He looked at me with an attention that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat until the servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and uncrossing his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant ride, and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked at him, but I found him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and curious way.

He looked at me with an attention that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat; and as he sat there crossing and uncrossing his legs, I found him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and curious way.


When the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs to Mr. Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would partake.

When the servant invited him to go upstairs to Mr. Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared when he came down.


He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door, "Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?"

He said with some embarrassment, "Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?"


I replied yes, I should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look.

I replied yes; and he went out with a bow and another look.


I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be to wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to leave him to himself.

I thought him only awkward and shy, and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be to wait until he had everything he wanted and then to leave him to himself.


The lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some time on the table.


The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a long one, and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his room was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation.

The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a long and stormy one, for although his room was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a high wind.


At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the conference.


"My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's a Tartar!"


"Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I.


Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner.

Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the carving-knife, still looking at me in the same unusual manner.


The sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation on me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under which he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.


He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.


"Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?"


said Mr. Guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.


"I have only waited to see that you have everything you want.


"No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure.


I've everything that I can require to make me comfortable--at least I--not comfortable--I'm never that."

I've everything that I can require to make me comfortable - at least - not comfortable - I'm never that."


He drank off two more glasses of wine, one after another.

He drank off two glasses of wine, one after another.


said Mr. Guppy, rising when he saw me rise.


"But would you allow me the favour of a minute's private conversation?"


Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.


"What follows is without prejudice, miss?"


said Mr. Guppy, anxiously bringing a chair towards my table.


"I don't understand what you mean," said I, wondering.


You won't make any use of it to my detriment at Kenge and Carboy's or elsewhere.


If our conversation shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects.

If our conversation shouldn't lead to anything, I am not to be prejudiced in my situation.


"I am at a loss, sir," said I, "to imagine what you can have to communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury."

"I am at a loss, sir," said I, "to imagine what you can have to say in total confidence to me; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury."


I'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient."


All this time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with his handkerchief or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his right.

Mr. Guppy wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.


"If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I think it might assist me in getting on without a continual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant."

"If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I think it might assist me."


I took the opportunity of moving well behind my table.

I took the opportunity of moving well behind the table.


"You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you miss?"


My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy's, is two pound a week.

"My present salary, Miss Summerson, is two pound a week.


When I first had the happiness of looking upon you, it was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened period.


A rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months from the present date.

but a rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of five is guaranteed at the end of a term not exceeding twelve months from the present.


My mother has a little property, which takes the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an independent though unassuming manner in the Old Street Road.


She is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law.

and is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law.


She never interferes, is all for peace, and her disposition easy.

She is all for peace, and her disposition easy.


She has her failings--as who has not?--but I never knew her do it when company was present, at which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt liquors.

She has her failings - as who has not? - but I never knew her do it when company was present, at which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt liquors.


My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville.

My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place.


It is lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the 'ealthiest outlets.


Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a declaration--to make an offer!"

Would you be so kind as to allow me to file a declaration - to make an offer!"


I was well behind my table and not much frightened.


I said, "Get up from that ridiculous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise and ring the bell!"

I said, "Get up from that ridiculous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to ring the bell!"


"I cannot consent to hear another word, sir," I returned, "Unless you get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as you ought to do if you have any sense at all."

"I cannot consent to hear another word, sir," I returned, "unless you get up from the carpet directly and sit down at the table."


He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so.


"Yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said with his hand upon his heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the tray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment.


The soul recoils from food at such a moment, miss."


"I beg you to conclude," said I; "you have asked me to hear you out, and I beg you to conclude."

"I beg you to conclude," said I; "since you have asked me to hear you out."


"As I love and honour, so likewise I obey.


Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before the shrine!"


"That is quite impossible," said I, "and entirely out of the question."


"I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray and regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were not directed to him, with his late intent look, "I am aware that in a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a poor one.

"I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray intently, "that in a worldly point of view, my offer is a poor one.


No, don't ring--I have been brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of general practice.

No, don't ring - I have been brought up in a sharp school.


Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life.


Blest with your hand, what means might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing your fortunes!

Blest with your hand, I might find means of advancing your interests!


