Lady Dedlock

It was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange for
Richard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himself was
the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr.
Badger at any moment, he began to doubt whether he wanted to leave
him at all. He didn't know, he said, really. It wasn't a bad
profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked
it as well as he liked any other--suppose he gave it one more chance!
Upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and
some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information
with great rapidity. His fervour, after lasting about a month, began
to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His
vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer
arrived before he finally separated from Mr. Badger and entered on an
experimental course of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his
waywardness, he took great credit to himself as being determined to
be in earnest "this time." And he was so good-natured throughout, and
in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult
indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him.

"As to Mr. Jarndyce," who, I may mention, found the wind much given,
during this period, to stick in the east; "As to Mr. Jarndyce,"
Richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in the world,
Esther! I must be particularly careful, if it were only for his
satisfaction, to take myself well to task and have a regular wind-up
of this business now."

The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face
and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch and
nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. However, he told us
between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent that he
wondered his hair didn't turn grey. His regular wind-up of the
business was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Kenge's about
midsummer to try how he liked it.

All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described him in
a former illustration--generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully
persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I happened to
say to Ada, in his presence, half jestingly, half seriously, about
the time of his going to Mr. Kenge's, that he needed to have
Fortunatus' purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in
this way, "My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman! Why
does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it
was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days ago. Now, if
I had stayed at Badger's I should have been obliged to spend twelve
pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking lecture-fees. So I make four
pounds--in a lump--by the transaction!"

It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what
arrangements should be made for his living in London while he
experimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to Bleak
House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener
than once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were to settle
down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments or chambers where
we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; "but, little
woman," he added, rubbing his head very significantly, "he hasn't
settled down there yet!" The discussions ended in our hiring for him,
by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house
near Queen Square. He immediately began to spend all the money he had
in buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging;
and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any purchase that
he had in contemplation which was particularly unnecessary and
expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost and made out
that to spend anything less on something else was to save the
difference.

While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Boythorn's was
postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of his lodging,
there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could have gone with
us at that time of the year very well, but he was in the full novelty
of his new position and was making most energetic attempts to unravel
the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently we went without him,
and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy.

We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach and
had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture had been
all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who took possession of it
on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday, but he seemed quite relieved to
think that it was gone. Chairs and table, he said, were wearisome
objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety of
expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you looked them
out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to be bound to no particular
chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the
furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, and from
mahogany to walnut, and from this shape to that, as the humour took
one!

"The oddity of the thing is," said Mr. Skimpole with a quickened
sense of the ludicrous, "that my chairs and tables were not paid for,
and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible.
Now, that seems droll! There is something grotesque in it. The chair
and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. Why
should my landlord quarrel with HIM? If I have a pimple on my nose
which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiar ideas of beauty, my
landlord has no business to scratch my chair and table merchant's
nose, which has no pimple on it. His reasoning seems defective!"

"Well," said my guardian good-humouredly, "it's pretty clear that
whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to pay
for them."

"Exactly!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That's the crowning point of
unreason in the business! I said to my landlord, 'My good man, you
are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to pay for
those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate manner.
Have you no consideration for HIS property?' He hadn't the least."

"And refused all proposals," said my guardian.

"Refused all proposals," returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made him business
proposals. I had him into my room. I said, 'You are a man of
business, I believe?' He replied, 'I am,' 'Very well,' said I, 'now
let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pens and
paper, here are wafers. What do you want? I have occupied your house
for a considerable period, I believe to our mutual satisfaction until
this unpleasant misunderstanding arose; let us be at once friendly
and business-like. What do you want?' In reply to this, he made use
of the figurative expression--which has something Eastern about
it--that he had never seen the colour of my money. 'My amiable
friend,' said I, 'I never have any money. I never know anything about
money.' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'what do you offer if I give you time?'
'My good fellow,' said I, 'I have no idea of time; but you say you
are a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a
business-like way with pen, and ink, and paper--and wafers--I am
ready to do. Don't pay yourself at another man's expense (which is
foolish), but be business-like!' However, he wouldn't be, and there
was an end of it."

If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole's childhood,
it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the journey he had a
very good appetite for such refreshment as came in our way (including
a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but never thought of paying for
anything. So when the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly
asked him what he considered a very good fee indeed, now--a liberal
one--and on his replying half a crown for a single passenger, said it
was little enough too, all things considered, and left Mr. Jarndyce
to give it him.

It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, the
larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the
trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light wind
blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fragrance!
Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to
alight from the coach--a dull little town with a church-spire, and a
marketplace, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and
a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very few men
sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little bits of shade.
After the rustling of the leaves and the waving of the corn all along
the road, it looked as still, as hot, as motionless a little town as
England could produce.

At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn on horseback, waiting with an open
carriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. He was
overjoyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.

"By heaven!" said he after giving us a courteous greeting. "This a
most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of an abominable
public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. It is
twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon. The coachman ought
to be put to death!"

"IS he after his time?" said Mr. Skimpole, to whom he happened to
address himself. "You know my infirmity."

"Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!" replied Mr. Boythorn,
referring to his watch. "With two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel
has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes.
Deliberately! It is impossible that it can be accidental! But his
father--and his uncle--were the most profligate coachmen that ever
sat upon a box."

While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed us
into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all smiles
and pleasure.

"I am sorry, ladies," he said, standing bare-headed at the
carriage-door when all was ready, "that I am obliged to conduct you
nearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through Sir
Leicester Dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property I have sworn
never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pending the
present relations between us, while I breathe the breath of life!"
And here, catching my guardian's eye, he broke into one of his
tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless little
market-town.

"Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?" said my guardian as we drove
along and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by the roadside.

"Sir Arrogant Numskull is here," replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha ha ha! Sir
Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has been laid by the heels
here. My Lady," in naming whom he always made a courtly gesture as if
particularly to exclude her from any part in the quarrel, "is
expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the least surprised that she
postpones her appearance as long as possible. Whatever can have
induced that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head
of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that ever
baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!"

"I suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "WE may set foot in the park
while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us, does it?"

"I can lay no prohibition on my guests," he said, bending his head to
Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully upon
him, "except in the matter of their departure. I am only sorry that I
cannot have the happiness of being their escort about Chesney Wold,
which is a very fine place! But by the light of this summer day,
Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are
likely to have but a cool reception. He carries himself like an
eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race of eight-day clocks
in gorgeous cases that never go and never went--Ha ha ha!--but he
will have some extra stiffness, I can promise you, for the friends of
his friend and neighbour Boythorn!"

"I shall not put him to the proof," said my guardian. "He is as
indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to the
honour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such a view
of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough for
me."

"Well!" said Mr. Boythorn. "I am glad of it on the whole. It's in
better keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajax defying
the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little church on a
Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable congregation expect
to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the
Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have no doubt he is surprised
that I don't. For he is, by heaven, the most self-satisfied, and the
shallowest, and the most coxcombical and utterly brainless ass!"

Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our
friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his
attention from its master.

It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Among
the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire of
the little church of which he had spoken. Oh, the solemn woods over
which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings
were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air; the smooth
green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the flowers were
so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest colours, how
beautiful they looked! The house, with gable and chimney, and tower,
and turret, and dark doorway, and broad terrace-walk, twining among
the balustrades of which, and lying heaped upon the vases, there was
one great flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light solidity
and in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around it. To
Ada and to me, that above all appeared the pervading influence. On
everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks,
fern, moss, woods again, and far away across the openings in the
prospect to the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom
upon it, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose.

