A Struggle

When our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we were
punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome. I
was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding my
housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in as if
I had been a new year, with a merry little peal. "Once more, duty,
duty, Esther," said I; "and if you are not overjoyed to do it, more
than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything and everything, you
ought to be. That's all I have to say to you, my dear!"

The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and business,
devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated journeys to
and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the house, so
many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such a general new
beginning altogether, that I had not a moment's leisure. But when
these arrangements were completed and everything was in order, I paid
a visit of a few hours to London, which something in the letter I had
destroyed at Chesney Wold had induced me to decide upon in my own
mind.

I made Caddy Jellyby--her maiden name was so natural to me that I
always called her by it--the pretext for this visit and wrote her a
note previously asking the favour of her company on a little business
expedition. Leaving home very early in the morning, I got to London
by stage-coach in such good time that I got to Newman Street with the
day before me.

Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad and so
affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make her
husband jealous. But he was, in his way, just as bad--I mean as good;
and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave me any
possibility of doing anything meritorious.

The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was
milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an
apprentice--it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the
trade of dancing--was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law
was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, and they lived
most happily together. (When she spoke of their living together, she
meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the good
lodging, while she and her husband had what they could get, and were
poked into two corner rooms over the Mews.)

"And how is your mama, Caddy?" said I.

"Why, I hear of her, Esther," replied Caddy, "through Pa, but I see
very little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Ma
thinks there is something absurd in my having married a
dancing-master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her."

It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural
duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope
in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions
against becoming absurd, but I need scarcely observe that I kept this
to myself.

"And your papa, Caddy?"

"He comes here every evening," returned Caddy, "and is so fond of
sitting in the corner there that it's a treat to see him."

Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr. Jellyby's
head against the wall. It was consolatory to know that he had found
such a resting-place for it.

"And you, Caddy," said I, "you are always busy, I'll be bound?"

"Well, my dear," returned Caddy, "I am indeed, for to tell you a
grand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Prince's health
is not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. What with
schools, and classes here, and private pupils, AND the apprentices,
he really has too much to do, poor fellow!"

The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that I asked
Caddy if there were many of them.

"Four," said Caddy. "One in-door, and three out. They are
very good children; only when they get together they WILL
play--children-like--instead of attending to their work. So the
little boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen,
and we distribute the others over the house as well as we can."

"That is only for their steps, of course?" said I.

"Only for their steps," said Caddy. "In that way they practise, so
many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be upon. They
dance in the academy, and at this time of year we do figures at five
every morning."

"Why, what a laborious life!" I exclaimed.

"I assure you, my dear," returned Caddy, smiling, "when the out-door
apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into our room,
not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I put up the window and
see them standing on the door-step with their little pumps under
their arms, I am actually reminded of the Sweeps."

All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure.
Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfully
recounted the particulars of her own studies.

"You see, my dear, to save expense I ought to know something of the
piano, and I ought to know something of the kit too, and consequently
I have to practise those two instruments as well as the details of
our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, I might have had
some little musical knowledge to begin upon. However, I hadn't any;
and that part of the work is, at first, a little discouraging, I must
allow. But I have a very good ear, and I am used to drudgery--I have
to thank Ma for that, at all events--and where there's a will there's
a way, you know, Esther, the world over." Saying these words, Caddy
laughingly sat down at a little jingling square piano and really
rattled off a quadrille with great spirit. Then she good-humouredly
and blushingly got up again, and while she still laughed herself,
said, "Don't laugh at me, please; that's a dear girl!"

I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged her and
praised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed,
dancing-master's wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though in
her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out a natural,
wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance that was quite
as good as a mission.

"My dear," said Caddy, delighted, "you can't think how you cheer me.
I shall owe you, you don't know how much. What changes, Esther, even
in my small world! You recollect that first night, when I was so
unpolite and inky? Who would have thought, then, of my ever teaching
people to dance, of all other possibilities and impossibilities!"

Her husband, who had left us while we had this chat, now coming back,
preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room, Caddy
informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not my time yet,
I was glad to tell her, for I should have been vexed to take her away
then. Therefore we three adjourned to the apprentices together, and I
made one in the dance.

The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the
melancholy boy, who, I hoped, had not been made so by waltzing alone
in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys and one dirty little
limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little girl, with such
a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), who brought her
sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. Such mean
little boys, when they were not dancing, with string, and marbles,
and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most untidy legs and
feet--and heels particularly.

I asked Caddy what had made their parents choose this profession for
them. Caddy said she didn't know; perhaps they were designed for
teachers, perhaps for the stage. They were all people in humble
circumstances, and the melancholy boy's mother kept a ginger-beer
shop.

We danced for an hour with great gravity, the melancholy child doing
wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appeared to be
some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist. Caddy,
while she was observant of her husband and was evidently founded upon
him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of her own, which,
united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonly agreeable. She
already relieved him of much of the instruction of these young
people, and he seldom interfered except to walk his part in the
figure if he had anything to do in it. He always played the tune. The
affectation of the gauzy child, and her condescension to the boys,
was a sight. And thus we danced an hour by the clock.

