National and Domestic

England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord Coodle
would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come in, and there being
nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle, there
has been no government. It is a mercy that the hostile meeting
between those two great men, which at one time seemed inevitable, did
not come off, because if both pistols had taken effect, and Coodle
and Doodle had killed each other, it is to be presumed that England
must have waited to be governed until young Coodle and young Doodle,
now in frocks and long stockings, were grown up. This stupendous
national calamity, however, was averted by Lord Coodle's making the
timely discovery that if in the heat of debate he had said that he
scorned and despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas Doodle,
he had merely meant to say that party differences should never induce
him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration; while
it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand, that Sir Thomas
Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked Lord Coodle to go down
to posterity as the mirror of virtue and honour. Still England has
been some weeks in the dismal strait of having no pilot (as was well
observed by Sir Leicester Dedlock) to weather the storm; and the
marvellous part of the matter is that England has not appeared to
care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking and
marrying and giving in marriage as the old world did in the days
before the flood. But Coodle knew the danger, and Doodle knew the
danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the clearest
possible perception of the danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not
only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in
with him all his nephews, all his male cousins, and all his
brothers-in-law. So there is hope for the old ship yet.

Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country, chiefly
in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this metamorphosed state he is
available in a good many places simultaneously and can throw himself
upon a considerable portion of the country at one time. Britannia
being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the form of sovereigns,
and swallowing Doodle in the form of beer, and in swearing herself
black in the face that she does neither--plainly to the advancement
of her glory and morality--the London season comes to a sudden end,
through all the Doodleites and Coodleites dispersing to assist
Britannia in those religious exercises.

Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees, though
no instructions have yet come down, that the family may shortly be
expected, together with a pretty large accession of cousins and
others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work. And
hence the stately old dame, taking Time by the forelock, leads him up
and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and
through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that
everything is ready, that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread,
curtains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen
cleared for action--all things prepared as beseems the Dedlock
dignity.

This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations
are complete. Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so many
appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the pictured
forms upon the walls. So did these come and go, a Dedlock in
possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they see this
gallery hushed and quiet, as I see it now; so think, as I think, of
the gap that they would make in this domain when they were gone; so
find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that it could be without
them; so pass from my world, as I pass from theirs, now closing the
reverberating door; so leave no blank to miss them, and so die.

Through some of the fiery windows beautiful from without, and set, at
this sunset hour, not in dull-grey stone but in a glorious house of
gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in rich, lavish,
overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do the frozen
Dedlocks thaw. Strange movements come upon their features as the
shadows of leaves play there. A dense justice in a corner is beguiled
into a wink. A staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets a dimple in
his chin. Down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a
fleck of light and warmth that would have done it good a hundred
years ago. One ancestress of Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very
like her--casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two
centuries--shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. A maid of
honour of the court of Charles the Second, with large round eyes (and
other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water, and it
ripples as it glows.

But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, and
shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down like age
and death. And now, upon my Lady's picture over the great
chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it
pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or
hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher and darker
rises shadow on the wall--now a red gloom on the ceiling--now the
fire is out.

All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has moved
solemnly away and changed--not the first nor the last of beautiful
things that look so near and will so change--into a distant phantom.
Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweet scents in the
garden are heavy in the air. Now the woods settle into great masses
as if they were each one profound tree. And now the moon rises to
separate them, and to glimmer here and there in horizontal lines
behind their stems, and to make the avenue a pavement of light among
high cathedral arches fantastically broken.

Now the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation more
than ever, is like a body without life. Now it is even awful,
stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in
the solitary bedrooms, to say nothing of the dead. Now is the time
for shadow, when every corner is a cavern and every downward step a
pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon
the floors, when anything and everything can be made of the heavy
staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when the armour
has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from stealthy
movement, and when barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads
inside. But of all the shadows in Chesney Wold, the shadow in the
long drawing-room upon my Lady's picture is the first to come, the
last to be disturbed. At this hour and by this light it changes into
threatening hands raised up and menacing the handsome face with every
breath that stirs.

"She is not well, ma'am," says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell's
audience-chamber.

"My Lady not well! What's the matter?"

"Why, my Lady has been but poorly, ma'am, since she was last here--I
don't mean with the family, ma'am, but when she was here as a bird of
passage like. My Lady has not been out much, for her, and has kept
her room a good deal."

"Chesney Wold, Thomas," rejoins the housekeeper with proud
complacency, "will set my Lady up! There is no finer air and no
healthier soil in the world!"

Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject, probably
hints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the nape of
his neck to his temples, but he forbears to express them further and
retires to the servants' hall to regale on cold meat-pie and ale.

This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next evening,
down come Sir Leicester and my Lady with their largest retinue, and
down come the cousins and others from all the points of the compass.
Thenceforth for some weeks backward and forward rush mysterious men
with no names, who fly about all those particular parts of the
country on which Doodle is at present throwing himself in an
auriferous and malty shower, but who are merely persons of a restless
disposition and never do anything anywhere.