When we came into the little village and passed a small inn with the
sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr.
Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a
bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying beside
him.

"That's the housekeeper's grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by name," said,
he, "and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. Lady
Dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keep her
about her own fair person--an honour which my young friend himself
does not at all appreciate. However, he can't marry just yet, even if
his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it. In
the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day or two at a time
to--fish. Ha ha ha ha!"

"Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Boythorn?" asked Ada.

"Why, my dear Miss Clare," he returned, "I think they may perhaps
understand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say, and I
must learn from you on such a point--not you from me."

Ada blushed, and Mr. Boythorn, trotting forward on his comely grey
horse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended arm
and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.

He lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with a lawn
in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked
orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with a venerable
wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But, indeed, everything
about the place wore an aspect of maturity and abundance. The old
lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, the very shadows of the
cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with fruit, the
gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches arched and rested
on the earth, the strawberries and raspberries grew in like
profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred on the wall. Tumbled
about among the spread nets and the glass frames sparkling and
winking in the sun there were such heaps of drooping pods, and
marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of ground appeared a
vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet herbs and all kinds of
wholesome growth (to say nothing of the neighbouring meadows where
the hay was carrying) made the whole air a great nosegay. Such
stillness and composure reigned within the orderly precincts of the
old red wall that even the feathers hung in garlands to scare the
birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such a ripening influence that
where, here and there high up, a disused nail and scrap of list still
clung to it, it was easy to fancy that they had mellowed with the
changing seasons and that they had rusted and decayed according to
the common fate.

The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with the garden,
was a real old house with settles in the chimney of the brick-floored
kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. On one side of it was
the terrible piece of ground in dispute, where Mr. Boythorn
maintained a sentry in a smock-frock day and night, whose duty was
supposed to be, in cases of aggression, immediately to ring a large
bell hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a great bull-dog
established in a kennel as his ally, and generally to deal
destruction on the enemy. Not content with these precautions, Mr.
Boythorn had himself composed and posted there, on painted boards to
which his name was attached in large letters, the following solemn
warnings: "Beware of the bull-dog. He is most ferocious. Lawrence
Boythorn." "The blunderbus is loaded with slugs. Lawrence Boythorn."
"Man-traps and spring-guns are set here at all times of the day and
night. Lawrence Boythorn." "Take notice. That any person or persons
audaciously presuming to trespass on this property will be punished
with the utmost severity of private chastisement and prosecuted with
the utmost rigour of the law. Lawrence Boythorn." These he showed us
from the drawing-room window, while his bird was hopping about his
head, and he laughed, "Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!" to that extent as
he pointed them out that I really thought he would have hurt himself.

"But this is taking a good deal of trouble," said Mr. Skimpole in his
light way, "when you are not in earnest after all."

"Not in earnest!" returned Mr. Boythorn with unspeakable warmth. "Not
in earnest! If I could have hoped to train him, I would have bought a
lion instead of that dog and would have turned him loose upon the
first intolerable robber who should dare to make an encroachment on
my rights. Let Sir Leicester Dedlock consent to come out and decide
this question by single combat, and I will meet him with any weapon
known to mankind in any age or country. I am that much in earnest.
Not more!"

We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morning we all
set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Entering the
park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we pursued a
pleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautiful
trees until it brought us to the church-porch.

The congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one with the
exception of a large muster of servants from the house, some of whom
were already in their seats, while others were yet dropping in. There
were some stately footmen, and there was a perfect picture of an old
coachman, who looked as if he were the official representative of all
the pomps and vanities that had ever been put into his coach. There
was a very pretty show of young women, and above them, the handsome
old face and fine responsible portly figure of the housekeeper
towered pre-eminent. The pretty girl of whom Mr. Boythorn had told us
was close by her. She was so very pretty that I might have known her
by her beauty even if I had not seen how blushingly conscious she was
of the eyes of the young fisherman, whom I discovered not far off.
One face, and not an agreeable one, though it was handsome, seemed
maliciously watchful of this pretty girl, and indeed of every one and
everything there. It was a Frenchwoman's.

As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet come, I
had leisure to glance over the church, which smelt as earthy as a
grave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little church it
was. The windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a subdued light
that made the faces around me pale, and darkened the old brasses in
the pavement and the time and damp-worn monuments, and rendered the
sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonous ringer was working
at the bell, inestimably bright. But a stir in that direction, a
gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces, and a blandly
ferocious assumption on the part of Mr. Boythorn of being resolutely
unconscious of somebody's existence forewarned me that the great
people were come and that the service was going to begin.

"'Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thy
sight--'"

Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned by the
look I met as I stood up! Shall I ever forget the manner in which
those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their languor and
to hold mine! It was only a moment before I cast mine down--released
again, if I may say so--on my book; but I knew the beautiful face
quite well in that short space of time.

And, very strangely, there was something quickened within me,
associated with the lonely days at my godmother's; yes, away even to
the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little
glass after dressing my doll. And this, although I had never seen
this lady's face before in all my life--I was quite sure of
it--absolutely certain.

It was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-haired
gentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, was Sir
Leicester Dedlock, and that the lady was Lady Dedlock. But why her
face should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to me, in
which I saw scraps of old remembrances, and why I should be so
fluttered and troubled (for I was still) by having casually met her
eyes, I could not think.

I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcome it
by attending to the words I heard. Then, very strangely, I seemed to
hear them, not in the reader's voice, but in the well-remembered
voice of my godmother. This made me think, did Lady Dedlock's face
accidentally resemble my godmother's? It might be that it did, a
little; but the expression was so different, and the stern decision
which had worn into my godmother's face, like weather into rocks, was
so completely wanting in the face before me that it could not be that
resemblance which had struck me. Neither did I know the loftiness and
haughtiness of Lady Dedlock's face, at all, in any one. And yet I--I,
little Esther Summerson, the child who lived a life apart and on
whose birthday there was no rejoicing--seemed to arise before my own
eyes, evoked out of the past by some power in this fashionable lady,
whom I not only entertained no fancy that I had ever seen, but whom I
perfectly well knew I had never seen until that hour.

It made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountable agitation
that I was conscious of being distressed even by the observation of
the French maid, though I knew she had been looking watchfully here,
and there, and everywhere, from the moment of her coming into the
church. By degrees, though very slowly, I at last overcame my strange
emotion. After a long time, I looked towards Lady Dedlock again. It
was while they were preparing to sing, before the sermon. She took no
heed of me, and the beating at my heart was gone. Neither did it
revive for more than a few moments when she once or twice afterwards
glanced at Ada or at me through her glass.

The service being concluded, Sir Leicester gave his arm with much
taste and gallantry to Lady Dedlock--though he was obliged to walk by
the help of a thick stick--and escorted her out of church to the pony
carriage in which they had come. The servants then dispersed, and so
did the congregation, whom Sir Leicester had contemplated all along
(Mr. Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn's infinite delight) as if he were
a considerable landed proprietor in heaven.

"He believes he is!" said Mr. Boythorn. "He firmly believes it. So
did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather!"

"Do you know," pursued Mr. Skimpole very unexpectedly to Mr.
Boythorn, "it's agreeable to me to see a man of that sort."

"IS it!" said Mr. Boythorn.

"Say that he wants to patronize me," pursued Mr. Skimpole. "Very
well! I don't object."

"I do," said Mr. Boythorn with great vigour.