When the practice was concluded, Caddy's husband made himself ready
to go out of town to a school, and Caddy ran away to get ready to go
out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval, contemplating
the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon the staircase to put
on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy's hair, as I judged from
the nature of his objections. Returning with their jackets buttoned
and their pumps stuck in them, they then produced packets of cold
bread and meat and bivouacked under a painted lyre on the wall. The
little gauzy child, having whisked her sandals into the reticule and
put on a trodden-down pair of shoes, shook her head into the dowdy
bonnet at one shake, and answering my inquiry whether she liked
dancing by replying, "Not with boys," tied it across her chin, and
went home contemptuous.

"Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry," said Caddy, "that he has not
finished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you
before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther."

I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it
necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.

"It takes him a long time to dress," said Caddy, "because he is very
much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation to
support. You can't think how kind he is to Pa. He talks to Pa of an
evening about the Prince Regent, and I never saw Pa so interested."

There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing his
deportment on Mr. Jellyby that quite took my fancy. I asked Caddy if
he brought her papa out much.

"No," said Caddy, "I don't know that he does that, but he talks to
Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of course
I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but they get
on together delightfully. You can't think what good companions they
make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life, but he takes one
pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop's box regularly and keeps putting it to
his nose and taking it away again all the evening."

That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes of
life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Gha
appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.

"As to Peepy," said Caddy with a little hesitation, "whom I was most
afraid of--next to having any family of my own, Esther--as an
inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentleman to
that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear! He lets
him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the crusts of
his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the house; he
tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short," said Caddy
cheerily, "and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl and ought to
be very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?"

"To the Old Street Road," said I, "where I have a few words to say to
the solicitor's clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach-office on
the very day when I came to London and first saw you, my dear. Now I
think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house."

"Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,"
returned Caddy.

To the Old Street Road we went and there inquired at Mrs. Guppy's
residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the parlours and
having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nut
in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for,
immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. She was an
old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an
unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room was
prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in it
which, I had almost written here, was more like than life: it
insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not to
let him off.

Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there too.
He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at a table
reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, rising, "this is indeed an oasis.
Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady and
get out of the gangway."

Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish
appearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner,
holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation,
with both hands.

I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine was
more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.

"I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir," said I.

Mr. Guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his
breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket
with a bow. Mr. Guppy's mother was so diverted that she rolled her
head as she smiled and made a silent appeal to Caddy with her elbow.

"Could I speak to you alone for a moment?" said I.

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy's mother just now, I think
I never saw. She made no sound of laughter, but she rolled her head,
and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appealed to
Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder, and was so
unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty
she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-door into her
bedroom adjoining.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "you will excuse the waywardness of
a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness. My mother, though highly
exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal dictates."

I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have
turned so red or changed so much as Mr. Guppy did when I now put up
my veil.

"I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here," said I,
"in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge's because, remembering what
you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I feared
I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy."

I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I never saw
such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension.

"Miss Summerson," stammered Mr. Guppy, "I--I--beg your pardon, but in
our profession--we--we--find it necessary to be explicit. You have
referred to an occasion, miss, when I--when I did myself the honour
of making a declaration which--"

Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly
swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to
swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the
room, and fluttered his papers.

"A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss," he explained,
"which rather knocks me over. I--er--a little subject to this sort of
thing--er--by George!"

I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his
hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his
chair into the corner behind him.

"My intention was to remark, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "dear
me--something bronchial, I think--hem!--to remark that you was so
good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration.
You--you wouldn't perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses
are present, it might be a satisfaction to--to your mind--if you was
to put in that admission."

"There can be no doubt," said I, "that I declined your proposal
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy."

"Thank you, miss," he returned, measuring the table with his troubled
hands. "So far that's satisfactory, and it does you credit. Er--this
is certainly bronchial!--must be in the tubes--er--you wouldn't
perhaps be offended if I was to mention--not that it's necessary, for
your own good sense or any person's sense must show 'em that--if I
was to mention that such declaration on my part was final, and there
terminated?"

"I quite understand that," said I.

"Perhaps--er--it may not be worth the form, but it might be a
satisfaction to your mind--perhaps you wouldn't object to admit that,
miss?" said Mr. Guppy.

"I admit it most fully and freely," said I.

"Thank you," returned Mr. Guppy. "Very honourable, I am sure. I
regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over
which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall
back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form whatever,
but it will ever be a retrospect entwined--er--with friendship's
bowers." Mr. Guppy's bronchitis came to his relief and stopped his
measurement of the table.

"I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?" I began.

"I shall be honoured, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy. "I am so persuaded
that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will--will keep you
as square as possible--that I can have nothing but pleasure, I am
sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer."

"You were so good as to imply, on that occasion--"

"Excuse me, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "but we had better not travel out
of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I implied
anything."

