In Trust

One morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets of keys,
as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I happened
to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in
which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling me only that
morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust his ardour in the
Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and therefore, not to
damp my dear girl's spirits, I said nothing about Mr. Vholes's
shadow.

Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes and tripping
along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora's attendants
instead of my maid, saying, "Oh, if you please, miss, would you step
and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"

It was one of Charley's peculiarities that whenever she was charged
with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld,
at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. Therefore I saw
Charley asking me in her usual form of words to "step and speak" to
Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And when I did hear her, she
had said it so often that she was out of breath.

I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as we went
in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. To which
Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did any credit
to my educational powers, replied, "Yes, miss. Him as come down in
the country with Mr. Richard."

A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I suppose
there could not be. I found them looking at one another across a
table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad and
upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving out what
he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other keeping it
in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner that I thought I
never had seen two people so unmatched.

"You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my guardian. Not with the
greatest urbanity, I must say.

Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself
again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in the gig. Not
having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.

"Mr. Vholes," said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he were
a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our most
unfortunate Rick." Laying a marked emphasis on "most unfortunate" as
if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with Mr.
Vholes.

I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovable, except that
he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face with
his black glove.

"And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to
know," said my guardian, "what you think, my dear. Would you be so
good as to--as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?"

Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed, "I have been saying
that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'s professional
adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at the present moment in an
embarrassed state. Not so much in point of amount as owing to the
peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred and
the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have staved
off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to staving
off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out of pocket
to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to
being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and I have
a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to
realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. My
apprehension is, Mr. C.'s circumstances being such, lest it should
end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all
events is desirable to be made known to his connexions."

Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged into
the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was
his tone, and looked before him again.

"Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," said my
guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. He would
never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it would be
to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did."

Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again.

"What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the
difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I do not say
that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here
under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything
may be openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that
everything was not openly carried on. My wish is that everything
should be openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me.
If I consulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be
here. So insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his
objections. This is not a professional attendance. This can he
charged to nobody. I have no interest in it except as a member of
society and a father--AND a son," said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly
forgotten that point.

It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than the
truth in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such
as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. I could only suggest that
I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then stationed, and see
him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. Without
consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took my guardian aside to
propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to the fire and warmed
his funeral gloves.

The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my
guardian's part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only too
happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr.
Vholes.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, "Miss Summerson will communicate with
Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may be yet
retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your journey,
sir."

"I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, putting out his long
black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, "not any. I thank you,
no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but a poor
knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid food at this
period of the day, I don't know what the consequences might be.
Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will now with your
permission take my leave."

"And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take
our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a cause
you know of."

Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it had
quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume,
made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck and
slowly shook it.

"We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of
respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the
wheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to think
well of my professional brethren, one and all. You are sensible of an
obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?"

I said I would be careful not to do it.

"Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, sir." Mr.
Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in
it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, and took his
long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach,
passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling
the seed in the ground as it glided along.

Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why I
was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was
too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and words of
excuse, and in a more loving spirit still--my dear devoted girl!--she
wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.

Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I wanted
none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went to London
that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, secured them. At
our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling away seaward with the
Kentish letters.

It was a night's journey in those coach times, but we had the mail to
ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed with me
as I suppose it would with most people under such circumstances. At
one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. Now I
thought I should do some good, and now I wondered how I could ever
have supposed so. Now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in
the world that I should have come, and now one of the most
unreasonable. In what state I should find Richard, what I should say
to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns with
these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one tune
(to which the burden of my guardian's letter set itself) over and
over again all night.

At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy they
were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its little
irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans, and
great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and
blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and
weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea
was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but
a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their
bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they
were spinning themselves into cordage.

But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down,
comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was too
late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful. Our
little room was like a ship's cabin, and that delighted Charley very
much. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships
that we had had no idea were near appeared. I don't know how many
sail the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. Some of these
vessels were of grand size--one was a large Indiaman just come home;
and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in
the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed,
and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to
them and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in
themselves and everything around them, was most beautiful.