"Do you really?" returned Mr. Skimpole in his easy light vein. "But
that's taking trouble, surely. And why should you take trouble? Here
am I, content to receive things childishly as they fall out, and I
never take trouble! I come down here, for instance, and I find a
mighty potentate exacting homage. Very well! I say 'Mighty potentate,
here IS my homage! It's easier to give it than to withhold it. Here
it is. If you have anything of an agreeable nature to show me, I
shall be happy to see it; if you have anything of an agreeable nature
to give me, I shall be happy to accept it.' Mighty potentate replies
in effect, 'This is a sensible fellow. I find him accord with my
digestion and my bilious system. He doesn't impose upon me the
necessity of rolling myself up like a hedgehog with my points
outward. I expand, I open, I turn my silver lining outward like
Milton's cloud, and it's more agreeable to both of us.' That's my
view of such things, speaking as a child!"

"But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow," said Mr.
Boythorn, "where there was the opposite of that fellow--or of this
fellow. How then?"

"How then?" said Mr. Skimpole with an appearance of the utmost
simplicity and candour. "Just the same then! I should say, 'My
esteemed Boythorn'--to make you the personification of our imaginary
friend--'my esteemed Boythorn, you object to the mighty potentate?
Very good. So do I. I take it that my business in the social system
is to be agreeable; I take it that everybody's business in the social
system is to be agreeable. It's a system of harmony, in short.
Therefore if you object, I object. Now, excellent Boythorn, let us go
to dinner!'"

"But excellent Boythorn might say," returned our host, swelling and
growing very red, "I'll be--"

"I understand," said Mr. Skimpole. "Very likely he would."

"--if I WILL go to dinner!" cried Mr. Boythorn in a violent burst and
stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. "And he would probably
add, 'Is there such a thing as principle, Mr. Harold Skimpole?'"

"To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know," he returned in his
gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile, "'Upon my life I
have not the least idea! I don't know what it is you call by that
name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess it and find
it comfortable, I am quite delighted and congratulate you heartily.
But I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am a mere child, and
I lay no claim to it, and I don't want it!' So, you see, excellent
Boythorn and I would go to dinner after all!"

This was one of many little dialogues between them which I always
expected to end, and which I dare say would have ended under other
circumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of our host. But
he had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsible position as
our entertainer, and my guardian laughed so sincerely at and with Mr.
Skimpole, as a child who blew bubbles and broke them all day long,
that matters never went beyond this point. Mr. Skimpole, who always
seemed quite unconscious of having been on delicate ground, then
betook himself to beginning some sketch in the park which he never
finished, or to playing fragments of airs on the piano, or to singing
scraps of songs, or to lying down on his back under a tree and
looking at the sky--which he couldn't help thinking, he said, was
what he was meant for; it suited him so exactly.

"Enterprise and effort," he would say to us (on his back), "are
delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the
deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this and
think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole or penetrating
to the heart of the Torrid Zone with admiration. Mercenary creatures
ask, 'What is the use of a man's going to the North Pole? What good
does it do?' I can't say; but, for anything I CAN say, he may go for
the purpose--though he don't know it--of employing my thoughts as I
lie here. Take an extreme case. Take the case of the slaves on
American plantations. I dare say they are worked hard, I dare say
they don't altogether like it. I dare say theirs is an unpleasant
experience on the whole; but they people the landscape for me, they
give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter
objects of their existence. I am very sensible of it, if it be, and I
shouldn't wonder if it were!"

I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of Mrs.
Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view they presented
themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I could understand,
they rarely presented themselves at all.

The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating of my
heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue that
to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down among the
transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful interlacings of the
shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their songs and the
air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delightful. We
had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year's leaves, where
there were some felled trees from which the bark was all stripped
off. Seated among these, we looked through a green vista supported by
thousands of natural columns, the whitened stems of trees, upon a
distant prospect made so radiant by its contrast with the shade in
which we sat and made so precious by the arched perspective through
which we saw it that it was like a glimpse of the better land. Upon
the Saturday we sat here, Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we heard
thunder muttering in the distance and felt the large raindrops rattle
through the leaves.

The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm
broke so suddenly--upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot--that
before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and lightning
were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as if
every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not a time for
standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the
moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two
broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper's
lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed the dark beauty
of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy
clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we
had once seen the keeper's dog dive down into the fern as if it were
water.

The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that we only
clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelter there
and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows were all
thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching the storm.
It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove
the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn
thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with awe of the
tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed, to
consider how beneficent they are and how upon the smallest flower and
leaf there was already a freshness poured from all this seeming rage
which seemed to make creation new again.

"Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?"

"Oh, no, Esther dear!" said Ada quietly.

Ada said it to me, but I had not spoken.

The beating of my heart came back again. I had never heard the voice,
as I had never seen the face, but it affected me in the same strange
way. Again, in a moment, there arose before my mind innumerable
pictures of myself.

Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrival there
and had come out of the gloom within. She stood behind my chair with
her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to my shoulder when I
turned my head.

"I have frightened you?" she said.

No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened!

"I believe," said Lady Dedlock to my guardian, "I have the pleasure
of speaking to Mr. Jarndyce."

"Your remembrance does me more honour than I had supposed it would,
Lady Dedlock," he returned.

"I recognized you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any local
disputes of Sir Leicester's--they are not of his seeking, however, I
believe--should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty to show
you any attention here."

"I am aware of the circumstances," returned my guardian with a smile,
"and am sufficiently obliged."

She had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemed habitual
to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner, though in a
very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she was beautiful,
perfectly self-possessed, and had the air, I thought, of being able
to attract and interest any one if she had thought it worth her
while. The keeper had brought her a chair on which she sat in the
middle of the porch between us.

"Is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to Sir Leicester
about and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry not to have it in his
power to advance in any way?" she said over her shoulder to my
guardian.

"I hope so," said he.

She seemed to respect him and even to wish to conciliate him. There
was something very winning in her haughty manner, and it became more
familiar--I was going to say more easy, but that could hardly be--as
she spoke to him over her shoulder.

"I presume this is your other ward, Miss Clare?"

He presented Ada, in form.

"You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote character,"
said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce over her shoulder again, "if you
only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. But present me," and she
turned full upon me, "to this young lady too!"

"Miss Summerson really is my ward," said Mr. Jarndyce. "I am
responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case."

"Has Miss Summerson lost both her parents?" said my Lady.

"Yes."

"She is very fortunate in her guardian."

Lady Dedlock looked at me, and I looked at her and said I was indeed.
All at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almost expressive of
displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her shoulder again.

"Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, Mr.
Jarndyce."

"A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, until I saw you
last Sunday," he returned.

"What! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to become one
to me!" she said with some disdain. "I have achieved that reputation,
I suppose."

"You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock," said my guardian, "that
you pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none to me."

"So much!" she repeated, slightly laughing. "Yes!"

With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I know
not what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more than
children. So, as she slightly laughed and afterwards sat looking at
the rain, she was as self-possessed and as free to occupy herself
with her own thoughts as if she had been alone.

"I think you knew my sister when we were abroad together better than
you know me?" she said, looking at him again.

"Yes, we happened to meet oftener," he returned.

"We went our several ways," said Lady Dedlock, "and had little in
common even before we agreed to differ. It is to be regretted, I
suppose, but it could not be helped."

Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon began to
pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated, the lightning ceased,
the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and the sun began to
glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. As we sat there,
silently, we saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us at a merry
pace.

"The messenger is coming back, my Lady," said the keeper, "with the
carriage."

As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. There
alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first the
Frenchwoman whom I had seen in church, and secondly the pretty girl,
the Frenchwoman with a defiant confidence, the pretty girl confused
and hesitating.

"What now?" said Lady Dedlock. "Two!"