"You said on that occasion," I recommenced, "that you might possibly
have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my fortunes by
making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I presume that
you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an
orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence of Mr.
Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I have come to beg
of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kindness to relinquish
all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this sometimes, and I
have thought of it most lately--since I have been ill. At length I
have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose and
act upon it in any way, to come to you and assure you that you are
altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in reference to me
that would do me the least service or give me the least pleasure. I
am acquainted with my personal history, and I have it in my power to
assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such means. You
may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a long time. If so, excuse
my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the
assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to
do this, for my peace."

"I am bound to confess," said Mr. Guppy, "that you express yourself,
miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I gave you
credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and
if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I am prepared to
tender a full apology. I should wish to be understood, miss, as
hereby offering that apology--limiting it, as your own good sense and
right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present
proceedings."

I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had upon
him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to do
something I asked, and he looked ashamed.

"If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so that I
may have no occasion to resume," I went on, seeing him about to
speak, "you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately as
possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in a
confidence which I have really wished to respect--and which I always
have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my illness. There
really is no reason why I should hesitate to say that I know very
well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request to
you is quite removed. Therefore I make the entreaty I have now
preferred, and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me
to accede to it."

I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had looked
more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and very
earnest when he now replied with a burning face, "Upon my word and
honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am a living
man, I'll act according to your wish! I'll never go another step in
opposition to it. I'll take my oath to it if it will be any
satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time touching
the matters now in question," continued Mr. Guppy rapidly, as if he
were repeating a familiar form of words, "I speak the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so--"

"I am quite satisfied," said I, rising at this point, "and I thank
you very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!"

Mr. Guppy's mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipient
of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave. Mr.
Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either
imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there,
staring.

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and
with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently,
"Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend upon me!"

"I do," said I, "quite confidently."

"I beg your pardon, miss," said Mr. Guppy, going with one leg and
staying with the other, "but this lady being present--your own
witness--it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should wish
to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions."

"Well, Caddy," said I, turning to her, "perhaps you will not be
surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any
engagement--"

"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," suggested Mr. Guppy.

"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," said I, "between
this gentleman--"

"William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of
Middlesex," he murmured.

"Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy, of Penton Place,
Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself."

"Thank you, miss," said Mr. Guppy. "Very full--er--excuse me--lady's
name, Christian and surname both?"

I gave them.

"Married woman, I believe?" said Mr. Guppy. "Married woman. Thank
you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn, within
the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford
Street. Much obliged."

He ran home and came running back again.

"Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry
that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which
I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly
terminated some time back," said Mr. Guppy to me forlornly and
despondently, "but it couldn't be. Now COULD it, you know! I only put
it to you."

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of a
doubt. He thanked me and ran to his mother's again--and back again.

"It's very honourable of you, miss, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy. "If
an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship--but, upon my
soul, you may rely upon me in every respect save and except the
tender passion only!"

The struggle in Mr. Guppy's breast and the numerous oscillations it
occasioned him between his mother's door and us were sufficiently
conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted
cutting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but
when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was still oscillating in the same
troubled state of mind.

After a nice long recovery, the gang leaves Boythorn's and returns to Bleak House. It's all in disarray, since Esther couldn't do the housekeeping while she was sick. She puts everything back in order. Then she sets off to London on a mission she doesn't yet tell us about. On the way she decides to visit Caddy and see how life is going with the Turveydrops. Life with the Turveydrops is going pretty well, actually. Caddy is learning how to dance a little and to play the piano and violin so they can save money on accompanists. They've also taken on four apprentices. Brain snack time: back before formal vocational training, all different kinds of tradesmen - tailors, gardeners, doctors, and anyone else with specialized knowledge - would take on students to live with them and learn the business. Parents would pay a reasonably steep fee for this. The idea was that after the kid learned whatever he needed to learn, he'd either set up his own business or take over the one where he'd been apprenticed. Anywho.... Mr. Turveydrop and Mr. Jellyby get along really well, since one is all performance and the other is all audience. Esther and Caddy go on Esther's original errand, which brings them to the house of Mr. Guppy. At first he's all excited to see them. But as soon as Esther takes off her veil and he sees her face, he loses it. What comes next is a totally horrible scene of awkwardness straight out of The Office. Guppy starts, in legal language, to make it clear to Esther that since she had refused his offer of marriage already, there is nothing legally binding them, and that he can't re-propose. It's so painful. She is cringing. He's embarrassed. Disaster. Finally Esther interrupts and tells him what she actually came there for. She's worried he's going to find out about Lady Dedlock, so she makes him promise to stop trying to do anything for her interests like he'd said he was going to do. He is so relieved that he swears to do whatever she asks, cross his heart, hope to die. Esther and Caddy leave and he follows them into the street to make Esther repeat again that they are not engaged, and to get Caddy's name and address as a witness.