The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come into
the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we said how
glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore. Charley was
curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in India, and the
serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such information much
faster than grammar, I told her what I knew on those points. I told
her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast
on rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of
one man. And Charley asking how that could be, I told her how we knew
at home of such a case.

I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but it
seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he lived
in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we
went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard,
we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning, and I
asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He
sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and
knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us.

"Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the
little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, "Can I come
in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden."

He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin
cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the
floor. He was only half dressed--in plain clothes, I observed, not in
uniform--and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his
room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I was
seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me
in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me.
Down to--ah, poor poor fellow!--to the end, he never received me but
with something of his old merry boyish manner.

"Good heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here?
Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter? Ada is
well?"

"Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!"

"Ah!" he said, leaning back in his chair. "My poor cousin! I was
writing to you, Esther."

So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his
handsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely
written sheet of paper in his hand!

"Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to
read it after all?" I asked.

"Oh, my dear," he returned with a hopeless gesture. "You may read it
in the whole room. It is all over here."

I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had
heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult
with him what could best be done.

"Like you, Esther, but useless, and so NOT like you!" said he with a
melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day--should have been gone
in another hour--and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out.
Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I
only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all
the professions."

"Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?"

"Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as
that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes)
would far rather be without me than with me. And they are right.
Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even
for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but
for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't broken now," he said,
tearing the letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting
them away, by driblets, "how could I have gone abroad? I must have
been ordered abroad, but how could I have gone? How could I, with my
experience of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his
back!"

I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught
the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to
prevent me from going on.

"No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid--must forbid. The first is
John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell
you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is no such thing;
it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was
prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be
wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I
have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very
agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."

He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his
determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took
out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.

"Am I to read it now?" he asked.

As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon
his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head upon his
two hands--to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if
the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it
there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had
folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his
hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.

"Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in a
softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.

"Yes, Richard."

"Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the little
inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and as much as
I have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right
with it, and remain in the service."

"I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart," said I.
"And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart."

"I am sure it is. I--I wish I was dead!"

He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his
head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I
hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My
experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his
rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.

"And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not
otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from
me," said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this generous
offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and with the same
John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new
means of buying me off."

"Richard!" I cried out, rising hastily. "I will not hear you say such
shameful words!" I was very angry with him indeed, for the first time
in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn young
face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his shoulder
and said, "If you please, my dear Richard, do not speak in such a
tone to me. Consider!"

He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous manner
that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a thousand
times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather
fluttered after being so fiery.

"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down beside
me and resuming our conversation, "--once more, pray, pray forgive
me; I am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin's offer is, I
need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I
could show you which would convince you it is all over here. I have
done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in
the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing
Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the
wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me,
thank God!"

His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his
features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been
before.

"No, no!" cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's
little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining
me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary
of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should
be used where she has a larger stake. Don't be uneasy for me! I shall
now have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I
shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able to
compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their
bond now--Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favour
anyway, but that would swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter
to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of
me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear."

I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and
nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only
came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw
that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless
to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in
this very interview, the sense of my guardian's remark that it was
even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as
he was.

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind
convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and
that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation
a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was
arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Vholes had copies
of these papers and had been in consultation with him throughout.
Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada's letter,
and being (as I was going to be) Richard's companion back to London,
I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a
reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he
joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to
the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach.

There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval
officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with
unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great
Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look.

The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking
good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing
about them as if they were glad to be in England again. "Charley,
Charley," said I, "come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my
little maid was surprised.

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had time
to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste. In
one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan Woodcourt, and I
had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been unwilling that he
should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and my
courage had quite failed me.

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear,
there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--why
it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you were
last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better. This
is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!" I was in a
great tremble--with running--and at first was quite unable to calm
myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase.
I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices
again--I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still have been a
great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but
I was determined not to do so. "No, my dear, no. No, no, no!"

