Esther's Narrative

It was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside London
did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with
streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition
than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and the
thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never
slackened. It had only been, as I thought, of less assistance than
the horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. They had
stopped exhausted half-way up hills, they had been driven through
streams of turbulent water, they had slipped down and become
entangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had been
always ready, and when the mishap was set right, I had never heard
any variation in his cool, "Get on, my lads!"

The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our journey
back I could not account for. Never wavering, he never even stopped
to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of London. A very
few words, here and there, were then enough for him; and thus we
came, at between three and four o'clock in the morning, into
Islington.

I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflected
all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther
behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he must be
right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in following
this woman, but I tormented myself with questioning it and discussing
it during the whole journey. What was to ensue when we found her and
what could compensate us for this loss of time were questions also
that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind was quite tortured by long
dwelling on such reflections when we stopped.

We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. My
companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered with
splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the
carriage itself, and giving them some brief direction where to take
it, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from
the rest.

"Why, my dear!" he said as he did this. "How wet you are!"

I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its way
into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when a fallen
horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had penetrated
my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but the driver, who knew
him, would not be dissuaded by me from running down the street to his
stable, whence he brought an armful of clean dry straw. They shook it
out and strewed it well about me, and I found it warm and
comfortable.

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the window after
I was shut up. "We're a-going to mark this person down. It may take a
little time, but you don't mind that. You're pretty sure that I've
got a motive. Ain't you?"

I little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time I
should understand it better, but I assured him that I had confidence
in him.

"So you may have, my dear," he returned. "And I tell you what! If you
only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you after
what I've experienced of you, that'll do. Lord! You're no trouble at
all. I never see a young woman in any station of society--and I've
seen many elevated ones too--conduct herself like you have conducted
yourself since you was called out of your bed. You're a pattern, you
know, that's what you are," said Mr. Bucket warmly; "you're a
pattern."

I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been no
hindrance to him, and that I hoped I should be none now.

"My dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as she's game,
and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and more than I expect.
She then becomes a queen, and that's about what you are yourself."

With these encouraging words--they really were encouraging to me
under those lonely and anxious circumstances--he got upon the box,
and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew then nor
have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and
worst streets in London. Whenever I saw him directing the driver, I
was prepared for our descending into a deeper complication of such
streets, and we never failed to do so.

Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger
building than the generality, well lighted. Then we stopped at
offices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and I
saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down by
an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of
his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from various
dark quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would
be held. By degrees we appeared to contract our search within
narrower and easier limits. Single police-officers on duty could now
tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted to know and point to him where to go.
At last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and one
of these men, which I supposed to be satisfactory from his manner of
nodding from time to time. When it was finished he came to me looking
very busy and very attentive.

"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, "you won't be alarmed whatever
comes off, I know. It's not necessary for me to give you any further
caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down and
that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I don't like to
ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way?"

Of course I got out directly and took his arm.

"It ain't so easy to keep your feet," said Mr. Bucket, "but take
time."

Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed the
street, I thought I knew the place. "Are we in Holborn?" I asked him.

"Yes," said Mr. Bucket. "Do you know this turning?"

"It looks like Chancery Lane."

"And was christened so, my dear," said Mr. Bucket.

We turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, I
heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silence and
as quickly as we could with such a foot-hold, when some one coming
towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped and
stood aside to give me room. In the same moment I heard an
exclamation of wonder and my own name from Mr. Woodcourt. I knew his
voice very well.

It was so unexpected and so--I don't know what to call it, whether
pleasant or painful--to come upon it after my feverish wandering
journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep back
the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange
country.

"My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour, and in
such weather!"

He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some
uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. I
told him that we had but just left a coach and were going--but then I
was obliged to look at my companion.

"Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt"--he had caught the name from me--"we
are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket."

Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly taken off
his cloak and was putting it about me. "That's a good move, too,"
said Mr. Bucket, assisting, "a very good move."

"May I go with you?" said Mr. Woodcourt. I don't know whether to me
or to my companion.

"Why, Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on himself. "Of
course you may."

It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrapped
in the cloak.

"I have just left Richard," said Mr. Woodcourt. "I have been sitting
with him since ten o'clock last night."

"Oh, dear me, he is ill!"

"No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed
and faint--you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes--and Ada
sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and came
straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a little while,
and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though
God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him
until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is
now, I hope!"

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected
devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he had
inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could I separate
all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must have been if it
had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the
change in my appearance: "I will accept him as a trust, and it shall
be a sacred one!"

We now turned into another narrow street. "Mr. Woodcourt," said Mr.
Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, "our business
takes us to a law-stationer's here, a certain Mr. Snagsby's. What,
you know him, do you?" He was so quick that he saw it in an instant.

"Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place."

"Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket. "Then you will be so good as to let
me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have
half a word with him?"

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing
silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my
saying I heard some one crying.

"Don't be alarmed, miss," he returned. "It's Snagsby's servant."

"Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, "the girl's subject to fits, and has
'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I
want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to
reason somehow."

"At all events, they wouldn't be up yet if it wasn't for her, Mr.
Bucket," said the other man. "She's been at it pretty well all night,
sir."

"Well, that's true," he returned. "My light's burnt out. Show yours a
moment."

All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which I
could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of light
produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and knocked.
The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in,
leaving us standing in the street.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Woodcourt, "if without obtruding myself on
your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so."

"You are truly kind," I answered. "I need wish to keep no secret of
my own from you; if I keep any, it is another's."

"I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as
I can fully respect it."

"I trust implicitly to you," I said. "I know and deeply feel how
sacredly you keep your promise."

After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and Mr.
Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. "Please to
come in, Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down by the fire. Mr.
Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a
medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be
done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I
particularly want. It's not in her box, and I think it must be about
her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to
handle without hurting."

We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and
raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage
behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a
grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke
meekly.

"Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket," said he. "The lady will
excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. The
back is Guster's bedroom, and in it she's a-carrying on, poor thing,
to a frightful extent!"

We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found the
little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs.
Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, "to
wave--not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear--hostilities for
one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is
Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady."

She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and
looked particularly hard at me.

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remotest
corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, "it is not
unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr.
Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street,
at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least idea. If I
was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I'd rather
not be told."

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I
appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr.
Bucket took the matter on himself.

"Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do is to go
along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster--"

"My Guster, Mr. Bucket!" cried Mr. Snagsby. "Go on, sir, go on. I
shall be charged with that next."

"And to hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting
himself, "or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you're
asked. Which there's not a man alive more ready to do, for you're a
man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've got the sort of
heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good
as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me
have it as soon as ever you can?"

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire
and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender,
talking all the time.

"Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look
from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistake altogether.
She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her
generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I'm a-going
to explain it to her." Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat
and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs.
Snagsby. "Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman
possessing what you may call charms, you know--'Believe Me, if All
Those Endearing,' and cetrer--you're well acquainted with the song,
because it's in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are
strangers--charms--attractions, mind you, that ought to give you
confidence in yourself--is, that you've done it."

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered,
what did Mr. Bucket mean.

"What does Mr. Bucket mean?" he repeated, and I saw by his face that
all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the
letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it
must be; "I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. Go and see Othello
acted. That's the tragedy for you."

Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why.

"Why?" said Mr. Bucket. "Because you'll come to that if you don't
look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your
mind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I
tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you're what I call an
intellectual woman--with your soul too large for your body, if you
come to that, and chafing it--and you know me, and you recollect
where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don't
you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady."

Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I did
at the time.

"And Toughey--him as you call Jo--was mixed up in the same business,
and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the
same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge
of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn,
deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and
the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no
other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts
her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed
head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr.
Woodcourt might have got it by this time.)"

Mrs. Snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Is that all?" said Mr. Bucket excitedly. "No. See what happens.
Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a
wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your
maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes
a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do
you do? You hide and you watch 'em, and you pounce upon that
maid-servant--knowing what she's subject to and what a little thing
will bring 'em on--in that surprising manner and with that severity
that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be
hanging upon that girl's words!"

He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily clasped
my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it stopped. Mr.
Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again.

"Now, Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make," said Mr. Bucket,
rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to this young lady
in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to
that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one
thing that's likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your
swiftest and best!" In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the
door. "Now my dear, you're steady and quite sure of yourself?"

"Quite," said I.

"Whose writing is that?"

It was my mother's. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of
paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed
to me at my guardian's.

"You know the hand," he said, "and if you are firm enough to read it
to me, do! But be particular to a word."

It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what
follows:

   I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the
   dear one, if I could, once more--but only to see her--not
   to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other
   object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the
   mother for her share. The assistance that she rendered me,
   she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the
   dear one's good. You remember her dead child. The men's
   consent I bought, but her help was freely given.

"'I came.' That was written," said my companion, "when she rested
there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right."

The next was written at another time:

   I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and
   I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no
   purpose but to die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am
   saved from adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and
   fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but
   I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It was
   right that all that had sustained me should give way at
   once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.

"Take courage," said Mr. Bucket. "There's only a few words more."

Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, almost
in the dark:

   I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon
   forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing
   about me by which I can be recognized. This paper I part
   with now. The place where I shall lie down, if I can get
   so far, has been often in my mind. Farewell. Forgive.

Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my
chair. "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon
as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready."

I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for
my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I
heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. At
length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important
to address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for
whatever information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt that
she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed.
The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what
passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where
the person went. Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these
points, I went into the next room with them. Mr. Woodcourt would have
remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.