Soon after she returns to Bleak House, Esther decides to go to London to see Mr. Guppy. First, she visits Caddy and Prince Turveydrop. Taken aback by Esther's scarred face, Guppy emphatically retracts his former marriage proposal to Esther. Esther obtains from him a promise to "relinquish all idea of . . . serving me." She no longer needs Guppy's assistance in helping her learn her real identity, and Guppy's presence could possibly endanger her attempt to be secret about what she has learned from Lady Dedlock. Soon after she returns to Bleak House, Esther decides to go to London to see Mr. Guppy. First, she visits Caddy and Prince Turveydrop. Taken aback by Esther's scarred face, Guppy emphatically retracts his former marriage proposal to Esther. Esther obtains from him a promise to "relinquish all idea of . . . serving me." She no longer needs Guppy's assistance in helping her learn her real identity, and Guppy's presence could possibly endanger her attempt to be secret about what she has learned from Lady Dedlock.

Even more clearly than before, Guppy is seen to be an absurd and shallow human being. Esther once again demonstrates her prudence and resoluteness.

"A Struggle" Esther returns to Bleak House in full health and visits London on the pretense of visiting Caddy. Caddy and Prince Turveydrop live with Mr. Turveydrop, and Mr. Jellyby visits every evening. Caddy is practicing to be a dancing instructor. There are also several children in the house who are learning to dance. Esther attends one of the dance practices. Afterward, Esther and Caddy go to see Mr. Guppy, and Esther speaks to him alone. Mr. Guppy is intent on reminding Esther that she refused his proposal and that he will not renew it. Esther agrees readily that the proposal is now defunct. Esther then reminds him that when he made the proposal, he suggested that he could find out information about her background. Esther asks him to cease all investigation if he hasn't already, and Mr. Guppy agrees to honor her wish

A Struggle Esther visits Caddy Turveydrop and finds she is active in teaching dance and running the dance studio. She is very happy. She goes with Esther to see Mr. Guppy at his home. Mrs. Guppy thinks that her son is finally getting his wish and Miss Summerson is giving in to Guppy's suit. Esther has remained veiled and asks to see Mr. Guppy alone. When she raises her veil, and he can see her scarred face, he is shocked, and she has no trouble asking him to leave pursuit of her and her affairs. He makes a formal declaration in legal language that they are not engaged or connected in any way.

Commentary on Chapter XXXVIII Mr. Guppy speaks in his usual comic legal phrases, especially when he sees Esther as damaged goods. He makes Caddy be a legal witness to his un-declaration for Esther's hand and agrees to stop investigating her background. Guppy for once is forced into an honest position by Esther's blunt and courageous confrontation. She says, "He seemed truly glad to be able to do something I asked, and he looked ashamed" . Esther gains in dignity and moral strength as the novel unfolds. She takes this step to protect her mother, not herself. Even though her fortune fluctuates, she does not, and her ascendancy over the other weaker characters becomes clear.


Attorney and Client

The name of Mr. Vholes, preceded by the legend Ground-Floor, is
inscribed upon a door-post in Symond's Inn, Chancery Lane--a little,
pale, wall-eyed, woebegone inn like a large dust-binn of two
compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond were a sparing man
in his way and constructed his inn of old building materials which
took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and
dismal, and perpetuated Symond's memory with congenial shabbiness.
Quartered in this dingy hatchment commemorative of Symond are the
legal bearings of Mr. Vholes.

Mr. Vholes's office, in disposition retiring and in situation
retired, is squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall. Three
feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to Mr. Vholes's
jet-black door, in an angle profoundly dark on the brightest
midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head of cellarage
staircase against which belated civilians generally strike their
brows. Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so small a scale that one clerk
can open the door without getting off his stool, while the other who
elbows him at the same desk has equal facilities for poking the fire.
A smell as of unwholesome sheep blending with the smell of must and
dust is referable to the nightly (and often daily) consumption of
mutton fat in candles and to the fretting of parchment forms and
skins in greasy drawers. The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close.
The place was last painted or whitewashed beyond the memory of man,
and the two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer surface of
soot everywhere, and the dull cracked windows in their heavy frames
have but one piece of character in them, which is a determination to
be always dirty and always shut unless coerced. This accounts for the
phenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle of
firewood thrust between its jaws in hot weather.

Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He has not a large business,
but he is a very respectable man. He is allowed by the greater
attorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a most
respectable man. He never misses a chance in his practice, which is a
mark of respectability. He never takes any pleasure, which is another
mark of respectability. He is reserved and serious, which is another
mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly
respectable. And he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for
his three daughters. And his father is dependent on him in the Vale
of Taunton.

The one great principle of the English law is to make business for
itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and
consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by
this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze
the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive
that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their
expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.