On these national occasions Sir Leicester finds the cousins useful. A
better man than the Honourable Bob Stables to meet the Hunt at
dinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up gentlemen than the
other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings here and
there, and show themselves on the side of England, it would be hard
to find. Volumnia is a little dim, but she is of the true descent;
and there are many who appreciate her sprightly conversation, her
French conundrums so old as to have become in the cycles of time
almost new again, the honour of taking the fair Dedlock in to dinner,
or even the privilege of her hand in the dance. On these national
occasions dancing may be a patriotic service, and Volumnia is
constantly seen hopping about for the good of an ungrateful and
unpensioning country.

My Lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, and
being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. But at all
the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other
melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to Sir
Leicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be
wanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune to be
received under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfaction, he
moves among the company, a magnificent refrigerator.

Daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf,
away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and
hunting-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for
the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir Leicester
holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have no
occupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy. Daily
Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester on the state
of the nation, from which Sir Leicester is disposed to conclude that
Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had thought her.

"How are we getting on?" says Miss Volumnia, clasping her hands. "ARE
we safe?"

The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will
throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester has
just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright
particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.

"Volumnia," replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand, "we
are doing tolerably."

"Only tolerably!"

Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his own
particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seat near
it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who
should say, I am not a common man, and when I say tolerably, it must
not be understood as a common expression, "Volumnia, we are doing
tolerably."

"At least there is no opposition to YOU," Volumnia asserts with
confidence.

"No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in many
respects, I grieve to say, but--"

"It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it!"

Volumnia's finishing the sentence restores her to favour. Sir
Leicester, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to
himself, "A sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally
precipitate."

In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Dedlock's
observation was superfluous, Sir Leicester on these occasions always
delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome wholesale
order to be promptly executed. Two other little seats that belong to
him he treats as retail orders of less importance, merely sending
down the men and signifying to the tradespeople, "You will have the
goodness to make these materials into two members of Parliament and
to send them home when done."

"I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people have shown
a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government has been of
a most determined and most implacable description."

"W-r-retches!" says Volumnia.

"Even," proceeds Sir Leicester, glancing at the circumjacent cousins
on sofas and ottomans, "even in many--in fact, in most--of those
places in which the government has carried it against a faction--"

(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction with the
Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the same position
towards the Coodleites.)

"--Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, to be
constrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed without
being put to an enormous expense. Hundreds," says Sir Leicester,
eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling indignation,
"hundreds of thousands of pounds!"

If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too
innocent, seeing that the innocence which would go extremely well
with a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rouge and
pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks, "What for?"

"Volumnia," remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity.
"Volumnia!"

"No, no, I don't mean what for," cries Volumnia with her favourite
little scream. "How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!"

"I am glad," returns Sir Leicester, "that you do mean what a pity."

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people
ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.

"I am glad, Volumnia," repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of these
mollifying sentiments, "that you do mean what a pity. It is
disgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently and
without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me 'what for?'
let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust to your good
sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or elsewhere."

Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect
towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these necessary
expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be
unpleasantly connected with the word bribery, and because some
graceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from the
Church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the High
Court of Parliament and have recommended instead that the prayers of
the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight
gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.

"I suppose," observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to recover
her spirits after her late castigation, "I suppose Mr. Tulkinghorn
has been worked to death."

"I don't know," says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, "why Mr.
Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don't know what Mr.
Tulkinghorn's engagements may be. He is not a candidate."

Volumnia had thought he might have been employed. Sir Leicester could
desire to know by whom, and what for. Volumnia, abashed again,
suggests, by somebody--to advise and make arrangements. Sir Leicester
is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has been in need of
his assistance.

Lady Dedlock, seated at an open window with her arm upon its
cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the
park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer's name was mentioned.

A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility now
observes from his couch that man told him ya'as'dy that Tulkinghorn
had gone down t' that iron place t' give legal 'pinion 'bout
something, and that contest being over t' day, 'twould be highly
jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should 'pear with news that Coodle man
was floored.

Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicester, hereupon,
that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. My Lady turns
her head inward for the moment, then looks out again as before.

Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. He is so
original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing
all sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuaded
that he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head of a lodge,
and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of with
candlesticks and trowels. These lively remarks the fair Dedlock
delivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse.

"He has not been here once," she adds, "since I came. I really had
some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature. I had
almost made up my mind that he was dead."

It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darker
gloom within herself, but a shade is on my Lady's face, as if she
thought, "I would he were!"

"Mr. Tulkinghorn," says Sir Leicester, "is always welcome here and
always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, and
deservedly respected."

The debilitated cousin supposes he is "'normously rich fler."

"He has a stake in the country," says Sir Leicester, "I have no
doubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost on
a footing of equality with the highest society."

Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by.

"Good gracious, what's that?" cries Volumnia with her little withered
scream.

"A rat," says my Lady. "And they have shot him."

Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and candles.

"No, no," says Sir Leicester, "I think not. My Lady, do you object to
the twilight?"

On the contrary, my Lady prefers it.

"Volumnia?"

Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the
dark.