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--I think I mean half down,
but it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards that I
happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to
Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be
by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw
that he was very sorry for me.

"You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which
enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the
truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old
patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe
illness."

"Ah! Little Miss Flite!" he said. "She lives the same life yet?"

"Just the same."

I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to
be able to put it aside.

"Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most
affectionate creature, as I have reason to say."

"You--you have found her so?" he returned. "I--I am glad of that." He
was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.

"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathy
and pleasure at the time I have referred to."

"I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill."

"I was very ill."

"But you have quite recovered?"

"I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said I. "You
know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and I
have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to
desire."

I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had
for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to
find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I
spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and
of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He
had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here. He
had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home nothing better.
While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had
alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing
me, Richard came in. He had heard downstairs who was with me, and
they met with cordial pleasure.

I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke
of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all was not
going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there
were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked
towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the
truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states and in good
spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt again, whom
he had always liked.

Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr.
Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not
join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became so
much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace to
think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not
relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready and Richard ran
down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.

I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, but I
referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and to
his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Woodcourt
listened with interest and expressed his regret.

"I saw you observe him rather closely," said I, "Do you think him so
changed?"

"He is changed," he returned, shaking his head.

I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was
only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was
gone.

"It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger or older,
or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his
face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in
a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all
weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair."

"You do not think he is ill?" said I.

No. He looked robust in body.

"That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to
know," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?"

"To-morrow or the next day."

"There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He always liked
you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with
your companionship if you can. You do not know of what service it
might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I--how
we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!"

"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from the
first, "before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept
him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"

"God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought
they might, when it was not for myself. "Ada loves him--we all love
him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say.
Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!"

Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and
gave me his arm to take me to the coach.

"Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray let us
meet in London!"

"Meet?" returned the other. "I have scarcely a friend there now but
you. Where shall I find you?"

"Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pondering.
"Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn."

"Good! Without loss of time."

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and Richard
was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly hand
on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and waved
mine in thanks.

And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry
for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may
feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly
remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.

Vholes comes to see Jarndyce. As usual, he looks, sounds, and feels like death. His main message is that Richard is in financial hot water and is thinking of selling his army commission to raise funds. He's still fixated on Chancery. Vholes tries to make it like his coming to see Jarndyce is some humanitarian mission since he can't bill for the visit. But obviously, if Richard runs out of money, then Vholes is out work. Jarndyce is at a loss. He'd give Richard money, but Richard would never take it. Esther decides to go to Deal, the port where Richard is stationed, to talk to him. Ada writes Richard a letter. It's 75 miles away - a nine-hour ride. Richard is a hot mess. He's already resigned his commission, and Esther can't talk any kind of sense into him about anything. Ada's letter offers Richard all her money if he just stays in the army. He's really ashamed, but then immediately turns the situation around and decides that this is some new trick of Jarndyce's to buy him off. Esther is grossed out by his nonsense, and he feels terrible for even thinking such a thing. Finally Esther goes back to her hotel. She stops to check out some docking ships and sees...Woodcourt! Instinctively, she runs away as fast as possible, but then she hears his voice in the hotel - he's staying at the same place she is! She mans up and goes out to see him. He is clearly happy to see her, but when she lifts up her veil and he sees her face, he is very sad and sorry. Esther is happy to see this. Why? Maybe she needs that last hope of being with Woodcourt to be killed off before she marries Jarndyce? Something like that. Still, they chat in a very friendly fashion, and then Esther asks Woodcourt to be a friend to Richard in London, since he is the only normal, practical, steady person Richard knows. Woodcourt promises. When Richard comes to say good-bye, Woodcourt befriends him, but then asks Esther in an aside if there is something wrong with him. Woodcourt senses "an ungrown despair" in Richard. Don't ask, we don't know what that means either. But, you know, obviously nothing good.