"I am your maid, my Lady, at the present," said the Frenchwoman. "The
message was for the attendant."

"I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady," said the pretty girl.

"I did mean you, child," replied her mistress calmly. "Put that shawl
on me."

She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the pretty girl
lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stood unnoticed,
looking on with her lips very tightly set.

"I am sorry," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, "that we are not
likely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow me to send
the carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here directly."

But as he would on no account accept this offer, she took a graceful
leave of Ada--none of me--and put her hand upon his proffered arm,
and got into the carriage, which was a little, low, park carriage
with a hood.

"Come in, child," she said to the pretty girl; "I shall want you. Go
on!"

The carriage rolled away, and the Frenchwoman, with the wrappers she
had brought hanging over her arm, remained standing where she had
alighted.

I suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as pride
itself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. Her
retaliation was the most singular I could have imagined. She remained
perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the drive, and
then, without the least discomposure of countenance, slipped off her
shoes, left them on the ground, and walked deliberately in the same
direction through the wettest of the wet grass.

"Is that young woman mad?" said my guardian.

"Oh, no, sir!" said the keeper, who, with his wife, was looking after
her. "Hortense is not one of that sort. She has as good a head-piece
as the best. But she's mortal high and passionate--powerful high and
passionate; and what with having notice to leave, and having others
put above her, she don't take kindly to it."

"But why should she walk shoeless through all that water?" said my
guardian.

"Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down!" said the man.

"Or unless she fancies it's blood," said the woman. "She'd as soon
walk through that as anything else, I think, when her own's up!"

We passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards. Peaceful
as it had looked when we first saw it, it looked even more so now,
with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light wind blowing,
the birds no longer hushed but singing strongly, everything refreshed
by the late rain, and the little carriage shining at the doorway like
a fairy carriage made of silver. Still, very steadfastly and quietly
walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the landscape, went
Mademoiselle Hortense, shoeless, through the wet grass.

In Chapter 18, Richard begins at Kenge and Carboy's. The rest of the party leave him in London, and go to visit Mr. Boythorn at his place down in Lincolnshire, which neighbors the Dedlocks' estate. When the party goes to church, Esther sees not only Rosa, Mrs. Rouncewell, and Mademoiselle Hortense, but also Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock. Esther seems to recognize Lady Dedlock's face, and wonders at the resemblance to her godmother's face. She also vaguely realizes that Lady Dedlock's face resembles her own when seen in the mirror. Later, Esther, Ada, and John Jarndyce then go for a walk and take refuge in a gamekeeper's lodge when it rains. Lady Dedlock is already there, and Esther experiences another weird feeling upon meeting Lady Dedlock. Lady Dedlock and John Jarndyce are old acquaintances, but it appears Mr. Jarndyce was actually closer to Lady Dedlock's sister. They discuss Lady Dedlock's sister's death, as she "died in retirement. Esther admires Lady Dedlock's beauty and imperious manner. Lady Dedlock is kind and graceful to Ada, but gives not very much attention to Esther. When the rain stops, both Rosa and Mademoiselle Hortense arrive to attend their mistress. Lady Dedlock slights Hortense by preferring Rosa over her, and Hortense takes her revenge by walking shoeless back to the house over the wet grass. Ada, Esther, and Jarndyce find this very curious, but the gamekeeper and his wife assure them that Hortense is not mad, only "passionate"

Richard's decline is becoming more and more obvious.  The fact that Ada does not have the either the intelligence or the necessary boldness to counsel Richard against pursuing the matter of Jarndyce and Jarndyce leads us to believe that either Ada is not a very strong character, or has a slight inner inclination toward greed .  His tenure in Kenge and Carboy's can only bring sorrow, we are lead to believe. The mystery of Esther's parentage deepens as we learn that Jarndyce, though he claims no knowledge of it, dislikes being called "Father" by Esther.  Is this because he is actually her father, or because he knows who her father is?  The fact that it is because he loves her in a romantic way is not yet revealed. The two meetings with Lady Dedlock produce such strange feelings in Esther that there can now be no doubt that the two are closely linked in some way.  The cryptic discussion of Lady Dedlock's sister opens the door to speculation if that woman could be Esther's godmother/aunt, and, possibly Esther's mother. The strange reaction of Hortense to Lady Dedlock's slight is a direct foreshadowing of the revenge she will take later on in the story.  Hortense is portrayed as almost maniacally jealous, and with reactions to negative emotions that are separate and different than what most people would expect.  By this means, with the added fact of ther foreign birth, Dickens separates her from the rest of humankind.  Later, this will give the reader the feeling of a comfortable "Other," when it is revealed that she is Tulkinghorn's murderer. At the Snagsby's, the black comedy of Guster and the Chadbands shows the artifice and hypocrisy of so much of middle class life.  Mrs. Snagsby tries hard to impress the minister and his wife, and is interrupted by her poor maid Guster's "fits."  The lack of real concern that the people  have for Jo renders ironic the florid sermonizing done by Mr. Chadband.  Mr. Chadband, though seemingly only a plot device to bring Mrs. Chadband, the former Mrs. Rachael, into the picture, is another example of the bad father , though he is a father of the spiritual kind.

Oh, Richard, Richard, Richard. You kind of suck. Like the Katy Perry song goes, "he's hot and he's cold" about medicine and the law. Sometimes he's into it, sometimes not, and always totally unconcerned and way too relaxed about his future. Finally they get him into Kenge's office and rent a little apartment for him in London, since Bleak House is too far away to commute. He promises to be good and is left to his own devices. The rest of the gang goes away to visit Boythorn in Lincolnshire . On the way there Skimpole is mooching off Jarndyce, as usual. He tells them his house and furniture have been seized because he hasn't been paying his rent. Esther wonders what's going on with his wife and kids, but he doesn't seem to think about them at all. The weather is beautiful, the landscape gorgeous, and they have a great ride out to the country. Boythorn meets them with his usual mix of crazed angry speech and delicately kind actions. He tells them about Sir Dedlock, his gout, and the fact that if they want to go for a walk through the park at Chesney Wold, they are welcome to, but he won't come with them. He also fills them in on Mrs. Rouncewell, Watt Rouncewell and Rosa . And he shows them the totally amazing castle and grounds of the Dedlock estate. Boythorn's house is beautiful and has an amazing fruit and vegetable garden. It's the most lush, fruitful, abundant piece of land ever. On one side of the property, however, Boythorn has stationed a permanent guard, a bulldog, and a bunch of signs warning trespassers - all to do with his many lawsuits with Dedlock. All of them walk to Church, since it's Sunday. Esther sees Rosa, Sir Dedlock, and the French maid Hortense. Then, as she suddenly meets eyes with Lady Dedlock... she totally flips out. She starts having crazed flashbacks to her childhood, to her aunt, her aunt's eyes, and then describes looking at Lady Dedlock as like looking into a broken mirror. Then she starts hearing the sermon not in the preacher's voice but in her aunt's. All of this she rationalizes by saying that maybe Lady Dedlock looks a little bit like her aunt. Um, OK. After church is over, Skimpole and Boythorn have an argument about whether it's better to get along with the rich and powerful by just agreeing to whatever they say and hoping they give you money or influence or whether it's better to have principles . It's kind of a silly argument. Skimpole talks about how well-suited he is to a life of leisure. A week later, Esther, Ada, and Jarndyce are out walking around when it starts to rain. They just make it to a lodge to take cover, and discover inside... Lady Dedlock! She apparently knows Jarndyce. Whoa! He used to know her sister better - but she and her sister apparently do not talk at all anymore. She is cold and haughty, as she normally is, and treats Ada and Esther like children. Suddenly Lady Dedlock's carriage drives up and out come Hortense and Rosa. It turns out that Lady Dedlock had called for an attendant and they didn't know which one of them she meant. She meant Rosa. Hortense is furious. After Rosa and Lady Dedlock drive away , Hortense is so enraged that she takes off her shoes and walks back to the house barefoot through the wet grass and the rain. Jarndyce is all, wow, dudes, she is totally bonkers! But no, apparently she is just really mad because she's already been fired and is just serving out her last few days as Lady Dedlock's maid. Since this was such a high position, as far as serving work goes anyway, she is crazy angry about being let go.