The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her down.
They stood around her, though at a little distance, that she might
have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but she had a
plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. I
kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my
shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into
tears.

"My poor girl," said I, laying my face against her forehead, for
indeed I was crying too, and trembling, "it seems cruel to trouble
you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter
than I could tell you in an hour."

She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm, she
didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby!

"We are all sure of that," said I. "But pray tell me how you got it."

"Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I'll tell true, indeed,
Mrs. Snagsby."

"I am sure of that," said I. "And how was it?"

"I had been out on an errand, dear lady--long after it was
dark--quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking
person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me
coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here.
And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about
here, but had lost her way and couldn't find them. Oh, what shall I
do, what shall I do! They won't believe me! She didn't say any harm
to me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!"

It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her--which she did, I
must say, with a good deal of contrition--before she could be got
beyond this.

"She could not find those places," said I.

"No!" cried the girl, shaking her head. "No! Couldn't find them. And
she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that if
you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have given her half a crown, I
know!"

"Well, Guster, my girl," said he, at first not knowing what to say.
"I hope I should."

"And yet she was so well spoken," said the girl, looking at me with
wide open eyes, "that it made a person's heart bleed. And so she said
to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her
which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground. And so I
told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to
parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far
from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate."

As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr. Bucket
received this with a look which I could not separate from one of
alarm.

"Oh, dear, dear!" cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her
hands. "What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying
ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff--that
you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby--that frightened me so,
Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!"

"You are so much better now," sald I. "Pray, pray tell me more."

"Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dear
lady, because I have been so ill."

Angry with her, poor soul!

"There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to
find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with
eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back.
And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was
to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded
and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the
messenger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no
harm, and she said no--no harm. And so I took it from her, and she
said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and
consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and
went."

"And did she go--"

"Yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. "Yes! She went the
way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me
from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened."

Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and
immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated, but I
said, "Don't leave me now!" and Mr. Bucket added, "You'll be better
with us, we may want you; don't lose time!"

I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that
it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the
street-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling
and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled
people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, the
clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of
blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the
courts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poor
girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my
hearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained
house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great
water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the
air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.

At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one
lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly
struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground--a
dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where
I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in
by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose
walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the
gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and
splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a
woman lying--Jenny, the mother of the dead child.

I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me
with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to
the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did
so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.

"Miss Summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. They
changed clothes at the cottage."

They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in my
mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached no
meaning to them in any other connexion.

"And one returned," said Mr. Bucket, "and one went on. And the one
that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and
then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!"

I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what
it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead
child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron
gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had so lately
spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered,
senseless creature. She who had brought my mother's letter, who could
give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide
us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to
this condition by some means connected with my mother that I could
not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that
moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw but did not
comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt's face.
I saw but did not comprehend his touching the other on the breast to
keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a
reverence for something. But my understanding for all this was gone.

I even heard it said between them, "Shall she go?"

"She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her. They
have a higher right than ours."

I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head,
put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it was my
mother, cold and dead.

OK, this chapter is kind of hardcore. Maybe you'd better sit down. Esther and Bucket drive really fast back down to London. Bucket drives the carriage into some of the most horrible, gross, narrow streets that Esther has ever seen. Bucket keeps conferring with other policemen, and gradually they narrow the circle of the search. Finally they arrive at the neighborhood where the Chancery Court is. They get out to walk, even though it's crazily snowing, and run into... Woodcourt! He's just been to see Richard and Ada. Richard seems to be doing OK, and Woodcourt joins the search party. They all go to Snagsby's house, where Bucket really wants to talk to Guster, the maid, but she unfortunately is having one of her epileptic seizures. Woodcourt goes to see if he can do anything to help her, and meanwhile Bucket finally talks some sense into Mrs. Snagsby and her nonsense suspicions about her extremely decent and kind husband. Woodcourt returns with a letter. It's written in Lady Dedlock's handwriting! It's basically a suicide note, but she says she won't have to actually kill herself since the cold will do it for her. Guster tells them how a poorly dressed woman came to the house, gave her this letter to mail, and asked for directions to the poor people's cemetery, where Nemo was buried. Bucket immediately looks worried, and they set off for that sad and terrible place. When they get there, Esther sees Jenny lying on the ground. Before she approaches, Bucket tells her that "they changed clothes at the cottage" , but this doesn't mean anything to her. He tries to explain again, that one went north to throw off the searchers and another went south. Again, Esther can't make sense of the words. She walks over to the dead Jenny on the ground, turns her over, and sees... Lady Dedlock.