"Then take them away," says Sir Leicester. "Tulkinghorn, I beg your
pardon. How do you do?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his
passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand, and subsides
into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate, on
the opposite side of the Baronet's little newspaper-table. Sir
Leicester is apprehensive that my Lady, not being very well, will
take cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to him, but would
rather sit there for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf
about her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile
takes a pinch of snuff.

"Now," says Sir Leicester. "How has that contest gone?"

"Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have brought in
both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. Three to one."

It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have no
political opinions; indeed, NO opinions. Therefore he says "you" are
beaten, and not "we."

Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of such a
thing. 'The debilitated cousin holds that it's sort of thing that's
sure tapn slongs votes--giv'n--Mob.

"It's the place, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in the
fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, "where they
wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son."

"A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had
the becoming taste and perception," observes Sir Leicester, "to
decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the sentiments
expressed by Mr. Rouncewell when he was here for some half-hour in
this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his decision which I
am glad to acknowledge."

"Ha!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It did not prevent him from being very
active in this election, though."

Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. "Did I
understand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been very active
in this election?"

"Uncommonly active."

"Against--"

"Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In the
business part of the proceedings he carried all before him."

It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, that
Sir Leicester is staring majestically.

"And he was much assisted," says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up, "by
his son."

"By his son, sir?" repeats Sir Leicester with awful politeness.

"By his son."

"The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady's service?"

"That son. He has but one."

"Then upon my honour," says Sir Leicester after a terrific pause
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, "then
upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles,
the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters
have--a--obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion
by which things are held together!"

General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is
really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in
and do something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks--country's
going--Dayvle--steeple-chase pace.

"I beg," says Sir Leicester in a breathless condition, "that we may
not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superfluous. My
Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman--"

"I have no intention," observes my Lady from her window in a low but
decided tone, "of parting with her."

"That was not my meaning," returns Sir Leicester. "I am glad to hear
you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of your
patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these
dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be done in
such association to her duties and principles, and you might preserve
her for a better fate. You might point out to her that she probably
would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would
not be--" Sir Leicester adds, after a moment's consideration,
"dragged from the altars of her forefathers."

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference
when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head in
reply. The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little
stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.

"It is worthy of remark," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "however, that these
people are, in their way, very proud."

"Proud?" Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.

"I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the
girl--yes, lover and all--instead of her abandoning them, supposing
she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances."

"Well!" says Sir Leicester tremulously. "Well! You should know, Mr.
Tulkinghorn. You have been among them."

"Really, Sir Leicester," returns the lawyer, "I state the fact. Why,
I could tell you a story--with Lady Dedlock's permission."

Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Oh, he is
going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?

"No. Real flesh and blood." Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant and
repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual monotony,
"Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester, these particulars
have only lately become known to me. They are very brief. They
exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for the present. Lady
Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?"

By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking
towards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock can be
seen, perfectly still.

"A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter
who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really a great
lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of your
condition, Sir Leicester."

Sir Leicester condescendingly says, "Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn," implying
that then she must have appeared of very considerable moral
dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master.

"The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl,
and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.
Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she
had preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life been
engaged to marry a young rake--he was a captain in the army--nothing
connected with whom came to any good. She never did marry him, but
she gave birth to a child of which he was the father."

By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the
moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile,
perfectly still.

"The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but a
train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to
discovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on
her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows how
difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be
always guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement, you
may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, the husband's
grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr. Rouncewell's
townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be
patronized and honoured than he would have suffered her to be trodden
underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride, that he indignantly
took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace. He had no sense of
the honour done him and his daughter by the lady's condescension; not
the least. He resented the girl's position, as if the lady had been
the commonest of commoners. That is the story. I hope Lady Dedlock
will excuse its painful nature."

There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting
with Volumnia's. That fair young creature cannot believe there ever
was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the threshold. The
majority incline to the debilitated cousin's sentiment, which is in
few words--"no business--Rouncewell's fernal townsman." Sir Leicester
generally refers back in his mind to Wat Tyler and arranges a
sequence of events on a plan of his own.

There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been kept
at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and
this is the first night in many on which the family have been alone.
It is past ten when Sir Leicester begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to ring for
candles. Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into a lake, and
then Lady Dedlock for the first time moves, and rises, and comes
forward to a table for a glass of water. Winking cousins, bat-like in
the candle glare, crowd round to give it; Volumnia (always ready for
something better if procurable) takes another, a very mild sip of
which contents her; Lady Dedlock, graceful, self-possessed, looked
after by admiring eyes, passes away slowly down the long perspective
by the side of that nymph, not at all improving her as a question of
contrast.