What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you?

What might I not get to know concerning you?


I know nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had your confidence, and you set me on?"

I know nothing now, certainly; but what if I had your confidence, and you set me on?"


I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be my interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination, and he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to go away immediately.

I told him that he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to go away immediately.


"Cruel miss," said Mr. Guppy, "hear but another word!


I think you must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when I waited at the Whytorseller.

I think you must have seen that I was struck with those charms on that first day I saw you.


I think you must have remarked that I could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps of the 'ackney-coach.


It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was well meant.


Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast.


I have walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby's house only to look upon the bricks that once contained thee.


This out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone.

This meeting today, quite unnecessary as far as its pretended object went, was planned by me alone for thee alone."


If I speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful wretchedness.


"I should be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my hand upon the bell-rope, "to do you or any one who was sincere the injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed.

"I should be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my hand upon the bell-rope, "to slight any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed.


If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank you.


I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not proud.


I hope," I think I added, without very well knowing what I said, "that you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's business."

I hope that you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's business."


cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was about to ring.


"I will never mention it," said I, "unless you should give me future occasion to do so."


In case you should think better at any time, however distant--THAT'S no consequence, for my feelings can never alter--of anything I have said, particularly what might I not do, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient."

In case you should think better at any time of anything I have said, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient."


I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his written card upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed.

I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, with a dejected bow, departed.


Raising my eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after he had passed the door.


I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments and getting through plenty of business.

I sat there for another hour, getting through plenty of business.


Then I arranged my desk, and put everything away, and was so composed and cheerful that I thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident.


But, when I went upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning to laugh about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry about it.

But, when I went upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning to laugh about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry.


In short, I was in a flutter for a little while and felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in the garden.


It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane.


The good ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed, iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing clippers are laid up in ordinary.

The good ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, iron-fastened, slowly-sailing clippers are laid up.


The Flying Dutchman, with a crew of ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse their papers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where.


The courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.

The courts are all shut; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.


Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found there, walk.


The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants' Inn, and Lincoln's Inn even unto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided stools that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of Term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation.

The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants' Inn, and Lincoln's Inn Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded proceedings, offices at anchor, and idle clerks lounging on lop-sided stools, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation.


Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and parcels are to be left at the Porter's Lodge by the bushel.

Outer doors of chambers are shut, messages and parcels are left at the Porter's Lodge by the bushel.


A crop of grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pavement outside Lincoln's Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons over their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up and eat it thoughtfully.


Even he only comes twice a week to sit in chambers.


If the country folks of those assize towns on his circuit could see him now!


No full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats, no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands.


Merely a close-shaved gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer!

; a gentleman in white trousers and a white hat - no wig; his nose is peeling from the sun and he drinks iced ginger-beer.


The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth.


How England can get on through four long summer months without its bar--which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only legitimate triumph in prosperity--is beside the question; assuredly that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear.

How England can get on through four long summer months without its lawyers is beside the question.


The learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it is doing infinitely better than might be expected in Switzerland.


The learned gentleman who does the withering business and who blights all opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a French watering-place.


The learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks.


The very learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his gingery complexion in pools and fountains of law until he has become great in knotty arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy bench with legal "chaff," inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most of the initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity and dust, about Constantinople.


Other dispersed fragments of the same great palladium are to be found on the canals of Venice, at the second cataract of the Nile, in the baths of Germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the English coast.

Dispersed fragments of the bar are to be found on the canals of Venice, by the Nile, in the baths of Germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the English coast.


Scarcely one is to be encountered in the deserted region of Chancery Lane.


If such a lonely member of the bar do flit across the waste and come upon a prowling suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his anxiety, they frighten one another and retreat into opposite shades.


It is the hottest long vacation known for many years.


All the young clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate, Ramsgate, or Gravesend.

All the young clerks are madly in love, and pine for the beloved object at Margate, Ramsgate, or Gravesend.


All the middle-aged clerks think their families too large.


All the unowned dogs who stray into the Inns of Court and pant about staircases and other dry places seeking water give short howls of aggravation.