At 3 a.m., after a hard, hurried journey, Bucket and Esther reach London again. Searching through many shabby streets, Bucket eventually passes on to Chancery Lane where, by accident, they meet Allan Woodcourt, who has been attending Richard, described by Allan as not ill but "depressed and faint." Bucket drives the coach to Snagsby's place: he thinks that Guster, the servant, "has a letter somewhere" that will assist him in his search. At 3 a.m., after a hard, hurried journey, Bucket and Esther reach London again. Searching through many shabby streets, Bucket eventually passes on to Chancery Lane where, by accident, they meet Allan Woodcourt, who has been attending Richard, described by Allan as not ill but "depressed and faint." Bucket drives the coach to Snagsby's place: he thinks that Guster, the servant, "has a letter somewhere" that will assist him in his search. Guster is in one of her fits. Bucket assigns Allan the task of extracting the letter from her. In the meantime, the detective reproaches Mrs. Snagsby for the folly of being jealous of her husband. The doctor obtains the letter and passes it on to Bucket who, in turn, asks Esther to read it. It is a letter from her mother saying that she is on her way to the place where she has chosen to die. Guster confesses that she encountered a wretchedly dressed stranger who asked her how to find the paupers' burying ground. Bucket and Esther hurry to that place and find what seems to be the body of Jenny at the gate. Esther discovers, however, that the dead woman dressed in Jenny's clothes is not Jenny -- it is Esther's mother, Lady Dedlock, "cold and dead."

Here ends one of the book's central actions: the mystery of Lady Dedlock's secret. Dickens must now devote his attention, in the few chapters remaining, to bringing the other main lines of action to a close. Esther and Allan must be brought together and the fate of Richard and Ada remains to be clarified.

"Esther's Narrative" Esther tells us that she and Bucket reach London around three in the morning. Esther still fears they've abandoned Lady Dedlock, but Bucket assures her he has reasons for coming back. As they travel through the winding London streets, Bucket occasionally stops and meets with others. Finally he says he's tracked the woman down and that they need to walk for a bit. As they walk down Chancery Lane, they cross paths with Mr. Woodcourt, and he joins them. Woodcourt says he has been with Richard, who is not well. They arrive at Mr. Snagsby's and hear a girl sobbing. Bucket says it's the Snagsbys' servant, Guster, and that he needs information from her. He asks Woodcourt to try to calm her down so that Bucket can get a letter he needs. Mr. Snagsby lets them in and introduces them to Mrs. Snagsby. Woodcourt and Snagsby go to see Guster. Bucket chastises Mrs. Snagsby for being so jealous and suspicious. Woodcourt returns with the letter, and Bucket asks Esther whose writing it is. She says it's Lady Dedlock's. The letter says she went to the cottage and got help from Jenny, and that her only purpose is to die. Esther asks Guster how she got the letter. Guster says she had been running errands when a woman stopped her, asking the way to the burial ground. Guster says it was the burial ground in which Krook's lodger was buried. The lady gave Guster a letter and instructed her to send it. They leave the Snagsbys' house and rush to the burial ground. Esther is numb and confused. At the gate to the burial ground, she sees a woman on the ground, who she thinks is Jenny. She starts to run toward her, but Bucket stops her, telling her that he suspects Lady Dedlock and Jenny traded clothes and that Jenny walked only a short distance before turning around and going home. The purpose was to deceive. Esther doesn't understand what all this means. She goes to the woman and sees that it is Lady Dedlock, dead

Esther's Narrative At 3:00 a.m. Bucket and Esther reach London. Bucket gives Esther a pep talk, telling her she is amazingly courageous "You're a pattern" he tells her. He warns her, "you won't be alarmed whatever comes off, I know" . They come to Chancery Lane and run into Mr. Woodcourt, who has been sitting with Richard. He is ill. Woodcourt asks to go along. He is a comfort to Esther, and they speak of Ada and Richard. They all go to Snagsbys where everyone has been up all night, for Guster is having fits. Bucket asks Woodcourt to attend her, as he needs information from her when she calms down. Mrs. Snagsby is acting suspicious of everyone, especially Esther. Bucket gives Mrs. Snagsby a lecture on jealousy and shows her what a mess she has made. Guster is in fits because Mrs. Snagsby has scolded her. Finally, Bucket gets a note from Guster that was left by Lady Dedlock when she rested there. It is meant to show she did not commit suicide, but it says she knows she will die in the streets "of terror and my conscience" . She says there is nothing about her by which she can be recognized. She seeks a place she has long been thinking of. Bucket gets Guster to admit Lady Dedlock asked directions to the pauper's cemetery. Bucket, Woodcourt, and Esther walk to the cemetery and see a figure lying there with one arm around the gate. Esther cries, "Jenny!" Bucket says no--they changed clothes. Esther goes forward to find her mother dead, wearing Jenny's clothes.