Chapter 40 concerns itself with the Parliamentary elections, which appear to be going more towards Mr. Rouncewell the ironmaster's way rather than Sir Leicester Dedlock's way. Cousin Volumnia, clumsily, tries to provide encouragement. Tulkinghorn is present, and with an sadistic turn of mind decides to tell a story, without names, exactly paralleling the sad story of Esther, Lady Dedlock, and Captain Hawdon. As an added twist of the knife, Tulkinhorn adds, obliquely, the element that Lady Dedlock's pretty maid, Rosa, is being morally corrupted by being near her. Volumnnia is certain such a lady doesn't exist, and Sir Leicester seems uninterested. Lady Dedlock knows that she is completely in Tulkinghorn's power now. It is later in the day when, in Chapter 41, Lady Dedlock confronts Tulkinghorn in his own room. She wants to know why Tulkinghorn would choose to tell the story publicly, and with her husband in the room. This was just Tulkinghorn's way of letting her know that he knew all. What transpires next is an intense scene between the two, where Lady Dedlock threatens to leave Chesney Wold immediately with only the clothes on her back and a little money. Tulkinghorn, surprisingly, now shows that he does have some human feeling, if only for Sir Leicester's reputation rather than for Lady Dedlock's feelings. He does not wish to have Sir Leicester exposed -- at least not at this time. He will hold the secret over his lady's head, but he promises that he will tell her beforehand should he decide to reveal it

The incredibly taut scene of Tulkinghorn telling Lady Dedlock's story to a room of her family and guests shows the nearly superhuman amount of self-control that Lady Dedlock has, and the nearly subhuman amount of humanity that Tulkinghorn has.  He verbally tortures her, in front of the most sensitive of witnesses, apparently out of the joy of hurting her.  He delights in secrets, and the power they give him over others.  He has proved to be a misogynist, being unmarried himself: we recall his thoughts earlier in the novel that women cause most of the trouble in the world, but also make a lot of business for lawyers. It really seems as if this might be the end for Lady Dedlock -- she is so determined to leave on the night of Tulkinghorn's revelation, and only the thought of hurting Sir Leicester so dreadfully keeps her back.  She is getting to the point where she has less and less to lose, which makes her dangerous. The equally sub-human Hortense arrives and demands retribution from Tulkinghorn, only to be rebuffed.  She is seen as most tenacious and single-minded woman, who hates her former mistress and can only obtain employment for herself by squeezing others.  Snagsby seems to be quite victimized by her. Dickens stars throwing clues around willy-nilly at this point.  Both Lady Dedlock and Hortense have reason to want Tulkinghorn dead, but does Sir Leicester actually know the secret, too?  Tulkinghorn's death is foreshadowed, but it is still done skillfully enough to be unexpected. There is a sharp satire of British political parties at the beginning of Chapter 42, which doesn't really add anything to the story.  Like the call for legal reform that echoes throughout Bleak House, the sense in this political debate that the old, corrupted system might be giving way to a more enlightened and effective reform system resonates with the social, political, economic critique at the heart of the novel.

Lots of doings at Chesney Wold. Lady Dedlock is sick; she hasn't been feeling well for some time. Sir Dedlock is a Member of Parliament, with a pretty solidly uncontested seat. His conservative party, however, is in some trouble in the elections. They are spending a lot of time, energy, and money to try to get their candidates elected. But no luck, regardless of how they try to bribe the voters. All the Dedlock cousins are helping out...or at least hanging around pretending to help out. Volumnia is scandalized that anyone would consider voting for a candidate from the reform movement. Sir Dedlock is happy to hear her say that and immediately likes her better for it. Their conversation kind of goes back and forth about how the country is going to hell in a hand-basket because people are interested in candidates like Mr. Rouncewell, the Ironmaster. Tulkinghorn comes in. He tells Sir Dedlock about some bad election results. It seems that, although Mr. Rouncewell didn't actually run for a seat himself, he did campaign against Sir Dedlock and his candidate, helped by his son Watt, and together they managed to influence the election. Sir Dedlock is totally furious. He asks Lady Dedlock to keep Rosa as far away from these people as possible. She answers that she has no desire to get rid of her. Tulkinghorn then says he has a story to tell them. Check this out: he says that in the village of the election there was a beautiful young girl who became a favorite of a lady of high society. But the lady had a terrible secret - when she was young she gave birth to a baby out of wedlock. Although the father was dead, the secret came out anyway. And the young beautiful woman was forever tainted by being associated with this grand lady. Wow. That sounds a lot like the plot of the novel, no? Tulkinghorn is a master of the threat. Lady Dedlock displays no reaction to the story. She takes a sip of water and goes to bed.

Toward the end of the elections, the guests and distant relatives of Sir Leicester arrive at Chesney Wold, where Mrs. Rouncewell has been preparing for them. Although Volumnia is sure that the election has gone Sir Leicester's way, Mr. Tulkinghorn dispels that illusion, announcing that the vote heavily favored the party of Mr. Rouncewell and his son. Tulkinghorn then does something to try to disconcert Lady Dedlock; without using names, he tells Sir Leicester the story of Esther, Captain Hawdon, and Lady Dedlock. Lady Dedlock shows no signs of being more than casually interested in this narrative. Toward the end of the elections, the guests and distant relatives of Sir Leicester arrive at Chesney Wold, where Mrs. Rouncewell has been preparing for them. Although Volumnia is sure that the election has gone Sir Leicester's way, Mr. Tulkinghorn dispels that illusion, announcing that the vote heavily favored the party of Mr. Rouncewell and his son. Tulkinghorn then does something to try to disconcert Lady Dedlock; without using names, he tells Sir Leicester the story of Esther, Captain Hawdon, and Lady Dedlock. Lady Dedlock shows no signs of being more than casually interested in this narrative.