All the blind men's dogs in the streets draw their masters against pumps or trip them over buckets.


A shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary.

A shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of goldfish in the window, is a sanctuary.


Temple Bar gets so hot that it is, to the adjacent Strand and Fleet Street, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering all night.

Temple Bar and Fleet Street are simmering all night.


There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in dullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those retirements seem to blaze.

There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be cool; but the little alleys outside them seem to blaze.


In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot that the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the pavement--Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, with his cat (who never is too hot) by his side.

In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot that the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the pavement - Mr. Krook included, who pursues his studies with his cat by his side.


The Sol's Arms has discontinued the Harmonic Meetings for the season, and Little Swills is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he comes out in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a juvenile complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the feelings of the most fastidious mind.


Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil of rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long vacation.

Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long vacation.


Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mind as a sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as a law-stationer aforesaid.


He has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn and in the Rolls Yard during the long vacation than at other seasons, and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing it is in such hot weather to think that you live in an island with the sea a-rolling and a-bowling right round you.

has more leisure for musing during the long vacation than at other seasons, and he says to the two apprentices, what a thing it is in such hot weather to think that you live in an island with the sea a-bowling right round you.


Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoon in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it in contemplation to receive company.

Guster is busy in the little drawing-room this afternoon, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are to receive company.


The expected guests are rather select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more.

The expected guests are Mr. and Mrs. Chadband.


From Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself, both verbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is, as he expresses it, "in the ministry."

From Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers for a sailor, but he is, he says, "in the ministry."


Mr. Chadband is attached to no particular denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects as to render his volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbent on his conscience; but he has his followers, and Mrs. Snagsby is of the number.

Mr. Chadband is attached to no particular denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have nothing very remarkable to say; but he has his followers, and Mrs. Snagsby is one of them.


Mrs. Snagsby has but recently taken a passage upward by the vessel, Chadband; and her attention was attracted to that Bark A 1, when she was something flushed by the hot weather.


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


So Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as the handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the gift of holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the little drawing-room for tea.

So Guster prepares the drawing-room for tea.


All the furniture is shaken and dusted, the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth, the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin slices of ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rows of anchovies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, to be brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast.

All the furniture is dusted, the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision of dainty new bread, cool fresh butter, thin slices of ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rows of anchovies nestling in parsley, eggs and hot buttered toast.


For Chadband is rather a consuming vessel--the persecutors say a gorging vessel--and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork remarkably well.

For Chadband is rather a consuming vessel.


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

Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations, says to Mrs. Snagsby, "At what time did you expect Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, my love?"


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

Mr. Snagsby observes mildly that "it's gone that."


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


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

Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it, but he says, with his cough of mildness, "No, my dear, no.


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


"Only when a person lays in victuals for tea, a person does it with a view--perhaps--more to time.


And when a time is named for having tea, it's better to come up to it."


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


Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comes rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular ghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that Mr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court.

Here, Guster, who has been looking out of the bedroom window, comes flushed and rustling down the little staircase to announce that Mr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court.


The bell at the inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is admonished by Mrs. Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement.


Much discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order) by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to announce "Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay, whatsername!"

les; and much discomposed in her nerves, she announces them as "Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay, whatsername!"


and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.


Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system.


Mrs. Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman.


Mr. Chadband moves softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk upright.


He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovel, is very much in a perspiration about the head, and never speaks without first putting up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is going to edify them.

He is in a perspiration about the head, and never speaks without first putting up his great hand, signalling to his hearers that he is going to edify them.


"My friends," says Mr. Chadband, "peace be on this house!


On the master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on the young men!

On the master thereof, on the mistress thereof!


Is it lovely, and gentle, and beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful?

Is it lovely, and gentle, and beautiful, and serene?


Therefore, my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon yours."


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

As Mrs. Snagsby is looking deeply edified, Mr. Snagsby thinks it expedient to say amen, which is well received.


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

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


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

Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass voice, says, "Go away!"


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

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


Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two."


The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, "Go away!"


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


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


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

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


"One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir.

"Cab number one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir.


Which he wish to know what the shilling ware for," says Guster, breathless.