Commentary on Chapter LIX Once more it is a pleasure to see Bucket in action and to see him set all these characters straight. He is the only one who can make Mrs. Snagsby ashamed. He finally figures out, too late, that the women had exchanged clothes, with Jenny being a decoy. In her last note, Lady Dedlock tries to excuse Jenny so she won't be punished for helping her. Lady Dedlock's terror of shame and criminal prosecution have hounded her to death. She herself had realized that Tulkinghorn's hand from the grave was just as powerful as in life. She was so traumatized by the sight of her lover's grave in this burying-ground when Jo showed it to her, that she wishes to join Hawdon here at last, a fitting place for the once proud lady cast down. Woodcourt appearing suddenly is one of those coincidences of Victorian fiction that must be accepted. It seems to be setting the stage for some further revelation about their relationship. He has been more and more slipping into the fabric of her life, without her much noticing. Here Esther begs him to stay with her through the ordeal. "Who will tell him?" We can only imagine the intrepid Bucket as the one who will tell Sir Leicester his wife is dead.


Perspective

I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all
about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved.
I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains,
that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it was
not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it if I could
quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs.
Woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us.
When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him
in our old way--though I could have done that sooner if he would have
believed me--I resumed my work and my chair beside his. He had
appointed the time himself, and we were alone.

"Dame Trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to the
growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I
propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer
time--as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short."

"And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?" said I.

"Aye, my dear? Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to take care of
itself."

I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw his
kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.

"Bleak House," he repeated--and his tone did NOT sound sorrowful, I
found--"must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada,
my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you."

"It's like you, guardian," said I, "to have been taking that into
consideration for a happy surprise to both of us."

"Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for
that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be
seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of
Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of
her alone, but of him too, poor fellow."

"Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?"

"I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden."

"Does he still say the same of Richard?"

"Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on
the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about
him; who CAN be?"

My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twice in
a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last
until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart
was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin John as it
had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of laying any injunctions
upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand that she felt it
a part of her duty to him to be sparing of her visits at our house.
My guardian's delicacy had soon perceived this and had tried to
convey to her that he thought she was right.

"Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I. "When will he awake
from his delusion!"

"He is not in the way to do so now, my dear," replied my guardian.
"The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made
me the principal representative of the great occasion of his
suffering."

I could not help adding, "So unreasonably!"

"Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot," returned my guardian, "what shall we find
reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the
top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason
and injustice from beginning to end--if it ever has an end--how
should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He
no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than older
men did in old times."

His gentleness and consideration for Richard whenever we spoke of him
touched me so that I was always silent on this subject very soon.

"I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the
whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished
by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors," pursued my
guardian. "When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses
from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be
astonished too!"

He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the
wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.

"Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave
to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada
upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance
of another separation from a friend. Therefore I have particularly
begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not
to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month,
next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can
wait."

But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, I
thought, had Mr. Woodcourt.

"So he tells me," returned my guardian. "Very good. He has made his
protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to
be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do you like her,
my dear?"

In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I liked
her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.

"I think so too," said my guardian. "Less pedigree? Not so much of
Morgan ap--what's his name?"

That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a very harmless
person, even when we had had more of him.

"Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains," said
my guardian. "I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better
for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?"

No. And yet--

My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.

I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I could
say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been better if
we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly have explained why
even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not to anybody else.

"You see," said my guardian, "our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt's
way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is
agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you."

Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I could
not have suggested a better arrangement, but I was not quite easy in
my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think!

"It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do
better."

"Sure, little woman?"

Quite sure. I had had a moment's time to think, since I had urged
that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.

"Good," said my guardian. "It shall be done. Carried unanimously."

"Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work.

It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting.
It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and never
resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I
had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that were
to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last theme.

"You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada
left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another
country. Have you been advising him since?"

"Yes, little woman, pretty often."

"Has he decided to do so?"

"I rather think not."

"Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said I.

"Why--yes--perhaps," returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a
very deliberate manner. "About half a year hence or so, there is a
medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in
Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated--streams and
streets, town and country, mill and moor--and seems to present an
opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may
sometimes lie (as most men's sometimes do, I dare say) above the
ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough
after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good
service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I
suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road,
instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care
for. It is Woodcourt's kind."

"And will he get this appointment?" I asked.

"Why, little woman," returned my guardian, smiling, "not being an
oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation
stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in
the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has the
best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a
very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great
amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will
gather about it, it may be fairly hoped."

"The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it
falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian."

"You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will."

We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of
Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his
side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.

I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner
where she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever I found
I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to
Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours, and
used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming
in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no fear of
becoming troublesome just yet.

On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other times
he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of
his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. Sometimes I
would come upon him lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes's office.
Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and
biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln's Inn, near
the place where I had first seen him, oh how different, how
different!