In its descriptions of the changing tones and moods of the Dedlock mansion as the day moves toward night, this chapter shows Dickens as a master of pictorial art. The satire of British party politics is not closely related to either the plot or the main themes, but it is rich and amusing. In his verbal torture of Lady Dedlock, Tulkinghorn's viciousness continues to manifest itself. The lady's self-control raises her in the reader's esteem.

"National and Domestic" The narrator discusses the state of England, which is in disarray. Mrs. Rouncewell suspects that the family may be needed, and she prepares Chesney Wold accordingly. But the house seems dismal. A groom tells Mrs. Rouncewell that Lady Dedlock is not well. She and Sir Leicester and a large group of people go to Chesney Wold the next day; people come and go from the house constantly for the next several weeks. Each day, Volumnia asks Sir Leicester how the country is doing, and Sir Leicester says "tolerably" and that people are opposed to the government. He says that the party has incurred great expenses. Volumnia observes that Tulkinghorn must be very busy, but Sir Leicester says he doesn't know of Tulkinghorn's helping any clients. A servant named Mercury says that Tulkinghorn has arrived at Chesney Wold. He appears in the room and tells Sir Leicester that he has lost the election. Tulkinghorn says that Mr. Rouncewell was involved in this election and was running against Sir Leicester, aided by his son, who is in love with Rosa. Sir Leicester is enraged. He suggests that Lady Dedlock advise Rosa to stay away from the boy. Tulkinghorn says that the boy will likely leave Rosa instead, since the family has too much pride. Tulkinghorn then tells a story: He has learned that a man of similar social standing from the same town as Mr. Rouncewell had a daughter that was favored by an aristocratic woman. This woman had a secret: she had once been engaged to a captain and had an illegitimate child. The captain died, but the woman's secret was discovered because she made an impudent mistake. Her husband was devastated, and the townsman forbade his daughter from spending any more time with the woman. He took his daughter away. Throughout this tale, Lady Dedlock has sat very still. Tulkinghorn asks her forgiveness for the painfulness of the story

When Esther looks at herself in the mirror and sees her scarred face for the first time, she reveals her vulnerability more than at any other point in the novel. Never one to indulge in self-pity, she plainly observes that even though she had never been beautiful, what little beauty she had is now gone completely. The simplicity of her statement--"It was all gone now"--is characteristic of Esther's clear, direct narrative style, but it also reveals how deeply she feels the loss. No matter how fond others are of her, no amount of affection, love, or respect can alter the fact that her face has been ruined. Although she goes on once again to count her blessings and get over her sadness determinedly, this plain statement suggests that there is great pain beneath Esther's relentless cheerfulness. Her decision to keep Mr. Woodcourt's flowers also suggests the depth of her sadness. Although she claims to be fully content with her lot in life, she keeps the flowers to remind her of how she used to look. She may go on with her life uncomplainingly, but she does not go on without a secret reserve of regret. The revelatory confrontation between Lady Dedlock and Esther brings a secret to the surface, but their brief encounter focuses on the necessity of protecting that secret still further. Esther divines Lady Dedlock's secret as soon as she sees the handkerchief and, like Lady Dedlock, is overcome with violent emotion. Their happiness at finding each other is brief, and the overarching tone of this encounter is fearful. Esther is unsettled to see Lady Dedlock at her feet, asking her forgiveness. Lady Dedlock is newly consumed by her own guilt, referring to the "dark road" she must follow and declaring herself to be "wretched and dishonoring." Lady Dedlock's fear of being discovered overshadows any happiness or relief she may feel at finally revealing her secret. She has just connected with the daughter she thought was dead, and yet she asserts that they can never meet or talk again. She is almost looking over her shoulder as they speak, and she and Esther conspire about who suspects their relationship. Both vow to keep the secret at all costs, and while they can't pursue a public relationship, this secret binds them together. The narrator's scathing portrayal of Mr. Vholes in chapter 38 indicts the legal system as a self-perpetuating waste and lawyers as cannibals. The narrator draws an analogy that directly connects Vholes and his family to "cannibal chiefs" and says, "Make man-eating un-lawful, and you starve the Vholeses!" The endless Jarndyce and Jarndyce lawsuit is a dream job for Vholes, since the case will never end and Vholes can extract money from Richard indefinitely. The narrator is not subtle in his descriptions, leaving no question that Vholes is immoral, untrustworthy, and dangerous. These views are underscored by the narrator's repetition of the statement, "Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man." The more we know about Vholes, the more sarcastic this statement becomes. Because of men like Vholes, the legal system has ceased to serve the people and instead serves only the scheming lawyers who want to make themselves rich.

