, child! You are a good girl.
Go away!" Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the
subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted
with lamps, looms in my Lady's view, bigger and blacker than before.

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause
of a few moments, "I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having
again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome
subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so
small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful of
my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly
exert my influence to take my young friend here away without
troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare say magnifying
the importance of the thing--that it was respectful to explain to you
how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and
convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the
polite world."

Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these
remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not mention it.
Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side."

"I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a last
word, revert to what I said before of my mother's long connexion with
the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I would point out
this little instance here on my arm who shows herself so affectionate
and faithful in parting and in whom my mother, I dare say, has done
something to awaken such feelings--though of course Lady Dedlock, by
her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much
more."

If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points
it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of
speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim
room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his parting
salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another
flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still
standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still
sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night
as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing
it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be! The power of
this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole
time." But he can act a part too--his one unchanging character--and
as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each
fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester's pair, should find no flaw in
him.

Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is
whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture of
the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down to dinner,
still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated
cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn
is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone YET? No. What
is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library.
Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.

But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he is
reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please to receive
him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will receive him now.
He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permission,
while she is at table. When they are alone, my Lady waves her hand to
dispense with such mockeries.

"What do you want, sir?"

"Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little
distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up
and down, up and down, "I am rather surprised by the course you have
taken."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a departure
from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new position,
Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of saying that I
don't approve of it."

He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on his
knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an
indefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not
escape this woman's observation.

"I do not quite understand you."

"Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady Dedlock,
we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this girl."

"Well, sir?"

"And you know--and I know--that you have not sent her away for the
reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her as
much as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter of
business--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself."

"Well, sir?"

"Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and
nursing the uppermost knee. "I object to that. I consider that a
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculated to
awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don't know what, in the house.
Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were to be exactly
what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident to yourself, as it
is to me, that you have been this evening very different from what
you were before. Why, bless my soul, Lady Dedlock, transparently so!"

"If, sir," she begins, "in my knowledge of my secret--" But he
interrupts her.

"Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matter of
business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longer your
secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is my secret, in
trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were your secret, Lady
Dedlock, we should not be here holding this conversation."

"That is very true. If in my knowledge of THE secret I do what I can
to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own reference
to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at Chesney
Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon a resolution I
have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in the world, could
shake it or could move me." This she says with great deliberation and
distinctness and with no more outward passion than himself. As for
him, he methodically discusses his matter of business as if she were
any insensible instrument used in business.

"Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock," he returns, "you are not to be
trusted. You have put the case in a perfectly plain way, and
according to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not
to be trusted."

"Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on this same
point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?"

"Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on the
hearth. "Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainly referred
to the girl, but that was before we came to our arrangement, and both
the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altogether precluded any
action on your part founded upon my discovery. There can be no doubt
about that. As to sparing the girl, of what importance or value is
she? Spare! Lady Dedlock, here is a family name compromised. One
might have supposed that the course was straight on--over everything,
neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of all
considerations in the way, sparing nothing, treading everything under
foot."

She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looks at
him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of her lower
lip is compressed under her teeth. "This woman understands me," Mr.
Tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again. "SHE cannot be
spared. Why should she spare others?"

For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no dinner,
but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand and drunk
it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, and reclines in it,
shading her face. There is nothing in her manner to express weakness
or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. "This
woman," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark
object closing up her view, "is a study."

He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She too
studies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak,
appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until
midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence.

"Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business interview
remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. A lady of your
sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now declaring
it void and taking my own course."

"I am quite prepared."

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to trouble you
with, Lady Dedlock."

She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, "This is the
notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you."

"Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, because
the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been observed.
But virtually the same, virtually the same. The difference is merely
in a lawyer's mind."

"You intend to give me no other notice?"

"You are right. No."

"Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night?"

"A home question!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and
cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "No, not to-night."

"To-morrow?"

"All things considered, I had better decline answering that question,
Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don't know when, exactly, you would
not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. It may be to-morrow.
I would rather say no more. You are prepared, and I hold out no
expectations which circumstances might fail to justify. I wish you
good evening."

She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks
silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open
it.

"Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were
writing in the library. Are you going to return there?"

"Only for my hat. I am going home."

She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and
curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his watch
but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. There is a
splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not
often are, for its accuracy. "And what do YOU say," Mr. Tulkinghorn
inquires, referring to it. "What do you say?"

If it said now, "Don't go home!" What a famous clock, hereafter, if
it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this
old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it,
"Don't go home!" With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters
after seven and ticks on again. "Why, you are worse than I thought
you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch. "Two
minutes wrong? At this rate you won't last my time." What a watch to
return good for evil if it ticked in answer, "Don't go home!"