Richard, not surprisingly, decides that he will drop his medical apprenticeship and begins a career in law, working in Mr. Kenge's office. Mr. Jarndyce, Esther, Ada, and Skimpole visit Boythorn at his place near Chesney Wold. At church, Esther is surprised at how much Lady Dedlock resembles Miss Barbary. Later, by chance, Esther, Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce encounter Lady Dedlock in a gamekeeper's lodge, where they have all sought shelter from a fierce thunderstorm. Hearing Lady Dedlock speak, Esther's heart beats wildly, unexplainably: ". . . there arose before my mind innumerable pictures of myself." Lady Dedlock offends her French maid, Mlle. Hortense, by seeming to prefer Rosa, and, when it stops raining, Hortense walks home barefoot through the wet grass.

This chapter tends to confirm the reader's surmise that strong connections exist, and will soon be revealed, between Esther, Lady Dedlock, and Miss Barbary. The portrayal of Hortense as a violently emotional person, offended by Lady Dedlock, prepares the reader for the revenge that the maid will take later in the novel.

"Lady Dedlock" Esther, Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce are back at Bleak House, and Richard goes to work for Mr. Kenge. Mr. Jarndyce finds lodging for Richard in London, and Richard spends money wildly. Esther, Ada, Mr. Jarndyce, and Mr. Skimpole go to visit Mr. Boythorn, who lives in Lincolnshire. Mr. Boythorn leads them to his house but must take an inconvenient route because he has sworn not to set foot on Sir Leicester's property, Chesney Wold, which is right next to his own. However, he tells the guests that they may explore Sir Leicester's park. Esther says that Chesney Wold appears beautiful and peaceful. In the village, Mr. Boythorn greets a young man who he explains is Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson, and who is in love with a young girl staying with Lady Dedlock. Mr. Boythorn's house is pretty and comfortable, although Mr. Boythorn has put up several signs threatening trespassers, namely Sir Leicester. The day after they arrive, the group explores the park. In a church, they see several pretty young women, including the woman Mr. Boythorn had commented on. She is standing with the housekeeper. Near her is a Frenchwoman, who is glaring at her. Esther glances around the church, and a woman catches Esther's eye. Esther has a violent reaction. She has a feeling that is similar to the feelings she had at her godmother's house, when she would play with her doll and look at herself in the mirror. In fact, the woman's face is like a mirror in which Esther sees old memories. But Esther knows she has never seen this woman before. She figures out that this woman is Lady Dedlock. Esther is incredibly agitated. A week later, Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and Esther are walking in the park when it begins raining. They take shelter in a groundskeeper's lodge. Someone asks if it is dangerous. Ada thinks Esther has spoken, but it is Lady Dedlock, who is also in the lodge. Esther has another violent reaction to the voice because it makes her think of herself. Lady Dedlock introduces herself to Mr. Jarndyce and Ada. Mr. Jarndyce introduces Esther as his ward, and Lady Dedlock hastily turns away. Lady Dedlock asks Mr. Jarndyce if he knew her sister when they were abroad, and he says that he did. Lady Dedlock says she and her sister have gone their separate ways. A carriage arrives for Lady Dedlock, carrying the pretty young girl and the Frenchwoman. Lady Dedlock had requested only the young girl, but the Frenchwoman had come as well. There is no room in the carriage for the Frenchwoman after Lady Dedlock gets in, so she walks after it in the rain, barefoot

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

Lady Dedlock Richard takes a while before he switches from being an apprentice from Mr. Badger's to Mr. Kenge's because he is still unsure of what he wants to do. All this is distressing to Mr. Jarndyce who finds the wind in the east. Richard is careless with his money and in Mr. Kenge's office finally tackles the Jarndyce case to learn law. Mr. Jarndyce, the young ladies, and Skimpole make a visit to Mr. Boythorn, who lives next to the Dedlocks in Lincolnshire. Boythorn has to take them in a detour to his house because of the disputed right of way with Dedlock, whom he calls "Sir Arrogant Numskull" . Esther's description of Chesney Wold and Boythorn's house in the summer contrast with the November rain in the beginning, for there is peace and beauty in the country now. They see Watt Rouncewell as they pass through the village. He is fishing and hanging around Rosa at Chesney Wold again. Boythorn's house exhibits the qualities of "maturity and abundance," a ripening influence everywhere . At church, Boythorn's party see the Dedlocks, including Rosa and the French maid Hortense. Suddenly, Esther's heart quickens when she sees Lady Dedlock, who reminds her of her aunt. She thinks of her childhood. Boythorn and Skimpole have amusing discussions, for they are opposite in their views. Boythorn takes everything in the world as a personal insult and wants to right every wrong. Skimpole will not take anything seriously, not even the slaves in America, or his own welfare. He is a "child." In a storm, Jarndyce and the girls take shelter in a keeper's lodge on the Dedlock estate, and there they meet Lady Dedlock. She knows Jarndyce and they speak politely, though she is very proud. She asks to be introduced to the young ladies, looking curiously at Esther. She speaks of her sister, whom Jarndyce knew, saying they had gone their separate ways. When the carriage comes for Lady Dedlock, there are two maids, Hortense and Rosa. Lady Dedlock says Rosa is her personal maid now and dismisses Hortense, who in anger, takes off her shoes and walks barefoot back to the house.

Commentary on Chapter XVIII This chapter represents the first time the main plots with Esther and Lady Dedlock have intertwined, and it is significant. There is some mysterious pull between them, which foreshadows both future events and refers to the past. Lady Dedlock mentions her sister, who was Miss Barbary, the woman who raised Esther. Lady Dedlock seems to be getting some hints about Esther's identity and perhaps for that reason, pulls away from her. Esther connects Lady Dedlock and her aunt in her mind. The pride of the Dedlocks is commented on more than once, by Boythorn regarding Sir Leicester, and in the meeting with Lady Dedlock. The firing of Hortense, the French maid, is also of great significance, for Hortense is "passionate" and her hatred for the Dedlocks aroused. The Dedlocks are not well liked in their neighborhood but believe in their own untouchable importance.


Moving On

It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. The good
ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed,
iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing
clippers are laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchman, with a crew of
ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse their
papers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where. The
courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.
Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might
sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found there,
walk.

The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants' Inn, and Lincoln's Inn even
unto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded
proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided
stools that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of
Term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation.
Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and
parcels are to be left at the Porter's Lodge by the bushel. A crop of
grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pavement outside
Lincoln's Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to
do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons over
their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up and eat it
thoughtfully.

There is only one judge in town. Even he only comes twice a week to
sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize towns on his
circuit could see him now! No full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats,
no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. Merely a close-shaved
gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the
judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays
from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he
comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer!