Vholes appears unexpectedly at Bleak House one morning. The news he bears is that Richard is broke and may lose his army commission. Vholes appears unexpectedly at Bleak House one morning. The news he bears is that Richard is broke and may lose his army commission. Esther goes to visit Richard at Deal, in Kent, taking Charley with her, as well as a letter in which Ada offers Richard her inheritance. Esther finds Richard almost unhinged. He wants to go to London with her and try once again to expedite the Chancery suit. As they leave Kent, they accidentally meet Allan Woodcourt, who has just returned from India. Allan promises Esther that he will befriend Richard and try to be a good influence on him. Esther perceives that Allan is compassionate about her illness-ravaged face. Inwardly she welcomes his concern.

Dickens knew that most of his readers would prefer to see some romance in Esther's life despite the many virtues of the aging John Jarndyce . Hence, to prevent a possible sag in his readers' interest, Dickens brings Allan onto the scene again immediately after Esther's acceptance of her guardian's proposal. Meanwhile, Richard moves closer and closer toward a bad end.

"In Trust" When Esther and Ada are walking in the garden, Esther sees Mr. Vholes and Richard enter Bleak House. Charley retrieves Esther and tells her to go to Mr. Jarndyce, who introduces her to Vholes. Vholes explains that Richard's finances are a mess, and that Vholes can make no more advances. He hopes Richard won't have to leave his commission. Vholes wanted to alert Mr. Jarndyce to Richard's state of affairs. Mr. Jarndyce asks Esther to try to help Richard, and she agrees to go to Deal, where Richard is stationed. Charley accompanies her, and Ada gives Esther a letter for Richard. Esther visits Richard without warning. He looks unhealthy and tired and admits that he's having problems. He says he has left his commission, since he's too much trouble to the authorities. He cares only for the Jarndyce and Jarndyce lawsuit now and won't let Esther protest. He reads Ada's letter, in which she offers him a small inheritance. Richard is overcome with despair. He then becomes angry, certain that Mr. Jarndyce had ulterior motives for trying to separate him from Ada. He says he won't accept Ada's offer but trusts Vholes to keep moving forward with the suit. He listens to Esther's pleas, but they do no good. On her way back to the hotel, Esther sees a boat landing on the beach with many excited people gathered around it. Esther recognizes Mr. Woodcourt and rushes away. At the hotel, Esther chastises herself and writes a note letting him know that she is there. When Mr. Woodcourt visits her, Esther believes she can see how sorry he is for her because of her scarred face. Richard arrives, and he and Mr. Woodcourt converse. Later, Esther asks Mr. Woodcourt if he will befriend Richard and visit him frequently in London. She says she, Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce will be very grateful. Mr. Woodcourt agrees

In Trust Mr. Vholes, Richard's attorney, comes to Bleak House to announce that Richard is in debt and going to lose his commission. Vholes is described as a "bird of ill-omen," gloved and buttoned up, as usual. Mr. Jarndyce asks Esther to go to Richard, since he will not accept help from him. Esther and Charley go to Deal, Kent, to find Richard in his barracks. His room is a wreck, and he is in civilian clothes: "he looked as wild as his room" . He reads Ada's letter that Esther brought him, offering all her inheritance when she comes of age, to use to keep his commission. He says it is too late; he is not just leaving because he wants to, he has been ordered to sell out, and he admits soldiering is not his calling. Now he will be free to spend fulltime on the Chancery suit. He is still bitter towards Jarndyce for interfering with his engagement. As Esther leaves, she sees Mr. Woodcourt, and at first she avoids him. Then she takes command of herself and goes out to greet him: "And I saw that he was very sorry for me" . His tender pity for her altered looks does her good; she takes new fortitude. He dines with Richard and Esther, and mentions to her later that Richard is much changed. She asks him to befriend Richard, and he replies, "I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!".