That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles I
used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office I knew very
well. It was not a large amount in the beginning, he had married in
debt, and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what was
meant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the wheel--as I still heard
it was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save,
but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.

She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She adorned
and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she had
been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought natural when
she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed that
I half believed she was blinded by her love for Richard to his
ruinous career.

I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression.
As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming out.
She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce, as
she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from
that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Monday
at five o'clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, which
never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest reticule
of documents on her arm.

"My dear!" she began. "So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see
you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? TO be
sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see
you."

"Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I. "I am glad of that, for I
was afraid of being a little late."

"No, he is not come in," returned Miss Flite. "He has had a long day
in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don't like Vholes, I
hope? DON'T like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!"

"I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now," said I.

"My dearest," returned Miss Flite, "daily and hourly. You know what I
told you of the attraction on the Chancellor's table? My dear, next
to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins quite to
amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?"

It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it was
no surprise.

"In short, my valued friend," pursued Miss Flite, advancing her lips
to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, "I must tell
you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted,
and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es."

"Indeed?" said I.

"Ye-es," repeated Miss Flite in her most genteel accents, "my
executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.)
I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch
that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance."

It made me sigh to think of him.

"I did at one time mean," said Miss Flite, echoing the sigh, "to
nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular, my
charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out, poor
man, so I have appointed his successor. Don't mention it. This is in
confidence."

She carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a folded
piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke.

"Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds."

"Really, Miss Flite?" said I, knowing how it pleased her to have her
confidence received with an appearance of interest.

She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy.
"Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up with
all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust,
Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly,
Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and
Spinach!"

The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever seen
in her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names of her
birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own lips,
quite chilled me.

This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have
dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard (who arrived
within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner.
Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for some
minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what we
were to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of holding a
little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the window
where I was sitting and began upon Symond's Inn.

"A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official
one," said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to
make it clearer for me.

"There is not much to see here," said I.

"Nor to hear, miss," returned Mr. Vholes. "A little music does
occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon
eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish
him?"

I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.

"I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his
friends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that the gentlemen
of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an
unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and
evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of
prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find
Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?"

"He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious."

"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.

He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to the
ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face as if
they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though there
were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.

"Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?" he resumed.

"Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend," I answered.

"But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance."

"That can do little for an unhappy mind," said I.

"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.

So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Richard were
wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were
something of the vampire in him.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his gloved
hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the same in
black kid or out of it, "this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr.
C.'s."

I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been engaged
when they were both very young, I told him (a little indignantly) and
when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. When
Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now
darkened his life.

"Just so," assented Mr. Vholes again. "Still, with a view to
everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission,
Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very
ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.'s
connexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself,
but also to my own reputation--dear to myself as a professional man
aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for whom
I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, I will even
say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support."

"It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better
marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes," said I, "if
Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which
you are engaged with him."

Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of his
black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even
that.

"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit that the
young lady who has taken Mr. C.'s name upon herself in so ill-advised
a manner--you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out
that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.'s connexions--is a
highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mixing much
with general society in any but a professional character; still I
trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young
lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never did
give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young lady
is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I
have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in
their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his
interests--"

"Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"

"Pardon me," returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the same inward
and dispassionate manner. "Mr. C. takes certain interests under
certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In reference
to Mr. C,'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss
Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, in my
desire that everything should be openly carried on--I used those
words, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is
producible at any time--I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid down
the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a client
of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral (that is to
say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out. I HAVE
carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over
to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. As open as I was to Mr.
Jarndyce, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional
duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say,
unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.'s affairs in a very
bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I
regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir?
Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of
some agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I have to
thank you very much, sir!"

He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he came
into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr. Vholes's
scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel
that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client's progress.

We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing Richard,
anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took off his gloves
to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for I
doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host's
face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenly in his dress,
abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at
other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large
bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a
restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot use the
expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not
like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youth and youthful beauty
had all fallen away.

He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself to
be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with
Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all
gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known
little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me from
the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like
the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.

Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me
there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not
appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a
gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and
said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his
office.

"Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.

"Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be
neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional
man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his
fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying myself the
pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly
irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C."

Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes
out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes was a good
fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very
good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he
had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.

Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I put
things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who
attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and
quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lamp being
first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting his
eyes.

I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy
listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he
darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time,
rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when Mr.
Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and half playfully,
half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and
where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in
a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night;
and Richard readily consenting, they went out together.

They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still
sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm round her
waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that side),
but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without
striking any note.

"Esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, "Richard is never
so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan
Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."

I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr.
Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house and had known us all
there, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard had
always liked him, and--and so forth.

"All true," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we
owe to you."

I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no more
about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I felt her
trembling.

"Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife
indeed. You shall teach me."