But not perceiving this quite plainly--only seeing it by halves in a
confused way--the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, with a
bad grace, and DO grumble very much. Then this respectability of Mr.
Vholes is brought into powerful play against them. "Repeal this
statute, my good sir?" says Mr. Kenge to a smarting client. "Repeal
it, my dear sir? Never, with my consent. Alter this law, sir, and
what will be the effect of your rash proceeding on a class of
practitioners very worthily represented, allow me to say to you, by
the opposite attorney in the case, Mr. Vholes? Sir, that class of
practitioners would be swept from the face of the earth. Now you
cannot afford--I will say, the social system cannot afford--to lose
an order of men like Mr. Vholes. Diligent, persevering, steady, acute
in business. My dear sir, I understand your present feelings against
the existing state of things, which I grant to be a little hard in
your case; but I can never raise my voice for the demolition of a
class of men like Mr. Vholes." The respectability of Mr. Vholes has
even been cited with crushing effect before Parliamentary committees,
as in the following blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's
evidence. "Question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight
hundred and sixty-nine): If I understand you, these forms of practice
indisputably occasion delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question: And
great expense? Answer: Most assuredly they cannot be gone through for
nothing. Question: And unspeakable vexation? Answer: I am not
prepared to say that. They have never given ME any vexation; quite
the contrary. Question: But you think that their abolition would
damage a class of practitioners? Answer: I have no doubt of it.
Question: Can you instance any type of that class? Answer: Yes. I
would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Vholes. He would be ruined.
Question: Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession, a respectable
man? Answer:"--which proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years--"Mr.
Vholes is considered, in the profession, a MOST respectable man."

So in familiar conversation, private authorities no less
disinterested will remark that they don't know what this age is
coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here is
something else gone, that these changes are death to people like
Vholes--a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the Vale
of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more in
this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes's father?
Is he to perish? And of Vholes's daughters? Are they to be
shirt-makers, or governesses? As though, Mr. Vholes and his relations
being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to abolish
cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus: Make
man-eating unlawful, and you starve the Vholeses!

In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters and his father in the
Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber,
to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a
nuisance. And with a great many people in a great many instances, the
question is never one of a change from wrong to right (which is quite
an extraneous consideration), but is always one of injury or
advantage to that eminently respectable legion, Vholes.

The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the long
vacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags
hastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of
serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the
official den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much
respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he
were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he were
scalping himself, and sits down at his desk. The client throws his
hat and gloves upon the ground--tosses them anywhere, without looking
after them or caring where they go; flings himself into a chair, half
sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and
looks the portrait of young despair.

"Again nothing done!" says Richard. "Nothing, nothing done!"

"Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes. "That is
scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!"

"Why, what IS done?" says Richard, turning gloomily upon him.

"That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes, "The question
may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?"

"And what is doing?" asks the moody client.

Vholes, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing the tips
of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers,
and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking at
his client, replies, "A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our
shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round."

"Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four or five
accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising from his chair and
walking about the room.

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, following him close with his eyes wherever
he goes, "your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on your
account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much, not to be
so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should have more
patience. You should sustain yourself better."

"I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?" says Richard, sitting
down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil's tattoo
with his boot on the patternless carpet.

"Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he were
making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his
professional appetite. "Sir," returns Vholes with his inward manner
of speech and his bloodless quietude, "I should not have had the
presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or any
man's. Let me but leave the good name to my three daughters, and that
is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you mention me so
pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like to impart to you a
little of my--come, sir, you are disposed to call it insensibility,
and I am sure I have no objection--say insensibility--a little of my
insensibility."

"Mr. Vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "I had no
intention to accuse you of insensibility."

"I think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equable
Vholes. "Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your interests
with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your excited
feelings I may appear, at such times as the present, insensible. My
daughters may know me better; my aged father may know me better. But
they have known me much longer than you have, and the confiding eye
of affection is not the distrustful eye of business. Not that I
complain, sir, of the eye of business being distrustful; quite the
contrary. In attending to your interests, I wish to have all possible
checks upon me; it is right that I should have them; I court inquiry.
But your interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr.
Carstone; and I cannot be otherwise--no, sir, not even to please
you."

Mr. Vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently
watching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young
client and proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as if
there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor
speak out, "What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the
vacation. I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means
of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. If you had asked
me what I was to do during the vacation, I could have answered you
more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I am to be found
here, day by day, attending to your interests. That is my duty, Mr.
C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference to me. If you wish
to consult me as to your interests, you will find me here at all
times alike. Other professional men go out of town. I don't. Not that
I blame them for going; I merely say I don't go. This desk is your
rock, sir!"

Mr. Vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. Not
to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound to him.
Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.

"I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard, more familiarly and
good-humouredly, "that you are the most reliable fellow in the world
and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man of
business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in my case,
dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into
difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually
disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse in
myself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and you
will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do."

"You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir. I told
you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularly in
a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of
the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I gave
hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when you say
there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter of fact,
deny that."

"Aye?" returns Richard, brightening. "But how do you make it out?"

"Mr. Carstone, you are represented by--"

"You said just now--a rock."

"Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the
hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust
on dust, "a rock. That's something. You are separately represented,
and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. THAT'S
something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk
it about. THAT'S something. It's not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as
in name. THAT'S something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir.
And THAT'S something, surely."

Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his
clenched hand.

"Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John
Jarndyce's house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he
seemed--that he was what he has gradually turned out to be--I could
have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I could not
have defended him too ardently. So little did I know of the world!
Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodiment
of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is John
Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him;
that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new
injury from John Jarndyce's hand."

"No, no," says Vholes. "Don't say so. We ought to have patience, all
of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage."

"Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client. "You know as well as I that
he would have strangled the suit if he could."

"He was not active in it," Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance of
reluctance. "He certainly was not active in it. But however, but
however, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the
heart, Mr. C.!"