The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. How
England can get on through four long summer months without its
bar--which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only
legitimate triumph in prosperity--is beside the question; assuredly
that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear. The
learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the
unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the
opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it is doing
infinitely better than might be expected in Switzerland. The learned
gentleman who does the withering business and who blights all
opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a French
watering-place. The learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the
smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks. The very
learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his gingery
complexion in pools and fountains of law until he has become great in
knotty arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy bench with
legal "chaff," inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most of the
initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity
and dust, about Constantinople. Other dispersed fragments of the same
great palladium are to be found on the canals of Venice, at the
second cataract of the Nile, in the baths of Germany, and sprinkled
on the sea-sand all over the English coast. Scarcely one is to be
encountered in the deserted region of Chancery Lane. If such a lonely
member of the bar do flit across the waste and come upon a prowling
suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his anxiety,
they frighten one another and retreat into opposite shades.

It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the young
clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees,
pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate, Ramsgate, or
Gravesend. All the middle-aged clerks think their families too large.
All the unowned dogs who stray into the Inns of Court and pant about
staircases and other dry places seeking water give short howls of
aggravation. All the blind men's dogs in the streets draw their
masters against pumps or trip them over buckets. A shop with a
sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish
in the window, is a sanctuary. Temple Bar gets so hot that it is, to
the adjacent Strand and Fleet Street, what a heater is in an urn, and
keeps them simmering all night.

There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be
cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in
dullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those
retirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot that
the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the
pavement--Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, with his
cat (who never is too hot) by his side. The Sol's Arms has
discontinued the Harmonic Meetings for the season, and Little Swills
is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he comes out
in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a juvenile
complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the feelings of
the most fastidious mind.

Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil of
rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long
vacation. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court, Cursitor
Street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mind as a
sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as a
law-stationer aforesaid. He has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn
and in the Rolls Yard during the long vacation than at other seasons,
and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing it is in such hot
weather to think that you live in an island with the sea a-rolling
and a-bowling right round you.

Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoon
in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it in
contemplation to receive company. The expected guests are rather
select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more. From
Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself, both verbally
and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers
for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is, as he expresses
it, "in the ministry." Mr. Chadband is attached to no particular
denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have nothing so
very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects as to render his
volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbent on his conscience;
but he has his followers, and Mrs. Snagsby is of the number. Mrs.
Snagsby has but recently taken a passage upward by the vessel,
Chadband; and her attention was attracted to that Bark A 1, when she
was something flushed by the hot weather.

"My little woman," says Mr. Snagsby to the sparrows in Staple Inn,
"likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see!"

So Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as the
handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the gift of
holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the little
drawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dusted, the
portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth,
the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision
made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin
slices of ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rows
of anchovies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, to be
brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. For Chadband is
rather a consuming vessel--the persecutors say a gorging vessel--and
can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork remarkably
well.

Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations when
they are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind his
hand, says to Mrs. Snagsby, "At what time did you expect Mr. and Mrs.
Chadband, my love?"

"At six," says Mrs. Snagsby.

Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way that "it's gone that."

"Perhaps you'd like to begin without them," is Mrs. Snagsby's
reproachful remark.

Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but he says,
with his cough of mildness, "No, my dear, no. I merely named the
time."

"What's time," says Mrs. Snagsby, "to eternity?"

"Very true, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby. "Only when a person lays in
victuals for tea, a person does it with a view--perhaps--more to
time. And when a time is named for having tea, it's better to come up
to it."

"To come up to it!" Mrs. Snagsby repeats with severity. "Up to it! As
if Mr. Chadband was a fighter!"

"Not at all, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby.

Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comes
rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular
ghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that Mr.
and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at the inner
door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is
admonished by Mrs. Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her
patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much
discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order)
by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to
announce "Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay,
whatsername!" and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.

Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general
appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs.
Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. Chadband moves
softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk
upright. He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were
inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovel, is very much in a
perspiration about the head, and never speaks without first putting
up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is
going to edify them.

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband, "peace be on this house! On the
master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on
the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What is peace? Is
it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and
beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh, yes! Therefore,
my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon yours."

In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr. Snagsby
thinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is well received.

"Now, my friends," proceeds Mr. Chadband, "since I am upon this
theme--"

Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass voice and
without removing her eyes from Chadband, says with dreadful
distinctness, "Go away!"

"Now, my friends," says Chadband, "since I am upon this theme, and in
my lowly path improving it--"

Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundred
and eighty-two." The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, "Go away!"

"Now, my friends," says Mr. Chadband, "we will inquire in a spirit of
love--"

Still Guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two."

Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to be
persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile,
says, "Let us hear the maiden! Speak, maiden!"

"One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir. Which
he wish to know what the shilling ware for," says Guster, breathless.

"For?" returns Mrs. Chadband. "For his fare!"

Guster replied that "he insistes on one and eightpence or on
summonsizzing the party." Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are
proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets the
tumult by lifting up his hand.

"My friends," says he, "I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. It
is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I ought not to
murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!"

While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. Snagsby, as
who should say, "You hear this apostle!" and while Mr. Chadband glows
with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money. It is Mr.
Chadband's habit--it is the head and front of his pretensions
indeed--to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the
smallest items and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions.

"My friends," says Chadband, "eightpence is not much; it might justly
have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half a crown.
O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!"

With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract in
verse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and before taking a chair,
lifts up his admonitory hand.

"My friends," says he, "what is this which we now behold as being
spread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, my
friends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends? Because
we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of
the earth, because we are not of the air. Can we fly, my friends? We
cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?"

Mr. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to
observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "No wings." But is
immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.

"I say, my friends," pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejecting and
obliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly? Is it
because we are calculated to walk? It is. Could we walk, my friends,
without strength? We could not. What should we do without strength,
my friends? Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double
up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground.
Then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive
the strength that is necessary to our limbs? Is it," says Chadband,
glancing over the table, "from bread in various forms, from butter
which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow,
from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from
sausage, and from such like? It is. Then let us partake of the good
things which are set before us!"

The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.
Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after
this fashion. But this can only be received as a proof of their
determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody's
experience that the Chadband style of oratory is widely received and
much admired.

Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at
Mr. Snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously. The conversion
of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned
appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this
exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be
described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or
other large factory for the production of that article on a wholesale
scale. On the present evening of the long vacation, in Cook's Court,
Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful stroke of business that the
warehouse appears to be quite full when the works cease.

At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never recovered
her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impossible means
of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt--among which
may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly performing clashing
military music on Mr. Chadband's head with plates, and afterwards
crowning that gentleman with muffins--at which period of the
entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby that he is wanted.

"And being wanted in the--not to put too fine a point upon it--in the
shop," says Mr. Snagsby, rising, "perhaps this good company will
excuse me for half a minute."

Mr. Snagsby descends and finds the two 'prentices intently
contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm.

"Why, bless my heart," says Mr. Snagsby, "what's the matter!"

"This boy," says the constable, "although he's repeatedly told to,
won't move on--"

"I'm always a-moving on, sar," cries the boy, wiping away his grimy
tears with his arm. "I've always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever
since I was born. Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I do
move!"

"He won't move on," says the constable calmly, with a slight
professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his
stiff stock, "although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and
therefore I am obliged to take him into custody. He's as obstinate a
young gonoph as I know. He WON'T move on."

"Oh, my eye! Where can I move to!" cries the boy, clutching quite
desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of
Mr. Snagsby's passage.

"Don't you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work of
you!" says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. "My
instructions are that you are to move on. I have told you so five
hundred times."

"But where?" cries the boy.

"Well! Really, constable, you know," says Mr. Snagsby wistfully, and
coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and doubt,
"really, that does seem a question. Where, you know?"