Guster replied that "he insistes on one and eightpence or on summonsizzing the party."

Guster replies that "he insists on one and eightpence or on summonsizzing the party."


Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand.

Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are growing shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand.


"My friends," says he, "I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday.


It is right that I should be chastened in some penalty.


While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. Snagsby, as who should say, "You hear this apostle!"


and while Mr. Chadband glows with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money.

While Mr. Chadband glows with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money.


It is Mr. Chadband's habit--it is the head and front of his pretensions indeed--to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the smallest items and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions.


"My friends," says Chadband, "eightpence is not much; it might justly have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half a crown.

"My friends," says Chadband, "eightpence is not much; it might have been half a crown.


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

With which remark, he stalks to the table, and before taking a chair, lifts up his hand.


"My friends," says he, "what is this which we now behold as being spread before us?

"My friends," says he, "what is this which is spread before us?


Do we need refreshment then, my friends?


And why do we need refreshment, my friends?


Because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of the earth, because we are not of the air.

Because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of the earth, and not of the air.


Mr. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "No wings."

Mr. Snagsby to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "No wings."


But is immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.

He is immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.


"I say, my friends," pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejecting and obliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly?

"I say, my friends," pursues Mr. Chadband, obliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly?


Is it because we are calculated to walk?


Could we walk, my friends, without strength?


What should we do without strength, my friends?


Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground.

Our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground.


Then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our limbs?

Then from whence, my friends, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our limbs?


Is it," says Chadband, glancing over the table, "from bread in various forms, from butter which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow, from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from such like?

Is it," says Chadband, glancing over the table, "from bread in various forms, from butter, from eggs, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from such like?


Then let us partake of the good things which are set before us!"


The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr. Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after this fashion.


But this can only be received as a proof of their determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody's experience that the Chadband style of oratory is widely received and much admired.


Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at Mr. Snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously.

Mr. Chadband, having concluded for the present, sits down at Mr. Snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously.


The conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or other large factory for the production of that article on a wholesale scale.

The conversion of food into oil of the quality already mentioned appears to be a process so inevitable for this vessel, that in eating he may be described as becoming a kind of oil mill.


On the present evening of the long vacation, in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful stroke of business that the warehouse appears to be quite full when the works cease.


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

At this period, Guster whispers to Mr. Snagsby that he is wanted in the shop.


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

"Perhaps this good company will excuse me for half a minute," says Mr. Snagsby, rising.


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

He descends and finds the two apprentices contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm.


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


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

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


"I'm always a-moving on, sar," cries the boy, wiping away his grimy tears with his arm.


"I've always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever since I was born.


Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I do move!"

Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I do!"


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

"He won't move on," says the constable calmly, "although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and therefore I am obliged to take him into custody.


He's as obstinate a young gonoph as I know.


cries the boy, clutching quite desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of Mr. Snagsby's passage.


"Don't you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work of you!"


says the constable, giving him a passionless shake.


"My instructions are that you are to move on.


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

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


"My instructions don't go to that," replies the constable.


"My instructions are that this boy is to move on."


It is nothing to you or to any one else that the great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few years in this business to set you the example of moving on.


The one grand recipe remains for you--the profound philosophical prescription--the be-all and the end-all of your strange existence upon earth.


You are by no means to move off, Jo, for the great lights can't at all agree about that.


Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect, says nothing at all indeed, but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thoroughfare in any direction.


By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and Mrs. Snagsby, hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the stairs.


Guster having never left the end of the passage, the whole household are assembled.


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


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

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


says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the staircase.


I do know something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can't say that there's any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable."


To whom the law-stationer relates his Joful and woeful experience, suppressing the half-crown fact.

The law-stationer relates his Joful and woeful experience.


says the constable, "so far, it seems, he had grounds for what he said.

says the constable, "it seems he had grounds for what he said.


When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said you knew him.


Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he was acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if I'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear.

A young man who was in the crowd said he was acquainted with you, and if I'd call and make the inquiry - oh!


The young man don't seem inclined to keep his word, but--Oh!


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

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


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


"It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "and I am obliged to you."

"It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby.


And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience, again suppressing the half-crown fact.