I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering
over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak, that
it was she who had something to say to me.

"When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before him.
I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never
known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I
understood the danger he was in, dear Esther."

"I know, I know, my darling."

"When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able to
convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new
way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my
sake--as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have
married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!"

In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--a
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying
away with them--I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.

"You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what you
see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I
do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely
know Richard better than my love does."

She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed
such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear,
dear girl!

"I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know
every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite
determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I
grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I want him,
when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when
he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this,
and this supports me."

I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I
now thought I began to know what it was.

"And something else supports me, Esther."

She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in
motion.

"I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid may
come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be
something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with
greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him
back."

Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her
in mine.

"If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look
forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and
think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a
beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him
and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as
he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the
sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, 'I
thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and
restored through me!'"

Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against
me!

"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will. Though
sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I
look at Richard."

I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and
weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child."

It's too hard for Esther to talk about her mom, so she jumps ahead in time. The search and the cold weather made her ill. Then she got well, and now she's staying in London to help out Ada. One day Jarndyce asks her if it's OK for Mrs. Woodcourt to come and stay with them. Esther is kind of not into it, but she can't say why . Mrs. Woodcourt has been much nicer to her recently, and there's been less talk about the fancy ancestors. Jarndyce also tells her that Woodcourt isn't going to go abroad anymore because he's gotten a good offer to stay and help poor sick people in Yorkshire, in the north. Meanwhile, Esther goes to visit Ada daily. Usually Richard is not there - he's off at Court - or if he is there, he's reading and rereading his court papers. He gets more and more wacko with each passing day, basically. One day Esther runs into Miss Flite on her way over. She tells her that she has appointed Richard her executor since he's such a constant presence at the court. Esther is sad to see how far Richard has been absorbed into the craziness. Miss Flite has also added two birds to her bird collection, named "The Wards in Jarndyce," which is also her pet name for Richard and Ada. Oh, how very nice; that's not alarming in any way at all. Esther is genuinely spooked. Esther goes in for dinner, and Vholes comes too. He reminds Esther of a vampire sucking away Richard's life. Vholes speaks to her in private, telling her that Richard and Ada's marriage was really inadvisable, that the case is not going well, and that Richard is running out of money. Esther can see that he's saying this not out of concern but just to cover his own behind in case something happens. She's disgusted by him. Richard has no appetite and generally looks horrible. Woodcourt comes to dinner too, then takes Richard out for a walk. Esther and Ada talk. Ada is worried about Richard and clearly sees what's happening. She married him hoping to get him away from the court, but it hasn't worked. Now she's hoping the thing that will convince him to give it up will be... their new baby! Yep, she's pregnant.

Esther falls ill and is attended by Allan. To keep her and himself closely in touch with Ada and Richard, Mr. Jarndyce decides to remain in London for an extended period of time and invite Allan's mother as a guest. Allan has decided to forego his projected long voyage. Mr. Jarndyce helps him secure an appointment in Yorkshire, where he will provide medical care for the poor. Esther falls ill and is attended by Allan. To keep her and himself closely in touch with Ada and Richard, Mr. Jarndyce decides to remain in London for an extended period of time and invite Allan's mother as a guest. Allan has decided to forego his projected long voyage. Mr. Jarndyce helps him secure an appointment in Yorkshire, where he will provide medical care for the poor. Esther often visits Ada, whose love for Richard remains as strong as ever, despite his poverty and dismal prospects. Richard is languid, unkempt, and distracted. Esther surmises that he has lost faith in Vholes. Ada's greatest fear is that Richard will not live long enough to see the child she is now carrying.

Dickens now prepares us for Richard's seemingly imminent demise. The constant presence of Allan Woodcourt also prepares us for another imminent event: his engagement to Esther.

"Perspective" Esther says that she doesn't want to discuss her sadness too much and that she will move on in her story. She says that she becomes briefly sick in London and that Mrs. Woodcourt stays with them for a while. Mr. Jarndyce suggests they stay in London so that Esther can be closer to Ada. Esther asks if he sees Woodcourt, and Mr. Jarndyce says he sees him every day. Mr. Jarndyce wants to stay in London so that he can get news of Richard more easily, since Richard won't speak to him. Mr. Jarndyce asks Esther if she likes Mrs. Woodcourt, and Esther answers that she does. Mr. Jarndyce asks if she has any objections to Mrs. Woodcourt's staying with them, and even though Esther says she doesn't, she is unsettled without really knowing why. Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther that Mr. Woodcourt will probably not be leaving the country and may instead take up a position in Yorkshire. Esther visits Ada every day. She sometimes sees Richard, and he is much changed. Esther understands that Vholes is taking all of Richard's money. She suspects Ada doesn't understand that Richard is destroying himself. During one visit, Miss Flite is just leaving when Esther arrives. Miss Flite says she doesn't like Vholes and that she has made Richard the executor of her estate, since he is at Chancery so much. She had planned to appoint Gridley, but he had died. Vholes joins Esther, Ada, and Richard for dinner. When Richard and Ada are out of the room, Vholes tells Esther he thinks Richard and Ada's marriage was unwise and that Richard and his interests are doing very poorly. When Vholes leaves after dinner, Richard overpraises him, which makes Esther think that he has actually begun to doubt Vholes. Mr. Woodcourt arrives, and he and Richard go for a walk. Ada tells Esther that when she married Richard, she knew what she was getting into but hoped she could change him. She says that she has been determined not to make him any unhappier than he already was. She also reveals that she's pregnant. She has hoped that the baby will save Richard, but now she is afraid that Richard will die before the baby is born