"My instructions don't go to that," replies the constable. "My
instructions are that this boy is to move on."

Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one else that the
great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few years
in this business to set you the example of moving on. The one grand
recipe remains for you--the profound philosophical prescription--the
be-all and the end-all of your strange existence upon earth. Move on!
You are by no means to move off, Jo, for the great lights can't at
all agree about that. Move on!

Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect, says nothing at all indeed,
but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thoroughfare in any
direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and Mrs. Snagsby,
hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the stairs. Guster having
never left the end of the passage, the whole household are assembled.

"The simple question is, sir," says the constable, "whether you know
this boy. He says you do."

Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, "No he don't!"

"My lit-tle woman!" says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the staircase. "My
love, permit me! Pray have a moment's patience, my dear. I do know
something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can't say that
there's any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable." To whom the
law-stationer relates his Joful and woeful experience, suppressing
the half-crown fact.

"Well!" says the constable, "so far, it seems, he had grounds for
what he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said you
knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he was
acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if
I'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear. The young man don't seem
inclined to keep his word, but--Oh! Here IS the young man!"

Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby and touches his hat with the
chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs.

"I was strolling away from the office just now when I found this row
going on," says Mr. Guppy to the law-stationer, "and as your name was
mentioned, I thought it was right the thing should be looked into."

"It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "and I am
obliged to you." And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience, again
suppressing the half-crown fact.

"Now, I know where you live," says the constable, then, to Jo. "You
live down in Tom-all-Alone's. That's a nice innocent place to live
in, ain't it?"

"I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies Jo. "They
wouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice innocent
place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such
a reg'lar one as me!"

"You are very poor, ain't you?" says the constable.

"Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies Jo. "I leave
you to judge now! I shook these two half-crowns out of him," says the
constable, producing them to the company, "in only putting my hand
upon him!"

"They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, "out of a sov-ring as wos
give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to
my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouse and the
ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground
wot he's berrid in. She ses to me she ses 'are you the boy at the
inkwhich?' she ses. I ses 'yes' I ses. She ses to me she ses 'can you
show me all them places?' I ses 'yes I can' I ses. And she ses to me
'do it' and I dun it and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it. And I
an't had much of the sov'ring neither," says Jo, with dirty tears,
"fur I had to pay five bob, down in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd
square it fur to give me change, and then a young man he thieved
another five while I was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence
and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on it."

"You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the
sovereign, do you?" says the constable, eyeing him aside with
ineffable disdain.

"I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo. "I don't expect nothink at
all, sir, much, but that's the true hist'ry on it."

"You see what he is!" the constable observes to the audience. "Well,
Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock him up this time, will you engage for
his moving on?"

"No!" cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs.

"My little woman!" pleads her husband. "Constable, I have no doubt
he'll move on. You know you really must do it," says Mr. Snagsby.

"I'm everyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless Jo.

"Do it, then," observes the constable. "You know what you have got to
do. Do it! And recollect you won't get off so easy next time. Catch
hold of your money. Now, the sooner you're five mile off, the better
for all parties."

With this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sun as
a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors good
afternoon and makes the echoes of Cook's Court perform slow music for
him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his iron-bound hat
in his hand for a little ventilation.

Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has
awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr. Guppy,
who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who has
been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation,
takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular
cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by
the ladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs
and drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of
the tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppy
yielding his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to follow into
the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand as a
witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the other shape
like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worrying him
according to the best models. Nor is the examination unlike many such
model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing and of its
being lengthy, for Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent, and Mrs.
Snagsby feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition,
but that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up in the law.
During the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel Chadband,
being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground and waits to be
floated off.

"Well!" says Mr. Guppy. "Either this boy sticks to it like
cobbler's-wax or there is something out of the common here that beats
anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Carboy's."

Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, "You don't say
so!"

"For years!" replied Mrs. Chadband.

"Has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years," Mrs. Snagsby
triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. "Mrs. Chadband--this gentleman's
wife--Reverend Mr. Chadband."

"Oh, indeed!" says Mr. Guppy.

"Before I married my present husband," says Mrs. Chadband.

"Was you a party in anything, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, transferring
his cross-examination.

"No."

"NOT a party in anything, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy.

Mrs. Chadband shakes her head.

"Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in
something, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than to
model his conversation on forensic principles.

"Not exactly that, either," replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring the joke
with a hard-favoured smile.

"Not exactly that, either!" repeats Mr. Guppy. "Very good. Pray,
ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions
(we will not at present say what transactions) with Kenge and
Carboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? Take
time, ma'am. We shall come to it presently. Man or woman, ma'am?"

"Neither," says Mrs. Chadband as before.

"Oh! A child!" says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring Mrs. Snagsby
the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on British
jurymen. "Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness to tell us
WHAT child."

"You have got it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband with another
hard-favoured smile. "Well, sir, it was before your time, most
likely, judging from your appearance. I was left in charge of a child
named Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by Messrs. Kenge and
Carboy."

"Miss Summerson, ma'am!" cries Mr. Guppy, excited.

"I call her Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband with austerity.
"There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. It was Esther.
'Esther, do this! Esther, do that!' and she was made to do it."

"My dear ma'am," returns Mr. Guppy, moving across the small
apartment, "the humble individual who now addresses you received that
young lady in London when she first came here from the establishment
to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the pleasure of taking
you by the hand."

Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accustomed
signal and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with his
pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers "Hush!"

"My friends," says Chadband, "we have partaken in moderation" (which
was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "of the
comforts which have been provided for us. May this house live upon
the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful therein; may
it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it
proceed, may it press forward! But, my friends, have we partaken of
anything else? We have. My friends, of what else have we partaken? Of
spiritual profit? Yes. From whence have we derived that spiritual
profit? My young friend, stand forth!"

Jo, thus apostrophized, gives a slouch backward, and another slouch
forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the eloquent
Chadband with evident doubts of his intentions.

"My young friend," says Chadband, "you are to us a pearl, you are to
us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. And why, my
young friend?"

"I don't know," replies Jo. "I don't know nothink."

"My young friend," says Chadband, "it is because you know nothing
that you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are you, my young
friend? Are you a beast of the field? No. A bird of the air? No. A
fish of the sea or river? No. You are a human boy, my young friend. A
human boy. O glorious to be a human boy! And why glorious, my young
friend? Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom,
because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which I now
deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a
stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.

   O running stream of sparkling joy
   To be a soaring human boy!

And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend? No.
Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? Because you are in a
state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because
you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of
bondage. My young friend, what is bondage? Let us, in a spirit of
love, inquire."

At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have
been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his
face and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expresses
her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin folding
itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is right that
I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is right
that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be corrected. I
stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pride of my three
hours' improving. The account is now favourably balanced: my creditor
has accepted a composition. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be
joyful!"

Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby.

"My friends," says Chadband, looking round him in conclusion, "I will
not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come to-morrow, my
young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am to be found to
deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like the thirsty
swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that, and upon the
day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses?"
(This with a cow-like lightness.)

Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms,
gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Guppy then throws him a penny, and Mrs.
Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. But
before he goes downstairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some broken
meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.

So, Mr. Chadband--of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he
should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable
nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave
off, having once the audacity to begin--retires into private life
until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo
moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge,
where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his repast.

And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great
cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering above a
red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face one might
suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion
of the great, confused city--so golden, so high up, so far out of his
reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the
crowd flowing by him in two streams--everything moving on to some
purpose and to one end--until he is stirred up and told to "move on"
too.