He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind
him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,
difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured
up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the confidence of
the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks telegraph family
secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to
whisper, "Don't go home!"

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the roar
and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the blazing
shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on, and the
crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way, and
nothing meets him murmuring, "Don't go home!" Arrived at last in his
dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and see the
Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance in the
Roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups to
give him the late warning, "Don't come here!"

It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only
now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars are shining
as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. This woman, as
he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon them.
Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and restless.
The large rooms are too cramped and close. She cannot endure their
restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden.

Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of much
surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this woman,
loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercury attends with
the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he delivers the key into his
Lady's hands at her request and is bidden to go back. She will walk
there some time to ease her aching head. She may be an hour, she may
be more. She needs no further escort. The gate shuts upon its spring
with a clash, and he leaves her passing on into the dark shade of
some trees.

A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening and shutting
those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like yard. He
looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a bright large
moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.

A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, a solitude
and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded
places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dusty high roads
and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in
repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees
against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is
it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the
water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among
pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only
does the stillness attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick,
where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping
make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements
through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed
ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds,
rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with
the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and
on the shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread
wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only
him; but even on this stranger's wilderness of London there is some
rest. Its steeples and towers and its one great dome grow more
ethereal; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness in the pale
effulgence; the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are
softened, and the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly
away. In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the
shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their
sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them
exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a
distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.

What's that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?

The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. Some
windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It was a
loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook one house, or so
a man says who was passing. It has aroused all the dogs in the
neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamper across the
road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling--there is one dog
howling like a demon--the church-clocks, as if they were startled
too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise, seems to
swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the last clock begins
to strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased, the fine night,
the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace
again.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark and quiet,
and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeed to bring
him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen of
him. What power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old man
out of his immovable composure?

For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no
particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he has
any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always pointing--like
any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. There he is, no doubt,
in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long.
Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. There he is still, eagerly
pointing, and no one minds him.

But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the
rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not
expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up
at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that
person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one
looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.

What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber,
and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but heavily,
carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There is whispering
and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing
of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of
furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, "If
he could only tell what he saw!"

He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a
glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon after
being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain upon
the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand. These
objects lie directly within his range. An excited imagination might
suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to drive the
rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but
the clouds and flowers and pillars too--in short, the very body and
soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has--stark mad. It happens
surely that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at
these things looks up at the Roman and that he is invested in all
eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.

So it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly
stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be
covered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing from the
ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him,
with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn's
time, and with a deadly meaning. For Mr. Tulkinghorn's time is over
for evermore, and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted
against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to
morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.

OK, things are starting to happen hard and fast now, people. Lady Dedlock is talking to Rosa. She's always very sweet and maternal to her, since Rosa is kind of a replacement Esther. Rosa loves Lady Dedlock too. Lady Dedlock tells Rosa that she's going to send her away, and that this is for the best. Rosa protests, but she's kind of a weakling and goes along to get along. Lady Dedlock then goes to see Sir Dedlock, but he's in with Tulkinghorn. She announces that she's sending Rosa away up north to go to Mr. Rouncewell's school. In fact, Mr. Rouncewell is coming that afternoon to discuss it. Mr. Rouncewell arrives and exchanges some tense words with Sir Dedlock. In any case, the situation is settled, and Rosa is all set to go that very night. Tulkinghorn comes to see Lady Dedlock that evening. As usual, he's calm, threatening, and borderline sociopathic all at the same time. Basically he tells her that all bets are off now, since by sending away her maid she is reneging on the agreement to proceed as though nothing were wrong. She's all, what's the problem with sending away my maid? But Tulkinghorn thinks it looks suspicious that she's suddenly getting rid of this maid that she loves so much. Shmoop kind of thinks Tulkinghorn was just waiting for any excuse. This one seems kind of flimsy. In any case, he says he won't tell Sir Dedlock that night and instead goes home. Lady Dedlock decides to go out for a walk alone. Suddenly a shot is heard in Tulkinghorn's neighborhood. The next morning, the cleaning people find Tulkinghorn...dead in a pool of blood! Above him there is a painting of a guy in a toga pointing a finger. Usually he's pointing at nothing, but now he points at the corpse. Yowza!