Commentary on Chapter XLV Mr. Vholes is described in more and more disgusting terms. He has a "cold-blooded fish-like manner" and picks his red pimples with his black glove. He claims he is being professional and has no interest in the case, but he is "a long thin shadow" "diffusing a very unpleasant perfume" . His ghoulish work on Richard is nearly completed. Both Esther and Ada are loyal to Richard, as is Mr. Jarndyce, but Richard has trouble recognizing this. Esther seems to know what is coming: "He was ever the same to me. Down to--ah, poor fellow!--to the end" . He tells her "I can't help it now, and can't be sane" . He is obsessed like Miss Flite. Esther has already accepted Mr. Jarndyce and has put Woodcourt behind her, but his warm sympathy is soothing to her. The way he accepts Esther's request as a command and sacred trust shows how much he still cares.


Stop Him!

Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Dilating and dilating since the
sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills
every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights
burning, as the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone's, heavily,
heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking--as that lamp, too, winks
in Tom-all-Alone's--at many horrible things. But they are blotted
out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting some
puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and
blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and is gone. The
blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-Alone's,
and Tom is fast asleep.

Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of
Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tom
shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by
constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of
figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by
low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting
trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or
whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the midst of
which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit,
that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according
to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. And in the hopeful
meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined
spirit.

But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, and they
serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of Tom's
corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere. It
shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists
on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and
his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance.
There is not an atom of Tom's slime, not a cubic inch of any
pestilential gas in which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation
about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his
committing, but shall work its retribution through every order of
society up to the proudest of the proud and to the highest of the
high. Verily, what with tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has
his revenge.

It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone's be uglier by day or by
night, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the more
shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination
is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it.
The day begins to break now; and in truth it might be better for the
national glory even that the sun should sometimes set upon the
British dominions than that it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder
as Tom.

A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude for sleep
to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a restless
pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted by
curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down the
miserable by-ways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his bright dark
eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and there,
he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied it
before.

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main street
of Tom-all-Alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut
up and silent. No waking creature save himself appears except in one
direction, where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on a
door-step. He walks that way. Approaching, he observes that she has
journeyed a long distance and is footsore and travel-stained. She
sits on the door-step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her
elbow on her knee and her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas
bag, or bundle, she has carried. She is dozing probably, for she
gives no heed to his steps as he comes toward her.

The broken footway is so narrow that when Allan Woodcourt comes to
where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her.
Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Can't you make them hear? Do you want to be let in?"

"I'm waiting till they get up at another house--a lodging-house--not
here," the woman patiently returns. "I'm waiting here because there
will be sun here presently to warm me."

"I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the
street."

"Thank you, sir. It don't matter."

A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage or
condescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, many
people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little
spelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily.

"Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down. "I am a
doctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed hand he
can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objection,
saying, "It's nothing"; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the
wounded place when she lifts it up to the light.

"Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be very
sore."

"It do ache a little, sir," returns the woman with a started tear
upon her cheek.

"Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won't hurt
you."

"Oh, dear no, sir, I'm sure of that!"

He cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefully
examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takes a
small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. While he is
thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a surgery
in the street, "And so your husband is a brickmaker?"

"How do you know that, sir?" asks the woman, astonished.

"Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and on
your dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at piecework in
different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them cruel to
their wives too."

The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that her
injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon her
forehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly drops
them again.

"Where is he now?" asks the surgeon.

"He got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at the
lodging-house."

"He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and
heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutal as
he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deserved it.
You have no young child?"

The woman shakes her head. "One as I calls mine, sir, but it's
Liz's."

"Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!"

By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. "I suppose
you have some settled home. Is it far from here?" he asks,
good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up and
curtsys.

"It's a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At Saint
Albans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a start like,
as if you did."

"Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question in
return. Have you money for your lodging?"

"Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." And she shows it. He tells
her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that she is very
welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Tom-all-Alone's is still
asleep, and nothing is astir.

Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from which he
descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees a
ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the
soiled walls--which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid--and
furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youth
whose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is so
intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of a stranger
in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. He shades his face
with his ragged elbow as he passes on the other side of the way, and
goes shrinking and creeping on with his anxious hand before him and
his shapeless clothes hanging in shreds. Clothes made for what
purpose, or of what material, it would be impossible to say. They
look, in colour and in substance, like a bundle of rank leaves of
swampy growth that rotted long ago.

Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with a
shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall how
or where, but there is some association in his mind with such a form.
He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or refuge,
still, cannot make out why it comes with any special force on his
remembrance.

He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone's in the morning light,
thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, and looking
round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed, followed by
the woman.

"Stop him, stop him!" cries the woman, almost breathless. "Stop him,
sir!"

He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy is quicker
than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comes up
half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still the woman
follows, crying, "Stop him, sir, pray stop him!" Allan, not knowing
but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in chase and
runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, but each time
he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away again. To
strike at him on any of these occasions would be to fell and disable
him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and so the grimly
ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed,
takes to a narrow passage and a court which has no thoroughfare.
Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay and
tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at
him until the woman comes up.

"Oh, you, Jo!" cries the woman. "What? I have found you at last!"

"Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him with attention, "Jo! Stay. To be
sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before the
coroner."

"Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich," whimpers Jo. "What of
that? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An't I
unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur to be?
I've been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by
another on you, till I'm worritted to skins and bones. The inkwhich
warn't MY fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me, he wos; he
wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my
crossing. It ain't wery likely I should want him to be inkwhiched. I
only wish I wos, myself. I don't know why I don't go and make a hole
in the water, I'm sure I don't."

He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so
real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a
growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in
neglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him.
He says to the woman, "Miserable creature, what has he done?"

To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure
more amazedly than angrily, "Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found you at
last!"

"What has he done?" says Allan. "Has he robbed you?"

"No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-hearted by
me, and that's the wonder of it."

Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, waiting
for one of them to unravel the riddle.

"But he was along with me, sir," says the woman. "Oh, you Jo! He was
along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a young lady, Lord
bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when I durstn't,
and took him home--"

Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.

"Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and like a
thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or
heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And that young lady
that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful
looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for the same young lady now if it
wasn't for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her sweet
voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, do you know that this
is all along of you and of her goodness to you?" demands the woman,
beginning to rage at him as she recalls it and breaking into
passionate tears.

The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing
his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground,
and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding against
which he leans rattles.

Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but
effectually.

"Richard told me--" He falters. "I mean, I have heard of this--don't
mind me for a moment, I will speak presently."

He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the covered
passage. When he comes back, he has recovered his composure, except
that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which is so very
remarkable that it absorbs the woman's attention.

"You hear what she says. But get up, get up!"

Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after the manner
of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, resting
one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbing his right
hand over his left and his left foot over his right.

"You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you been here
ever since?"

"Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone's till this blessed morning,"
replies Jo hoarsely.

"Why have you come here now?"

Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no
higher than the knees, and finally answers, "I don't know how to do
nothink, and I can't get nothink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, and I
thought I'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, and lay
down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go
and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin fur to give me
somethink he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby she was allus a-chivying on
me--like everybody everywheres."

"Where have you come from?"

Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner's knees
again, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in a
sort of resignation.

"Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?"

"Tramp then," says Jo.

"Now tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to overcome his
repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him with an
expression of confidence, "tell me how it came about that you left
that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as to
pity you and take you home."

Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares,
addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady, that
he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that he
would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd sooner have had his
unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos
wery good to him, she wos. Conducting himself throughout as if in his
poor fashion he really meant it, and winding up with some very
miserable sobs.

Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrains himself
to touch him. "Come, Jo. Tell me."

"No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. "I
dustn't, or I would."

"But I must know," returns the other, "all the same. Come, Jo."

After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,
looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, "Well, I'll
tell you something. I was took away. There!"

"Took away? In the night?"

"Ah!" Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about him and
even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding and through
the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should be looking
over or hidden on the other side.

"Who took you away?"

"I dustn't name him," says Jo. "I dustn't do it, sir.

"But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. You may trust me. No
one else shall hear."

"Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his head fearfully, "as
he DON'T hear."

"Why, he is not in this place."

"Oh, ain't he though?" says Jo. "He's in all manner of places, all at
wanst."

Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning and
good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He patiently
awaits an explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by his patience than
by anything else, at last desperately whispers a name in his ear.

"Aye!" says Allan. "Why, what had you been doing?"

"Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble,
'sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. But I'm a-moving on now. I'm
a-moving on to the berryin ground--that's the move as I'm up to."

"No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do with you?"

"Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, "till I was
discharged, then giv me a little money--four half-bulls, wot you may
call half-crowns--and ses 'Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' he ses.
'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You move on,' he ses.
'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile of London, or
you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he doos see me, and he'll see
me if I'm above ground," concludes Jo, nervously repeating all his
former precautions and investigations.

Allan considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman but
keeping an encouraging eye on Jo, "He is not so ungrateful as you
supposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was an
insufficient one."

"Thankee, sir, thankee!" exclaims Jo. "There now! See how hard you
wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmn ses, and
it's all right. For YOU wos wery good to me too, and I knows it."

"Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with me and I
will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in. If I
take one side of the way and you the other to avoid observation, you
will not run away, I know very well, if you make me a promise."

"I won't, not unless I wos to see HIM a-coming, sir."

"Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by this
time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Come
along. Good day again, my good woman."

"Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again."

She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now rises and
takes it up. Jo, repeating, "Ony you tell the young lady as I never
went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!" nods and shambles and
shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs and half cries, a
farewell to her, and takes his creeping way along after Allan
Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side of the street. In
this order, the two come up out of Tom-all-Alone's into the broad
rays of the sunlight and the purer air.

Woodcourt is back trying to doctor the miserable poor people in Tom-all-Alone's. This is why he doesn't have any money, remember? Walking around, he sees a woman on a stoop with a huge wound on her face. Of course it turns out to be... Jenny! Dickens's world is full of crazy coincidences. Woodcourt is super nice to her - he has an ability to talk to the poor as if they were actual people. Oh yeah, crazy. She's nursing yet another beating from her husband but seems OK. When he's done with her, Woodcourt sees a boy creeping around the corner. Jenny runs after him, yelling, "Stop him!" - and Woodcourt does, thinking maybe he just robbed her. But no. This boy is none other than... Jo. OK, the surprises are not even all that surprising anymore. Woodcourt recognizes him from the inquest, but Jenny knows Jo ran away from Bleak House after being taken in by Esther when he was sick. Woodcourt hears this and is half nauseous, half ready to cry. Jo is patient zero of that horrible disease that disfigured Esther's face. Jo is horrified and sorry that he infected Esther. Still angry, Woodcourt asks Jo why he left that night. Turns out Jo didn't run away at all - he was taken away by... well, we don't know yet, since he just whispers the name to Woodcourt. The guy took him to a hospital and gave him some money to stay far away after he was released . He stayed away as long as he could, but now he's run out of money, so he's back at Tom-all-Alone's to die.

Walking in Tom-all-Alone's toward dawn, Allan Woodcourt sees a woman with a badly bruised forehead. She allows him to treat it. Continuing his walk, he catches a glimpse of a shabbily dressed boy , whom he vaguely remembers. A few moments later, he sees the boy being chased by Jenny. Thinking that Jo may have robbed her, Allan chases and finally catches the boy. Jenny, however, only wanted to talk to him. Earlier, she had bought medicine for him and nursed him when he was ill with the sickness that eventually infected Esther. Walking in Tom-all-Alone's toward dawn, Allan Woodcourt sees a woman with a badly bruised forehead. She allows him to treat it. Continuing his walk, he catches a glimpse of a shabbily dressed boy , whom he vaguely remembers. A few moments later, he sees the boy being chased by Jenny. Thinking that Jo may have robbed her, Allan chases and finally catches the boy. Jenny, however, only wanted to talk to him. Earlier, she had bought medicine for him and nursed him when he was ill with the sickness that eventually infected Esther. Jo tells his story. He ran away from the young Lady who had taken charge of him during his fever and was then found by a man , who took him to a "horsepittle." The doctor tells Jo to come with him, and the two leave Tom-all-Alone's and emerge into "purer air."