National and Domestic It is election time in England, and feelings run high. Towards the end of this particular election, Sir Leicester gathers his guests and innumerable cousins at Chesney Wold, where they all comment on how the country is going down, but at least there is no fear for Sir Leicester and the two other seats that belong to him. Cousin Volumnia flatters Sir Leicester and reassures him he has won. Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives with the information that the vote supported the opposition party of Mr. Rouncewell and his son. Sir Leicester is doubly angry, that he lost, and that Mr. Rouncewell campaigned against him. His son is the one who wants to marry Rosa, the maid. Lady Dedlock has not been well since her meeting with Esther and has kept apart from the company. Now, in front of the assembled guests Tulkinghorn tortures Lady Dedlock by telling her story in a disguised form as someone else's. He hints that she will not be able to keep her maid once the scandal is out, and Rosa's life will be ruined, for the Rouncewells will not want her back.

Commentary on Chapter XL This chapter is called "National and Domestic" and ties together the Dedlock story and the story of England. The upper classes are losing power. Rouncewell's party represents reform, and Sir Leicester represents the conservative force. When the upstarts win, Sir Leicester observes, "the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have . . . obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which things are held together" . Sir Leicester is used to treating his pocket boroughs as "retail orders" that will be made up according to his wishes. The reform party is abolishing such abuses. Unlike the Honourable Bob Stables, the Dedlock cousin who wants a government post with no work, the Rouncewells of the country want to be active in government, making big changes. Sir Leicester rightly perceives that times are different, and his ancient name no longer protects him. In Dickens's symbolic style, he begins the chapter setting the theme of the downfall of the Dedlocks, with the setting sun, creating shadow over the great portraits in the hall, especially Lady Dedlock's portrait. The full cruelty of Tulkinghorn is revealed in his mental torture of Lady Dedlock. He plays his cards to the whole room, letting her know she is in his power. He also threatens her favorite, Rosa, who has become a surrogate daughter to replace Esther.


In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers

From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Dedlock
property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and
dust of London. His manner of coming and going between the two places
is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney Wold as if it
were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers as if he
had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neither changes his
dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards. He melted out of
his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he
melts into his own square.

Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant
fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into
wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded,
dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without
experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest
in holes and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its
broader and better range, comes sauntering home. In the oven made by
the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than
usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his mellowed port-wine half a
century old.

The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields when that high-priest of noble
mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the
door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on
the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.

"Is that Snagsby?"

"Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up, sir,
and going home."

"Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?"

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his
head in his deference towards his best customer, "I was wishful to
say a word to you, sir."

"Can you say it here?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing
at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the
court-yard.

"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "it is
relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner,
sir!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "What foreigner?"

"The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am not
acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her
manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly
foreign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the
honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night."

"Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense."

"Indeed, sir?" Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his
hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in
general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that." Mr. Snagsby appears
to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating
the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.

"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulkinghorn,
"about her?"

"Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication with
his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is
very great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure--but
my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too fine a
point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a
foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and
hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strong expression if
I could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court--you know it
is--now ain't it? I only put it to yourself, sir."

Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in a
cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.

"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel it
yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when
coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see, the
foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, with quite a
native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby that night, being
uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direction and come at
dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and
she, taking fright at the foreigner's looks--which are fierce--and at
a grinding manner that she has of speaking--which is calculated to
alarm a weak mind--gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it,
and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such
fits as I do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in
any house but ours. Consequently there was by good fortune ample
occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. When
she DID say that Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his
employer (which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of
viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually
calling at my place until she was let in here. Since then she has
been, as I began by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--Mr. Snagsby
repeats the word with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. The effects
of which movement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn't wonder
if it might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even
in the neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was
possible) my little woman. Whereas, goodness knows," says Mr.
Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreign female,
except as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms and a baby,
or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings. I never had, I
do assure you, sir!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires
when the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?"

"Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a cough
that plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me."

"I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unless she
is mad," says the lawyer.

"Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it wouldn't be
a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a foreign
dagger planted in the family."

"No," says the other. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. I am sorry
you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send her here."

Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takes
his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying
to himself, "These women were created to give trouble the whole earth
over. The mistress not being enough to deal with, here's the maid
now! But I will be short with THIS jade at least!"

So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky rooms,
lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to see much
of the Allegory overhead there, but that importunate Roman, who is
for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old work
pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention, Mr.
Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer in
which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in which there is
another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which he prepares to
descend to the regions of old wine. He is going towards the door with
a candle in his hand when a knock comes.

"Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at a
good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you want?"

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall and
taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of
welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with her
lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly
closes the door before replying.

"I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir."

"HAVE you!"

"I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me, he
is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for
you."

"Quite right, and quite true."

"Not true. Lies!"

At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle Hortense
so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject
involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's case at
present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes almost shut up
(but still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and
shaking her head.

"Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the
chimney-piece. "If you have anything to say, say it, say it."

"Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby."

"Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with the
key.

"Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have
attrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have asked me
to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night, you
have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it not?"
Mademoiselle Hortense makes another spring.

"You are a vixen, a vixen!" Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as he
looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "Well, wench, well. I
paid you."

"You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! I
have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them
from me!" Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom as
she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor that
they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into corners
and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.

"Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again.
"You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains
herself with a sarcastic laugh.