"You can," returns Richard.

"I, Mr. C.?"

"Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not our
interests conflicting? Tell--me--that!" says Richard, accompanying
his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never winking his
hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as your professional
adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to your interests, if
I represented those interests as identical with the interests of Mr.
Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I never impute motives; I both
have and am a father, and I never impute motives. But I must not
shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in
families. I understand you to be now consulting me professionally as
to your interests? You are so? I reply, then, they are not identical
with those of Mr. Jarndyce."

"Of course they are not!" cries Richard. "You found that out long
ago."

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third party
than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied, together
with any little property of which I may become possessed through
industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, and Caroline.
I also desire to live in amity with my professional brethren. When
Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir--I will not say the very high
honour, for I never stoop to flattery--of bringing us together in
this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer no opinion or advice
as to your interests while those interests were entrusted to another
member of the profession. And I spoke in such terms as I was bound to
speak of Kenge and Carboy's office, which stands high. You, sir,
thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping nevertheless
and to offer them to me. You brought them with clean hands, sir, and
I accepted them with clean hands. Those interests are now paramount
in this office. My digestive functions, as you may have heard me
mention, are not in a good state, and rest might improve them; but I
shall not rest, sir, while I am your representative. Whenever you
want me, you will find me here. Summon me anywhere, and I will come.
During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying
your interests more and more closely and to making arrangements for
moving heaven and earth (including, of course, the Chancellor) after
Michaelmas term; and when I ultimately congratulate you, sir," says
Mr. Vholes with the severity of a determined man, "when I ultimately
congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on your accession to
fortune--which, but that I never give hopes, I might say something
further about--you will owe me nothing beyond whatever little balance
may be then outstanding of the costs as between solicitor and client
not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. I pretend
to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but for the zealous and active
discharge--not the languid and routine discharge, sir: that much
credit I stipulate for--of my professional duty. My duty prosperously
ended, all between us is ended."

Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his
principles, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment,
perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty
pounds on account.

"For there have been many little consultations and attendances of
late, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary,
"and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a man of
capital. When we first entered on our present relations I stated to
you openly--it is a principle of mine that there never can be too
much openness between solicitor and client--that I was not a man of
capital and that if capital was your object you had better leave your
papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C., you will find none of the
advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir. This," Vholes gives
the desk one hollow blow again, "is your rock; it pretends to be
nothing more."

The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague
hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, not without
perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear,
implying scant effects in the agent's hands. All the while, Vholes,
buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. All the
while, Vholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole.

Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes, for heaven's
sake and earth's sake, to do his utmost to "pull him through" the
Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who never gives hopes, lays his palm
upon the client's shoulder and answers with a smile, "Always here,
sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always find me here, sir,
with my shoulder to the wheel." Thus they part, and Vholes, left
alone, employs himself in carrying sundry little matters out of his
diary into his draft bill book for the ultimate behoof of his three
daughters. So might an industrious fox or bear make up his account of
chickens or stray travellers with an eye to his cubs, not to
disparage by that word the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned-up
maidens who dwell with the parent Vholes in an earthy cottage
situated in a damp garden at Kennington.

Richard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into the
sunshine of Chancery Lane--for there happens to be sunshine there
to-day--walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln's Inn, and
passes under the shadow of the Lincoln's Inn trees. On many such
loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on
the like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the lingering
step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consuming and
consumed, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, but
that may come. Chancery, which knows no wisdom but in precedent, is
very rich in such precedents; and why should one be different from
ten thousand?

Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he
saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months
together, though he hates it, Richard himself may feel his own case
as if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy with
corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room for
some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit
there, how different he, how different all the colours of his mind.
But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and being
defeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances to combat;
from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand, the time
for that being long gone by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to
the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved him from this
ruin and make HIM his enemy. Richard has told Vholes the truth. Is he
in a hardened or a softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally
at that door; he was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and
that purpose could only originate in the one subject that is
resolving his existence into itself; besides, it is a justification
to him in his own eyes to have an embodied antagonist and oppressor.

Is Richard a monster in all this, or would Chancery be found rich in
such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the
Recording Angel?

Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as,
biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed
up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle
are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in
conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. He passes
close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.

"William," says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, "there's
combustion going on there! It's not a case of spontaneous, but it's
smouldering combustion it is."

"Ah!" says Mr. Guppy. "He wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce, and I
suppose he's over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him. He
was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place. A good
riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony, that as I was
mentioning is what they're up to."

Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the parapet,
as resuming a conversation of interest.

"They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still taking stock,
still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of
rubbish. At this rate they'll be at it these seven years."

"And Small is helping?"

"Small left us at a week's notice. Told Kenge his grandfather's
business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better
himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself
and Small on account of his being so close. But he said you and I
began it, and as he had me there--for we did--I put our acquaintance
on the old footing. That's how I come to know what they're up to."

"You haven't looked in at all?"