Lady Dedlock is Sir Leicester's greatest weakness, and the revelation of her secret personal history is enough to nearly destroy him. Bombastic, influential Sir Leicester collapses when he learns Lady Dedlock's secret, losing his ability to move and speak after suffering what appears to be a stroke. Suddenly bedridden, he is dependent on his subordinates to care for him and understand him. Although there are many tragedies in Bleak House, Jo's death among them, the fall of Sir Leicester may be the most affecting. We may see it as a tragedy caused by love: Lady Dedlock hid her secret to protect Sir Leicester and then fled to escape the wrath she expected, while Sir Leicester forgives her easily and fully despite her transgressions. He never has the chance to prove the depth of his devotion, nor does Lady Dedlock ever have the opportunity to see it. Their partnership has never been an obviously warm one, thanks in part to Lady Dedlock's carefully maintained haughtiness, but the tragic fall of Sir Leicester shows that there was passion in their marriage after all. Esther and Bucket's frantic nighttime pursuit of Lady Dedlock ratchets up the suspense of the novel, and Dickens skillfully raises the tension by switching between his two narrators more frequently than usual. The third-person narrator narrates chapter 56, describing Sir Leicester's sad state and then following Bucket as he calls for Esther in the middle of the night. Esther takes over the narration in chapter 57, and she leads us on their fast, feverish journey. The chapter ends in a rush, with Bucket making the unexpected decision to return to London. The third-person narrator takes over again in chapter 58, removing us from the nighttime journey and taking us back to Sir Leicester, who is waiting earnestly in his bed for news. In chapter 59, we're back out in the cold with Esther as the search continues and finally ends. This quick back-and-forth, which jerks us in and out of the action of the search, increases the suspense of the journey and raises the stakes. Esther is not the only one frantic to find Lady Dedlock; Sir Leicester, who has prepared Lady Dedlock's rooms and lit the fires, is perhaps even more desperate than she is. Dickens's use of two narrators in these chapters is perhaps more affecting than at any other point in the novel. Esther demonstrates a remarkable control over her narrative in chapters 59 and 60, proving once again that she is an agile storyteller and a confident guide through this sordid, bulky tale. Although she is narrating Bleak House from a point seven years in the future, she withholds information and feigns ignorance when doing so increases the dramatic effect. We've seen her do this with her feelings for Woodcourt, which increased the poignancy of Mr. Jarndyce's proposal. In this section, when Esther, Bucket, and Woodcourt finally find the woman they've been pursuing, who Esther believes is Jenny, she tells us she doesn't understand what Bucket is getting at when he explains that Jenny and Lady Dedlock switched clothes. When Esther sees that the woman is actually Lady Dedlock's body, we share her shock. She has successfully drawn us into her own disoriented confusion to make the story more intriguing.

Perspective Esther falls ill after her mother's death and is attended by Woodcourt. Mr. Jarndyce decides to remain in London for a long while, so that Esther can be near Ada and Richard. Since Woodcourt is also looking out for Richard and Ada, Mr. Jarndyce invites Allan's mother, Mrs. Woodcourt to stay with them. Woodcourt decides against going to sea, and Mr. Jarndyce gets him a post in Yorkshire, caring for the poor, which he will resume in some months. Richard is now full time in the court, like Miss Flite. Miss Flite makes Richard her executor, as she had made Gridley before. She has also added two birds to her collection called Wards in Jarndyce. Richard looks more and more ill, and Ada says his only bright times are with Allan Woodcourt. She is afraid Richard will not live to see the child she is carrying.

Commentary on Chapter LX Esther says of Richard's decline: "There is a ruin of youth which is not like age" . He is all nerves, and Ada cannot cheer him. Ada had hoped to be some influence on him, but she says that "I would have married him just the same" . Ada is the noble wife who wants her husband to see no trouble in her face, though she sees him at his worst. In this time, both Esther and Woodcourt keep close to the young couple. Mr. Jarndyce is not allowed to visit.