"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to throw
money about in that way!"

"I AM rich," she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate my Lady, of
all my heart. You know that."

"Know it? How should I know it?"

"Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you
that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was
en-r-r-r-raged!" It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll the
letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she
assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and
setting all her teeth.

"Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wards
of the key.

"Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me because
you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her." Mademoiselle Hortense folds her
arms and throws this last remark at him over one of her shoulders.

"Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?"

"I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If you
cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her, to
chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well,
and with a good will. It is what YOU do. Do I not know that?"

"You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.

"Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, that
I come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy only to decide a
little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!" In this reply, down to the
word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and
tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant
scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly
shut and staringly wide open.

"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the
key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands."

"Ah! Let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight
nods of her head.

"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have
just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again."

"And again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. "And
yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!"

"And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Snagsby's too, perhaps?
That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?"

"And again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination.
"And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for
ever!"

"Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to take
the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will find it
behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder."

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground
with folded arms.

"You will not, eh?"

"No, I will not!"

"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress, this
is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of
prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction
(where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very
strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of
your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one
of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you
think?"

"I think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear,
obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."

"Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. "But I
don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of the
prison."

"Nothing. What does it matter to me?"

"Why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately
putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; "the law is so
despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good English
citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits against his
desire. And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold
of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard
discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress." Illustrating with the
cellar-key.

"Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That is
droll! But--my faith!--still what does it matter to me?"

"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, or
at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn."

"In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of
agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish
expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make
her do it.

"In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be
unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or
there--again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is
great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an
ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench."

"I will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand,
"I will try if you dare to do it!"

"And if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "I place you in
that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time
before you find yourself at liberty again."

"I will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.

"And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had
better go. Think twice before you come here again."

"Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!"

"You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn
observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most
implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and
take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and what I
threaten, I will do, mistress."

She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she is
gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle,
devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents, now and
then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the
pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.

Chapter 42 brings Tulkinghorn back to London, where he converses with Snagsby. Mr. Snagsby has been harassed by the discarded maid, Mademoiselle Hortense, who tries desperately to contact Tulkinghorn. Hortense is resentful of Tulkinghorn, because he used her to gain information through Jo by the ruse of dressing in Hortense's clothing. She has not been given any consideration of a new position, though he had told her he would do so. He goes back on his promise and threatens Hortense with jail. The woman leaves, vowing to hound Tulkinghorn forever

Tulkinghorn leaves Chesney Wold and goes back to his office in London. There he finds Snagsby, who is all worried and flummoxed and generally in a state of confusion and bewilderment. He tells Tulkinghorn that Hortense has been lurking around the neighborhood. Somehow she got Snagsby's name and now she's constantly coming into his shop. This is unpleasant in and of itself, but even more so because of Mrs. Snagsby's suspicions and jealousy. Tulkinghorn tells Snagsby to send Hortense to him next time he sees her and promises to get rid of her. What do you know - she comes to the office five minutes later. She is totally furious - like, teeth-gnashingly so. It's hard to know what she's so angry about, but mostly it seems to be because Tulkinghorn never found her a job. She promises that if he does, she'll do whatever he wants to bring Lady Dedlock down. Tulkinghorn is feeling just a little threatened by her, but mostly he's upset that she even knows that he wants to bring Lady Dedlock down in the first place. He tells her to go away. Then he threatens to have her locked up in jail, saying she won't be able to get out for a long, long time. She threatens him back again, but not with anything specific . She's so mad that she just repeats whatever he says back to him in an angry voice. It's like a really nasty game of "I know you are, but what am I?" Finally she leaves, and he has a glass of wine.

Returning to London, Tulkinghorn meets Snagsby; the latter complains of being harassed by Lady Dedlock's former servant Hortense. She is frantic to find Tulkinghorn. When she does locate him, she protests bitterly at having been used by him . She demands that the lawyer get her a new position -- otherwise she will hound him "for ever" if necessary. He tells her he will have her imprisoned if she visits either him or Snagsby once more. Undaunted, she leaves. The lawyer enjoys a bottle of old wine, and now and then "as he throws his head back in the chair," he catches sight of a "pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling." Returning to London, Tulkinghorn meets Snagsby; the latter complains of being harassed by Lady Dedlock's former servant Hortense. She is frantic to find Tulkinghorn. When she does locate him, she protests bitterly at having been used by him . She demands that the lawyer get her a new position -- otherwise she will hound him "for ever" if necessary. He tells her he will have her imprisoned if she visits either him or Snagsby once more. Undaunted, she leaves. The lawyer enjoys a bottle of old wine, and now and then "as he throws his head back in the chair," he catches sight of a "pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling."

Tulkinghorn's bitter encounter with Hortense makes the reader sense that "more will come" of this incident. This impression is reinforced by Dickens' use of foreshadowing. At the very end of the preceding chapter, Tulkinghorn is pictured complacent and then asleep -- yet, somehow, looking very old and, in fact, not far from death. The present chapter closes with a Tulkinghorn who, though again complacent, catches sight of an arrow-wielding Roman painted on the ceiling.