"Now, I know where you live," says the constable, then, to Jo.

"Now, I know where you live," says the constable to Jo.


That's a nice innocent place to live in, ain't it?"


"I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies Jo.


"They wouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice innocent place fur to live.


Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such a reg'lar one as me!"


"Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies Jo.


I shook these two half-crowns out of him," says the constable, producing them to the company, "in only putting my hand upon him!"

I shook these two half-crowns out of him," says the constable, producing them to the company.


"They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, "out of a sov-ring as wos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouse and the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground wot he's berrid in.

"They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, "out of a sov-ring as wos give me by a lady as sed she wos a servant and as come to my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouse and the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at and the berrin-ground wot he's berrid in.


She ses to me she ses 'are you the boy at the inkwhich?'

She ses to me 'are you the boy at the inkwhich?'


She ses to me she ses 'can you show me all them places?'


And she ses to me 'do it' and I dun it and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it.


And I an't had much of the sov'ring neither," says Jo, with dirty tears, "fur I had to pay five bob, down in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give me change, and then a young man he thieved another five while I was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on it."

And I an't had much of the sov'ring neither," says Jo, with dirty tears, "fur I had to pay five bob, down in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd change it fur me, and then a man he thieved another five while I was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence of it."


"You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the sovereign, do you?"


says the constable, eyeing him aside with ineffable disdain.


"I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo.


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

"I don't expect nothink at all, sir, much, but it's true."


"Well, Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock him up this time, will you engage for his moving on?"


"Constable, I have no doubt he'll move on.


You know you really must do it," says Mr. Snagsby.


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


And recollect you won't get off so easy next time.


Now, the sooner you're five mile off, the better for all parties."


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

The constable bids good afternoon and walks away.


Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company.

Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has awakened the curiosity of all the company, especially Mr. Guppy, who has an inquiring mind.


Mr. Guppy, who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who has been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation, takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by the ladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs and drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of the tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions.

He enters on a regular cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by the ladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs and drink a cup of tea.


Mr. Guppy yielding his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to follow into the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand as a witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the other shape like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worrying him according to the best models.

Mr. Guppy accepting, Jo is requested to follow into the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand as a witness.


Nor is the examination unlike many such model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing and of its being lengthy, for Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent, and Mrs. Snagsby feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition, but that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up in the law.

His cross examination is both long and fruitless, but Mrs. Snagsby feels that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up in the law.


During the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel Chadband, being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground and waits to be floated off.

Meanwhile the vessel Chadband, being merely engaged in the oil trade, waits to be floated off.


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


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

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


"Has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years," Mrs. Snagsby triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy.

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


"Mrs. Chadband--this gentleman's wife--Reverend Mr. Chadband."


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


says Mr. Guppy, transferring his cross-examination.


"Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in something, ma'am?"


says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than to model his conversation on forensic principles.


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

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


Pray, ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions (we will not at present say what transactions) with Kenge and Carboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance?

Pray, ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions with Kenge and Carboy's office, or was it a gentleman?


"Neither," says Mrs. Chadband as before.


says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring Mrs. Snagsby the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on British jurymen.

says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring Mrs. Snagsby an acute professional eye.


"Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness to tell us WHAT child."

"Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness to tell us what child."


"You have got it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband with another hard-favoured smile.


"Well, sir, it was before your time, most likely, judging from your appearance.


I was left in charge of a child named Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by Messrs. Kenge and Carboy."


"I call her Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband with austerity.

"Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband with austerity.


"There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time.


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

"My dear ma'am," returns Mr. Guppy, "I received that young lady in London when she first came here.


Allow me to have the pleasure of taking you by the hand."

Allow me to have the pleasure of shaking your hand."


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

Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, rises.


"My friends," says Chadband, "we have partaken in moderation" (which was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "of the comforts which have been provided for us.

"My friends," says Chadband, "we have partaken in moderation" (which was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "of the comforts which have been provided.


May this house live upon the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful therein; may it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it proceed, may it press forward!


But, my friends, have we partaken of anything else?


My friends, of what else have we partaken?


From whence have we derived that spiritual profit?