In encountering Jenny and Jo, Allan Woodcourt is drawn more closely into Esther's concerns. The chapter satisfies the reader's curiosity about the disappearance of Jo.

"Stop him. The narrator says that Tom-all-Alone's is dark and menacing. In a sort of surreal meditation, he says that Tom is asleep, but that a lot of fuss has been made about him in Parliament, where people discuss how to get him off the street or what else to do with him. The narrator says that Tom gets revenge by contaminating everything around him. Morning arrives. Mr. Woodcourt walks around Tom-all-Alone's and sees a woman sitting on a stoop. He sees a bruise on her forehead and bandages it, then asks if her husband is a brickmaker because he believes brickmakers are violent. She says her husband will be looking for her. He asks if she has a baby, and she says no, although her friend Liz has one that she thinks of as her own. Woodcourt moves on and soon sees a wretched young boy running toward him, whom he thinks he recognizes. A woman is running after the boy, yelling for someone to stop him. Woodcourt grabs him, thinking he has stolen the woman's money. When the woman rushes up, she exclaims excitedly that she has finally found Jo. Jo admits that he once saw Woodcourt when he spoke about the dead lodger in front of the coroner. Woodcourt asks the woman if Jo robbed her, and she says no; rather, he has been very kind to her. She says that a woman took Jo home with her to care of him when he was sick, but that Jo ran away. She says that the woman then became sick herself and lost her beauty. Woodcourt is speechless. When he recovers, he asks Jo why he left the house. Jo says he never knew a woman had been caring for him and that he would never have done anything to hurt her. He says someone took him away, but he won't name the man, fearful that he'll find out since he seems to be everywhere. Jo says this man gave him money and told him to "move on. Woodcourt tells Jo he'll find him a place to hide. Woodcourt and Jo set off

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.

Stop Him! Allan Woodcourt is walking in the slum of Tom-all-Alone's at dawn. He sees a woman sitting on a doorstep with a bruised head. He knows how to talk to the poor, and treats her injury, asking her questions. He is startled when she mentions she is from St. Albans. Just then, Woodcourt sees the boy Jo and thinks he remembers him. Jenny runs after Jo, saying "Stop him!" Woodcourt thinks the boy has stolen money, so he chases him down. Jo and Jenny fill in Woodcourt about how Esther took in Jo to nurse him and then got sick herself. Jo protests he didn't mean to do it. He had come back to the slum to hide out until dark and then planned to go to Mr. Snagsby for a handout. He is still very ill. Jo is afraid of being pursued by someone who had taken him away, put him in a hospital until he was well, and then told him to leave London. Woodcourt takes him with him to find a shelter but Jo insists, "I'm a-moving on to the berryin ground" .

Commentary on Chapter XLVI This and the next chapter treat of the death of Jo in Dickens's artful and sentimental style designed to underscore the shameful poverty in London. Woodcourt is comfortable with the poor, and is a contrast to the inept Mrs. Jellyby, Mrs. Pardiggle, and Chadband. He avoids "patronage or condescension, or childishness" . He treats the woman as a human being, understanding she is abused by her husband, but not preaching about it. Woodcourt hears confirmed the story of Esther's unselfishness in helping Jo and finds out how he disappeared. Inspector Bucket took him to keep him quiet and was able to get him into a hospital. He had been charged by Tulkinghorn to keep an eye on Jo, to keep him out of the way, because he didn't want him spreading any more stories about Lady Dedlock and Nemo. Jo is afraid of Bucket finding him again. Jo is in "shapeless clothes hanging in shreds" . He has been hassled by Mrs. Snagsby, Chadband, Bucket, Tulkinghorn, and now he is looking for a quiet place to die.