Chapter 19 takes place in the summertime in London, during the "long vacation" of the court. Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have the minister Mr. Chadband and his wife to their house. Outside, an altercation takes place between Jo and a policeman, who is trying to make Jo "move on". Mr. Guppy, at a loose end during the heat and long vacation, arrives and takes an interest in the proceedings. Money is found on Jo, and he explains that it the change left over from the sovereign given to him by the veiled lady. He explains that she said she was a servant, but acted like a lady, and she inquired into the places put in the newspaper about Nemo's lodging, work, and where he was buried. Once Jo had been employed to show her these things, she gave him the coin and disappeared. Guppy is most interested in this story. Mr. and Mrs. Chadband meet Guppy, and learn he is in Kenge and Carboy's employ. Mrs. Chadband, who used to be Mrs. Rachael, tells Guppy that she used to be housekeeper for the godmother of Esther Summerson, whose wardship was handled by Kenge and Carboy's. Guppy is intrigued, for it is this same Miss Summerson that he now loves. Jo is given a little food and a penny, and told to move on. He leaves and goes to sit on the pavement to eat it, and is told to "move on" again

The whole legal profession is on summer break. Everyone who can gets out of the hot city and goes to the shore. Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby can't really leave, but obviously they have a lot less to do. They are waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Chadband to come to tea. Chadband is a self-proclaimed preacher, though that's pretty unofficial since he has no congregation and isn't affiliated with any denomination. Chadband is fat and oily. He talks in a weird question-and-answer format that sounds like he's saying something deep and meaningful when he's really just blathering on about nothing. Mrs. Snagsby is totally into this nonsense, though, and is all excited to have the Chadbands over. After a couple of speeches, Chadband digs into the food. Suddenly there is a commotion in the shop and Snagsby goes to investigate. A policeman is there, holding Jo by the arm. The policeman complains that although he's been telling Jo to "move on," the boy hasn't actually gone anywhere. Jo says he is constantly moving on and really he has nowhere to move on to. Snagsby acknowledges that he knows the boy and thinks he's not a danger. He is clearly compassionate. Meanwhile, Mrs. Snagsby is standing behind him doing her best to kick Jo out and have nothing to do with him. The cop says he found a bunch of money on Jo. How could someone like him come by money without some kind of illegal activity being involved? Jo tells a garbled version of his story - that some veiled woman hired him to walk her around to the places associated with Nemo then gave him money. He complains that most of what she gave him was stolen at Tom-all-Alone's. The cop doesn't really believe him. Suddenly, into the shop comes Mr. Guppy, who happened to be walking by and heard the commotion. The cop leaves and Guppy questions Jo, only to get the same general answers. When Mrs. Chadband finds out that Guppy works for Kenge's office, she exclaims that she's known that firm for years! A long time ago, before she was married, Mrs. Chadband was in charge of a child named Esther Summerson. Whoa. Guppy is a little floored by this news. Meanwhile, Chadband seizes on Jo and starts preaching to him and says how great it is to be a boy. This is just a shocking, horrendously insensitive thing to say to someone who lives the kind of non-boy life Jo leads in the streets. Dickens really hates hypocritically religious people. Finally Chadband stops, and makes Jo promise to come back the next day to listen to more of the same. Jo just wants to get away so he promises to come. Then he goes away, finds a corner somewhere to hide in, and eats the little bit of food that Snagsby managed to secretly give him before he went away.

It is now summer. The Snagsbys entertain their minister and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Chadband. Outside the Snagsbys' house are Jo and a policeman who insists that the boy "move on." Jo maintains he has nowhere to move on to. As Mr. Guppy arrives on the scene, Jo is asked to explain the money found on his person. The boy says that it is the remains of a gold sovereign paid to him for showing a lady where Mr. Nemo lodged, worked, and was buried. Questioning Jo, Mr. Guppy learns the entire story. Mrs. Chadband says that in her younger years Guppy's firm put her in charge of Esther Summerson, then a young child. The Snagsbys provide Jo with some food, after which he "moves on."

Here the comic and the pathetic are intermingled -- little Jo providing the pathos and the Chadbands the comedy. Mr. Chadhand, whom Dickens satirizes, is one of the book's numerous eccentrics but is also a type: He represents the loud, voluble, but empty and rather hypocritical sermonizer, a species not rare in Dickens' era. Dickens keeps two important threads running here: the mystery of Esther's identity and the mystery of Lady Dedlock's pursuit of the facts about Nemo. Little Jo's "moving on" from one nowhere to another nowhere continues the motif of childhood sorrow.

"Moving On" The narrator describes a long vacation in Chancery Lane. It is summertime, and many courts are out of session. Everyone goes on vacation. Mr. Snagsby, the law-stationer, relaxes, and he and Mrs. Snagsby invite Mr. and Mrs. Chadband over. Mr. Chadband has the habit of making grand lectures instead of speaking normally. He lectures everyone tirelessly. Guster tells Mr. Snagsby there is someone in the shop to see him. It is a police constable holding a young boy by the arm. The constable tells Mr. Snagsby that the boy won't leave the area as he had been asked to. The boy, Jo, says he has nowhere to go. The constable says Jo claims to know Mr. Snagsby, which Mr. Snagsby says he does, from the inquest regarding the dead man. He doesn't reveal that he gave Jo a half-crown to keep quiet. At that moment, Mr. Guppy enters the room, and the constable says that Mr. Guppy said that Mr. Snagsby is respectable. Mr. Guppy had seen the confusion outside and was looking into it. Jo tells everyone about a lady who gave him money to show her where the dead man was buried. Mr. Guppy is interested in Jo's story about the lady and starts asking him questions. Mrs. Snagsby invites him upstairs, and Jo follows. Mr. Guppy continues to ask him questions. Mrs. Chadband reveals that she has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years, because of a situation concerning a child. She explains that she was left in charge of a child named Esther Summerson. Mr. Guppy tells her that he met Esther in London. Mr. Chadband compliments Jo and talks on and on about his lot in life. Jo finally escapes

Moving On In the long summer vacation of four months, the Courts of Law and Equity are shut up and everyone on vacation. At Mr. Snagsby's house, they are getting ready for company, with Guster the maid dropping things and causing a clatter. Mr. Chadband, the minister, and his wife, have come to tea. Chadband speaks in a booming prophetic voice, an Apostle, full of cliches. They are interrupted by a constable who holds the street boy, Jo, claiming he has money on him, and they suspect him of stealing. Jo has given Snagsby as a reference. The constable tells him he has to "move on." Mr. Guppy comes in and hears Jo's testimony that he was given the coin by a mysterious lady. Snagsby says the boy is innocent. Snagsby invites Guppy to tea where he hears Mrs. Chadband , tell about her former life as a housekeeper for Miss Barbary and the child Esther Summerson. Guppy perks up at the name of his beloved. Chadband uses the boy Jo as a subject to sermonize upon for his dark ignorance, and Jo wants nothing more than to "move on."

Commentary on Chapter XIX The obnoxious Guppy is everywhere, getting bits and pieces of stories, pieces of one big puzzle. He hears Jo's story about Lady Dedlock's visit to the slums and the story of Esther's childhood. As we will see in the next chapter, he continues to make connections with people and places that have to do with a central mystery tying in to the Jarndyce case. Chadband is another parody of self-important religious people, who like Mrs. Pardiggle, make useless statements about the poor. The title of the chapter comes from the constable's warning to street people to "move on" and not loiter. The narrator makes a comment that it is ironic for the poor to have to move on, while Parliament does not. Poor Jo says, "I've always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever since I was born" . Jo is one of the homeless of London. Chadband tells him he is in darkness because he is in sin.