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

Jo gives a slouch backward, and another slouch forward.


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

"My young friend," says Chadband, "you are to us a pearl, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel.


"My young friend," says Chadband, "it is because you know nothing that you are to us a gem and jewel.


Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which I now deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.

Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom which I now deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.


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


And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend?


Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now?


Because you are in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of bondage.

But you are in a state of darkness, a state of obscurity, a state of sinfulness, a state of bondage.


At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his face and gives a terrible yawn.

At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo smears his right arm over his face and gives a terrible yawn.


Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expresses her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.


"My friends," says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin folding itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is right that I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is right that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be corrected.

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband, "it is right that I should be humbled.


I stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pride of my three hours' improving.


The account is now favourably balanced: my creditor has accepted a composition.


Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby.


"My friends," says Chadband, looking round him in conclusion, "I will not proceed with my young friend now.

"My friends," says Chadband, "I will not proceed with my young friend now.


Will you come to-morrow, my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am to be found to deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that, and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses?"

Will you come tomorrow, my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am to be found to deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses?"


Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms, gives a shuffling nod.


Mr. Guppy then throws him a penny, and Mrs. Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house.

Mr. Guppy throws him a penny, and Mrs. Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house.


But before he goes downstairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some broken meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.

But before he goes downstairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some food from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms


So, Mr. Chadband--of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave off, having once the audacity to begin--retires into private life until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade.


Jo moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge, where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his repast.

, down to Blackfriars Bridge.
He finds a stony corner to eat his repast


And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering above a red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke.

; and there he sits, munching, and looking up at the great cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral.


From the boy's face one might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion of the great, confused city--so golden, so high up, so far out of his reach.

From the boy's face one might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion of the great, confused city - so golden, so high, so far out of his reach.


There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams--everything moving on to some purpose and to one end--until he is stirred up and told to "move on" too.

There he sits, the crowd flowing by him - until he is told to "move on".


Full seven happy years I have been the mistress of Bleak House.

Chapter 67: The Close of Esther's Narrative


The few words that I have to add to what I have written are soon penned; then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part for ever.

My last few words are soon penned; then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part for ever.


Not without much dear remembrance on my side.


Not without some, I hope, on his or hers.


They gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks I never left her.


The little child who was to have done so much was born before the turf was planted on its father's grave.


It was a boy; and I, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father's name.

It was a boy; and we called him Richard.


The help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it came, in the eternal wisdom, for another purpose.


Though to bless and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, its power was mighty to do it.

To bless and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, and its power was mighty.


When I saw the strength of the weak little hand and how its touch could heal my darling's heart and raised hope within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness and the tenderness of God.

When I saw how the weak little hand could heal my darling's heart and raise hope within her, I felt a new sense of the tenderness of God.


They throve, and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my country garden and walk there with her infant in her arms.

They throve, and soon I saw my dear girl walk in my country garden with her infant in her arms.


It was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked Ada when she would come home.


"Both houses are your home, my dear," said he, "but the older Bleak House claims priority.


When you and my boy are strong enough to do it, come and take possession of your home."


Ada called him "her dearest cousin, John."


But he said, no, it must be guardian now.


He was her guardian henceforth, and the boy's; and he had an old association with the name.


So she called him guardian, and has called him guardian ever since.


I say the children; I have two little daughters.


It is difficult to believe that Charley (round-eyed still, and not at all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood; yet so it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as I write early in the morning at my summer window, I see the very mill beginning to go round.

It is difficult to believe that Charley is married to a miller in our neighbourhood; yet so it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as I write early in the morning at my window, I see the very mill beginning to go round.


I hope the miller will not spoil Charley; but he is very fond of her, and Charley is rather vain of such a match, for he is well to do and was in great request.


So far as my small maid is concerned, I might suppose time to have stood for seven years as still as the mill did half an hour ago, since little Emma, Charley's sister, is exactly what Charley used to be.

Little Emma, Charley's sister, is now exactly what Charley used to be.


As to Tom, Charley's brother, I am really afraid to say what he did at school in ciphering, but I think it was decimals.