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unreserved with
you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your company, and
therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little
appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour by
the clock! Tony"--Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly
eloquent--"it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once
more that circumstances over which I have no control have made a
melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that
unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That
image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now in
connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the
court with your aid as a friend is to let 'em alone and bury 'em in
oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I
put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that
capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the--spontaneous
element, do you, Tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts
he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that
they were not destroyed that night?"

Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly thinks
not.

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, "once again
understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further
explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no purpose
to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I have pledged myself. I
owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the
circumstances over which I have no control. If you was to express to
me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late
lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in
question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own
responsibility."

Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by
having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and
in part romantic--this gentleman having a passion for conducting
anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the
form of a summing up or a speech--accompanies his friend with dignity
to the court.

Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus' purse
of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.
Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought
down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed,
Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there
until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in
quantity, from the cook's shop, rummaging and searching, digging,
delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. What
those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened.
In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots,
crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses
stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses itself of the
sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of Mr.
Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suffolk, and
transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Krook.
Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old
paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries
into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who
write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen
prowling in the neighbourhood--shy of each other, their late
partnership being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the
prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in
what are professionally known as "patter" allusions to the subject,
is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist "gags" in the
regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in
the revived Caledonian melody of "We're a-Nodding," points the
sentiment that "the dogs love broo" (whatever the nature of that
refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head
towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.
Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double
encore. For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper
and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance
is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to
discover everything, and more.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court's head upon
them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house, in a
high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court's
expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are
considered to mean no good.

The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the
ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into
the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the
sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but
they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his chair
upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous Judy
groping therein like a female sexton, and Mrs. Smallweed on the level
ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print,
and manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments
that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. The whole
party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a
fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room.
There is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier
if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead
inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall.

On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously
fold their arms and stop in their researches.

"Aha!" croaks the old gentleman. "How de do, gentlemen, how de do!
Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That's well, that's well.
Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your
warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at
home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!"

Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's eye follows
Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back without any new
intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy's eye comes back and meets Mr.
Smallweed's eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like
some wound-up instrument running down, "How de do, sir--how
de--how--" And then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence,
as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the
darkness opposite with his hands behind him.

"Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says Grandfather
Smallweed. "I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note,
but he is so good!"

Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a
shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and
were rather amused by the novelty.

"A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppy observes
to Mr. Smallweed.

"Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! Me
and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make out an
inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we haven't come to
much as yet; we--haven't--come--to--hah!"

Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle's eye, attended by
Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and come back.

"Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer if you'll
allow us to go upstairs."

"Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make yourself so,
pray!"

As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and
looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull
and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that
memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great
disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from
it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the
few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a
whisper.

"Look here," says Tony, recoiling. "Here's that horrible cat coming
in!"

Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. "Small told me of her. She went
leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and
got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight,
and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. Did you ever see
such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it, don't she? Almost
looks as if she was Krook. Shoohoo! Get out, you goblin!"

Lady Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and
her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr.
Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and
swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to roam
the house-tops again and return by the chimney.

"Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word with you?"

Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old
ignoble band-box. "Sir," he returns, reddening, "I wish to act with
courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I am
sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself--I will truly
add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir,
I must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is
spoken in the presence of my friend."

"Oh, indeed?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they
are amply sufficient for myself."

"No doubt, no doubt." Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the
hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. "The matter is not of
that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any
conditions, Mr. Guppy." He pauses here to smile, and his smile is as
dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "You are to be congratulated, Mr.
Guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir."

"Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain."

"Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, and access
to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people in London who
would give their ears to be you."

Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and still
reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of
himself, replies, "Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what is
right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no
consequence to them nor to any member of the profession, not
excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under any
obligation to explain myself further; and with all respect for you,
sir, and without offence--I repeat, without offence--"

"Oh, certainly!"

"--I don't intend to do it."

"Quite so," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. "Very good; I see
by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable
great, sir?"

He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft
impeachment.

"A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes Mr.
Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back to
the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses to his
eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock.' Ha! A very good likeness in its
way, but it wants force of character. Good day to you, gentlemen;
good day!"

When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, nerves
himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the Galaxy
Gallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock.

"Tony," he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, "let us be
quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this
place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that between
myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom I now
hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communication and
association. The time might have been when I might have revealed it
to you. It never will be more. It is due alike to the oath I have
taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to circumstances over
which I have no control, that the whole should be buried in oblivion.
I charge you as a friend, by the interest you have ever testified in
the fashionable intelligence, and by any little advances with which I
may have been able to accommodate you, so to bury it without a word
of inquiry!"

This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic
lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of hair
and even in his cultivated whiskers.