In the peril of her life, Lady Dedlock is resolved never to yield or droop. She continues to appear, as before, in high society and arranges for Rosa to leave. This latter action surprises and dismays Tulkinghorn, and he tells Lady Dedlock that their agreement is no longer in force. He will not, he says, reveal her secret past to Sir Leicester tonight, but he feels free to inform him at any time after this. Just before ten o'clock the same night, Tulkinghorn is found dead; he has been "shot through the heart." In the peril of her life, Lady Dedlock is resolved never to yield or droop. She continues to appear, as before, in high society and arranges for Rosa to leave. This latter action surprises and dismays Tulkinghorn, and he tells Lady Dedlock that their agreement is no longer in force. He will not, he says, reveal her secret past to Sir Leicester tonight, but he feels free to inform him at any time after this. Just before ten o'clock the same night, Tulkinghorn is found dead; he has been "shot through the heart."

Without a confidant or a confessor, lonely Lady Dedlock nevertheless continues to show admirable strength of character. The demise of the vicious Tulkinghorn balances that of the likable Jo and provides some much-needed relief from what seems, through the book thus far, an almost uninterrupted triumph of gloom, trouble, and bad ends. Of course, the lawyer's death immediately causes the story to become, in part, a "murder mystery."

"Closing in" The narrator says that the Dedlocks are in their London home, and that Lady Dedlock is, as usual, still much revered and the center of attention. Tulkinghorn doesn't reveal her secret, and no one suspects he has any power over her. Meanwhile, Lady Dedlock has decided to disregard their agreement and take action of her own. She tells Rosa that it's time for her to leave. Rosa is distraught, but Lady Dedlock has already arranged for Mr. Rouncewell to pick her up. She goes to tell Sir Leicester that she has dismissed Rosa; Tulkinghorn is with him, and she tells him to stay. When Mr. Rouncewell arrives, Lady Dedlock announces to him that she has decided Rosa must leave her. He agrees to take Rosa with him. Rosa comes in, upset, and Lady Dedlock coldly says goodbye to her. Later, Tulkinghorn speaks to Lady Dedlock alone and tells her she has violated their agreement. He thinks getting rid of Rosa will raise suspicions. He says that Lady Dedlock's secret is actually his secret, since he has taken it on to protect Sir Leicester and his family. Lady Dedlock says she wanted to protect Rosa. Tulkinghorn says he will now proceed of his own accord and that she will receive no other notice of what he will do. She asks him when he will tell Sir Leicester, but he won't give her a specific answer. He leaves. The narrator says that Lady Dedlock goes walking in the garden alone that night. Meanwhile, Tulkinghorn is at home. The narrator describes the nighttime scene, then suddenly asks, "What's that. A gunshot has been heard. The narrator says that Tulkinghorn doesn't go to the window to investigate. He says that the painted Roman on the ceiling, which has always been pointing aimlessly, is now pointing at Tulkinghorn's dead body--he has been shot through the heart

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

Closing In At the Dedlock mansion in London, Lady Dedlock calls Rosa to her. Only around Rosa is she herself, and she assures the girl of her love. She explains that she has to place confidence in the young woman and asks her to keep the secret. She is going to send her away to her lover, and it will give her pain, but she does it for her own good. She explains that Mr. Rouncewell is on his way to take her with him. In the library, she goes to tell Sir Leicester of Rosa's departure, but Tulkinghorn is there. She announces her intentions boldly, and when Mr. Rouncewell comes, he agrees to take Rosa with him. She says the girl has done nothing wrong but is in love, and so she wants her out of the house. Rosa cries but goes. Afterwards, Tulkinghorn and Lady Dedlock have a talk. He is amazed at her strength; she is equal to him in her resolve. He says that their agreement is broken because he had told her not to protect Rosa. She asks if this is the warning he said he would give, and he says yes, but does not make it clear when he will expose her. As soon as Tulkinghorn walks home, Lady Dedlock goes out alone for air. In Tulkinghorn's house there is a shot fired. The figure of Allegory on the ceiling points to his dead body in a pool of blood.

Commentary on Chapter XLVIII This chapter is set up to make it look like Lady Dedlock murdered Tulkinghorn. When she sees him, she wishes he were out of the way. He has been dogging her steps. The lawyer is clearly surprised that this mere woman is challenging him. He thinks, "The power of this woman is astonishing" and that "This woman understands me . . . She cannot be spared. Why should she spare others?" . The woman is his equal in determination, yet she has pity for another and puts herself in jeopardy for the sake of Rosa's happiness. He could not gauge her strength for the very reason that she is nobler than he is and has a mother's strength to protect. He only understands the base emotions. It is clear Lady Dedlock has some desperate plan, but one wonders if she has been driven to murder.