He is apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was, and is a good bashful fellow, always falling in love with somebody and being ashamed of it.

he is apprenticed to the miller, and is a good bashful fellow, always falling in love with somebody and being ashamed of it.


Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was a dearer creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of the house with the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life.

Caddy passed her last holidays with us and was perpetually dancing in and out of the house with the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life.


Caddy keeps her own little carriage now instead of hiring one, and lives full two miles further westward than Newman Street.

Caddy keeps her own little carriage now, and lives two miles west of her former house.


She works very hard, her husband (an excellent one) being lame and able to do very little.


Still, she is more than contented and does all she has to do with all her heart.


Mr. Jellyby spends his evenings at her new house with his head against the wall as he used to do in her old one.


I have heard that Mrs. Jellyby was understood to suffer great mortification from her daughter's ignoble marriage and pursuits, but I hope she got over it in time.


She has been disappointed in Borrioboola-Gha, which turned out a failure in consequence of the king of Borrioboola wanting to sell everybody--who survived the climate--for rum, but she has taken up with the rights of women to sit in Parliament, and Caddy tells me it is a mission involving more correspondence than the old one.


I had almost forgotten Caddy's poor little girl.


She is not such a mite now, but she is deaf and dumb.


I believe there never was a better mother than Caddy, who learns, in her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts to soften the affliction of her child.

I believe there never was a better mother than Caddy, who learns innumerable deaf and dumb arts to soften the affliction of her child.


As if I were never to have done with Caddy, I am reminded here of Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop.


Peepy is in the Custom House, and doing extremely well.

As for Peepy, he is in the Custom House, and doing extremely well.


Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old manner, is still believed in in the old way.

Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits his deportment about town, and enjoys himself in the old manner.


He is constant in his patronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite French clock in his dressing-room--which is not his property.

He is constant in his patronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite French clock, which is not his property.


With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty house by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian, which we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to see us.

With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty house by building a little growlery expressly for my guardian, which we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to see us.


I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full in drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will have their way.

I try to write all this lightly, but when I write of him, my tears will have their way.


I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him a good man.


To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that?


He is my husband's best and dearest friend, he is our children's darling, he is the object of our deepest love and veneration.


Yet while I feel towards him as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar with him and so easy with him that I almost wonder at myself.

Yet while I feel as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar and easy with him that I almost wonder at myself.


I have never lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor do I ever, when he is with us, sit in any other place than in my old chair at his side, Dame Trot, Dame Durden, Little Woman--all just the same as ever; and I answer, "Yes, dear guardian!"


I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name.


I remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now, and he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter on that very day.


I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever.


The sorrow that has been in her face--for it is not there now--seems to have purified even its innocent expression and to have given it a diviner quality.

The sorrow that has been in her face - for it is not there now - seems to have given its innocent expression a diviner quality.


Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the black dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel--it is difficult to express--as if it were so good to know that she remembers her dear Esther in her prayers.

Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the black dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel as if it were so good to know that she remembers her dear Esther in her prayers.


But he says that he has two mamas, and I am one.


We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and we have quite enough.

We are not rich in the bank, but we have quite enough.


I never walk out with my husband but I hear the people bless him.


I never go into a house of any degree but I hear his praises or see them in grateful eyes.

I never go into a house without hearing his praises or seeing them in grateful eyes.


I never lie down at night but I know that in the course of that day he has alleviated pain and soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need.

Every day he alleviates pain and soothes some fellow-creature in the time of need.


I know that from the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks have often, often gone up, in the last hour, for his patient ministration.


The people even praise me as the doctor's wife.


The people even like me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am quite abashed.

As I go about, they make so much of me that I am quite abashed.


They like me for his sake, as I do everything I do in life for his sake.


A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling and my guardian and little Richard, who are coming to-morrow, I was sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable porch, when Allan came home.

A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling and my guardian and little Richard, who are coming tomorrow, I was sitting out in the porch when Allan came home.


So he said, "My precious little woman, what are you doing here?"

He said, "My precious little woman, what are you doing here?"


And I said, "The moon is shining so brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have been sitting here thinking."


"What have you been thinking about, my dear?"


"I am almost ashamed to tell you, but I will.