OK, now we get a long aside about the legal system. The narrator is not a fan. The main gist is this: Men like Vholes have a surface veneer of respectability .The whole point of the legal system is to keep creating work for itself.Any time any kind of reform is proposed in Parliament, lawyers testify that the whole bunch of super-respectable lawyers like Vholes will be out of work. Men like Vholes have a surface veneer of respectability . The whole point of the legal system is to keep creating work for itself. Any time any kind of reform is proposed in Parliament, lawyers testify that the whole bunch of super-respectable lawyers like Vholes will be out of work. And of course all of this is surrounded by the black comedy of Vholes himself, who is always described as either a predator or death. Hardy har har. The Court of Chancery wraps up for the season and goes on summer vacation. Richard is totally furious because, of course, nothing got done. He has a long conversation with Vholes, who tells him that he never takes vacation even if the court does, and any time Richard wants him, Vholes is at his disposal. Oh, and by the way, here is a bill for his services. Vholes is constantly doing a self-contradicting kind of double talk: "If I were the kind of man who gave his clients hope, I would tell you that you have a good chance of getting a bunch of money, but I won't tell you that." Richard is total sucker for this drivel, which is how Vholes got him to leave Kenge and Carboy and transfer his legal case to Vholes in the first place, and also how he got Richard to start mistrusting and being paranoid about Jarndyce. Leaving the office, Richard passes Guppy and Jobling. Those two are on their way to Krook's place to pick up Jobling's stuff and try to look around in the process, just in case those letters from Captain Hawdon didn't get destroyed after all. When they get there they see the Smallweed family digging through all the crap in the shop. It's a crazy, horrible mess and will take a very long time to get through. Guppy and Jobling manage a very quick look around, don't find anything, and go upstairs to pack up. They run into Tulkinghorn, who, as always, is hovering unseen in the shadows. Tulkinghorn tries to ask Guppy some questions about Lady Dedlock and why he was there talking to her when someone of her social status should be totally inaccessible to a lowly clerk like him. Guppy is kind of half-scared and half-confused but manages not to say anything too horribly incriminating.

Mr. Vholes, Richard's far-from-honest lawyer, asks Richard for an advance of twenty pounds. Observing Richard, Weevle says to Guppy that Richard's is a case of "smouldering" combustion. Mr. Vholes, Richard's far-from-honest lawyer, asks Richard for an advance of twenty pounds. Observing Richard, Weevle says to Guppy that Richard's is a case of "smouldering" combustion. It occurs to Guppy that Captain Hawdon's papers may have survived the incineration of Krook. Grandfather Smallweed is already at Krook's place, searching through a litter of papers. No one finds anything of any value.

By standing up to the vile but powerful Tulkinghorn, Guppy slightly redeems himself from the absurdity which he epitomized in the preceding chapter. Grandfather Smallweed's greed and Tulkinghorn's obsession remain prominent.

"Attorney and Client" The narrator describes Mr. Vholes and his small, dark office in Symond's Inn. Mr. Vholes claims to be a respectable man, fully devoted to his clients and their affairs. Mr. Vholes wholeheartedly promotes the idea that the backbone of English law is that it must make business for itself. Yet he convinces Richard that they will make progress in the suit. Richard trusts him completely. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle see Richard on the street, and Mr. Guppy observes that Richard is now in debt because he wouldn't stay away from the suit. Mr. Guppy then tells Mr. Weevle that he no longer wishes to find the letters from the now dead Krook. He asks Mr. Weevle to tell him if there's any chance the letters didn't burn and might be hidden in Krook's shop. Grandfather Smallweed has been coming to the shop every day, searching through Krook's belongings, but he never finds anything of value. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle go to the shop, chat briefly with Grandfather Smallweed, then go upstairs to Mr. Weevle's old lodging. Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He congratulates Guppy on being able to meet with grand ladies. Guppy grows red and tells Tulkinghorn that he doesn't have to explain himself. Tulkinghorn leaves. Guppy admits to Weevle that he's been in communication with a member of the aristocracy, but that this must end and be forgotten

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

Attorney and Client This chapter gives a blow by blow account of Richard's visit to his attorney Vholes, showing how he plays on the young man's weakness to keep him hooked on the case. Richard is full of despair at nothing happening in the case, and now it is the long vacation. Vholes tries to convince him that something is happening and that he is keeping an eye on his interests, not even going on vacation himself. He says, "the wheel is going round" . He convinces Richard that Mr. Jarndyce is his enemy, and that it was wise to take a separate attorney. It is again mentioned that Skimpole got a commission for finding Richard as a client for Vholes. Guppy and Weevle go to Krook's shop to collect Tony's things and there they see the Smallweeds dirty and going through Krook's junk looking for something valuable. No one knows for sure whether the letters of Hawdon were burned up with the body. The evil cat, Lady Jane, "Almost looks as if she was Krook" . Tulkinghorn is there and asks to speak to Guppy, whom he intimidates.

Commentary on Chapter XXXIX It seems that many people are looking for the missing letters from Lady Dedlock to Hawdon in hopes of using them to extort money or create scandal. Tulkinghorn is digging around as well. He puts Guppy in his place as small fry. Vholes is one of the dozens of bloodsucker lawyers making a living off Jarndyce and Jarndyce. It is mentioned in the beginning that 70, 000 pounds has so far been spent on court costs. One wonders if there could possibly be anything left. Weevle sees Richard come out of Vholes's office and mentions that "there's combustion going on there . . . smouldering combustion," that means he is heading towards Krook's combustion . Richard's heart is "heavy with corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt" because he is "fighting with shadows and being defeated by them" . Vholes knows how to give him just enough hope to keep him going.