"In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers" The narrator says that Tulkinghorn goes to Lincoln's Inn Fields in London. Snagsby arrives at his office with some information about Mademoiselle Hortense. He says his wife is very jealous because Mademoiselle Hortense has been hovering around his shop, determined that someone should let her in to see Tulkinghorn. Tulkinghorn says to send her to him. He goes to his chambers. The narrator says it is too dark to see the painted Roman on the ceiling, who points downward. Tulkinghorn unlocks a series of small chests and retrieves a key. He intends to go to the wine cellar, but there is a knock at his door. It is Mademoiselle Hortense. She angrily says that she has done what Tulkinghorn wanted--she showed him her dress that Lady Dedlock wore, she has met "that boy"--and Tulkinghorn says that he paid her. She says she hasn't spent the money because she is so angry, and she throws it into a corner. She says that she hates Lady Dedlock and asks Tulkinghorn to find her a new job. If he can't, she offers to help Tulkinghorn disgrace Lady Dedlock. She says she will keep coming to him until he gives her what she wants. Tulkinghorn refuses. He says that if she harasses him, she will go to prison. She leaves, enraged

Women wield a great deal of power in Bleak House, and one of the only instances of weakness occurs when Tulkinghorn convinces Lady Dedlock to stay at Chesney Wold in order to protect her secret. Excepting her emotional discovery of and reunion with her daughter, Lady Dedlock has always put on a haughty, implacable front. Society looks up to her, and she is the emblem of what a great lady is supposed to be. When Tulkinghorn makes it clear that he has the power to destroy her at any time, Lady Dedlock finds herself at someone else's mercy for the first time. Tulkinghorn recognizes the shock this must be; indeed, when Lady Dedlock requests that they speak by the window, he worries that she plans to kill herself. Shortly after this scene, Mademoiselle Hortense attempts to wield her own power over Tulkinghorn. She, of a much lesser station than Lady Dedlock, isn't so easily thwarted, and when Tulkinghorn threatens her, she threatens him right back. The fact that Lady Dedlock does give in to Tulkinghorn reveals the depths to which she has fallen, making the extent of her desperation clear. Esther is the unwitting cause of many people's unhappiness, which is ironic considering her selfless, generous nature. She is at the heart of Lady Dedlock's secret, the source of much of her guilt, shame, and regret. She could easily bring about Lady Dedlock's downfall, as well as Sir Leicester's and the entire Dedlock clan. Because of Esther's birth, the relationship between Lady Dedlock and her sister, Miss Barbary, was destroyed, as was the relationship between Miss Barbary and Mr. Boythorn. Esther, who wants nothing but happiness for those she loves, has indirectly brought about desperation and heartbreak. When she tells her secret to Mr. Jarndyce, she seems to half expect him to shun her for the havoc she passively wrought. Although Mr. Jarndyce's marriage proposal is rooted in love, it isn't rooted in romantic love, a distinction that Esther feels intuitively but can't quite articulate. The letter is full of affection and admiration, and the picture of her future life that Mr. Jarndyce paints for her is happy and peaceful, but Esther senses that something will still be missing. She tells herself she is happy with the proposal, but she does so while sobbing. Burning Mr. Woodcourt's flowers seems to be her acknowledgment that her hope for romantic love, however small, must now be forgotten forever. Indeed, since Mr. Jarndyce has always been such a father figure for Esther that his marriage proposal instantly seems troubling, even inappropriate, and their relationship lurches into complicated new territory. She still calls him "guardian," and she says her acceptance "made no difference." She kisses him, but it seems devoid of passion, and as Esther's narrative continues, things seem very much as they have always been. She may be the intended mistress of Bleak House, but at this point her position seems not to have changed at all.

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers When Tulkinghorn returns to London, he meets Snagsby who complains that the Frenchwoman has been haunting his shop, and his wife is jealous. She will not go away. Tulkinghorn says to send her to him. He goes to his chambers where he prepares to get out his old wine. The "feline" Hortense comes in and angrily demands Tulkinghorn find her a position. She accuses him of using him to catch Lady Dedlock; he had given her two sovereigns, but she flings them on the floor. She wants a job, either a position, or to be used to destroy Lady Dedlock. Tulkinghorn threatens her with prison if she ever bothers him or Snagsby again. She dares him and leaves.

Commentary on Chapter XLII Tension builds around Tulkinghorn. A lot of people hate him because he holds power over them: Lady Dedlock, Mr. George, and Hortense. It is implied he has already destroyed many, like Gridley. The figure of Allegory, the armed Roman painted on his ceiling, is always pointing at him in warning. It foreshadows ill for the lawyer. When a servant is dismissed without references, it is difficult to get a new job. Hortense is described as a half-mad violent person, dismissed by Lady Dedlock for her unmanageable nature. She speaks in a "grinding manner" and confesses she is "rich in hate" , and it seems that she made some kind of vow to ruin her former employer. She refuses Tulkinghorn's two sovereigns because she wants a position, an income. Tulkinghorn thinks, "These women were created to give trouble, the whole earth over" .