I have been thinking about my old looks--such as they were."

I have been thinking about my old looks - such as they were."


"And what have you been thinking about THEM, my busy bee?"

"And what have you been thinking about them, my busy bee?"


"I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that you COULD have loved me any better, even if I had retained them."

"I have been thinking that it seems impossible that you could have loved me any better, even if I had retained them."


"My dear Dame Durden," said Allan, drawing my arm through his, "do you ever look in the glass?"


"And don't you know that you are prettier than you ever were?"


"I did not know that; I am not certain that I know it now.


But I know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me--even supposing--."

But I know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me - even supposing-"


While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet weather down at the place in Lincolnshire.

While Esther sleeps, it is still wet weather down at the place in Lincolnshire.


The rain is ever falling--drip, drip, drip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement, the Ghost's Walk.

The rain is ever falling - drip, drip, drip - by day and night upon the broad stone-flagged terrace-pavement, the Ghost's Walk.


The weather is so very bad down in Lincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again.

The weather is so very bad there that no-one can imagine its ever being fine again.


Not that there is any superabundant life of imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold.

Sir Leicester is not here, but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold.


There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at Chesney Wold.


The horses in the stables--the long stables in a barren, red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in a turret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it and who love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be always consulting--THEY may contemplate some mental pictures of fine weather on occasions, and may be better artists at them than the grooms.

The horses in the long stables may contemplate fine weather on occasions.


The old roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning his large eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember the fresh leaves that glisten there at other times and the scents that stream in, and may have a fine run with the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next stall, never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom.

The old roan, turning his large eye to the window near his hay-rack, may remember the fresh leaves of other times.


The grey, whose place is opposite the door and who with an impatient rattle of his halter pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully when it is opened, and to whom the opener says, "Woa grey, then, steady!


The whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen, stabled together, may pass the long wet hours when the door is shut in livelier communication than is held in the servants' hall or at the Dedlock Arms, or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps corrupting) the pony in the loose-box in the corner.


So the mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard with his large head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when the shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing and leave him at one time of the day no broader refuge than the shadow of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growling short, and very much wanting something to worry besides himself and his chain.

The mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard, may think of the hot sunshine and


So now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall the house full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables full of horses, and the out-buildings full of attendants upon horses, until he is undecided about the present and comes forth to see how it is.

may recall the house full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables full of horses.


Then, with that impatient shake of himself, he may growl in the spirit, "Rain, rain, rain!


as he goes in again and lies down with a gloomy yawn.


So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who have their restless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has been very obstinate have even made it known in the house itself--upstairs, downstairs, and in my Lady's chamber.


They may hunt the whole country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round their inactivity.


So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails, frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of those seasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw.


The turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morning wrongfully taken from him when he got into the lane among the felled trees, where there was a barn and barley.

The turkey in the poultry-yard may recall that summer morning when he got into the lane amongst the barley.


The discontented goose, who stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may gabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling preference for weather when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground.


Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at Chesney Wold.

But there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at Chesney Wold.


If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way and usually leads off to ghosts and mystery.


It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire that Mrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has several times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain that the drops were not upon the glasses.

It has rained so hard that Mrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has several times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain that the drops were not upon the glasses.


Mrs. Rouncewell might have been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe.


She is a fine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a back and such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out when she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised.

She is a fine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat and upright.


The house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looks at."


She sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor, with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house reposes on her mind.

She sits in her room on the ground floor, and the whole house reposes on her mind.


She can open it on occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it is shut up now and lies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's iron-bound bosom in a majestic sleep.

She can open it on occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it is shut up now in a majestic sleep.


It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine Chesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only been here fifty years.

Mrs. Rouncewell has been here fifty years.


Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall answer "fifty year, three months, and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven, if I live till Tuesday."


Mr. Rouncewell died some time before the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyard in the park near the mouldy porch.


He was born in the market-town, and so was his young widow.


Her progress in the family began in the time of the last Sir Leicester and originated in the still-room.

Her progress in the family began in the time of the last Sir Leicester, starting as a maid in the still-room.


The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent master.

The present Sir Leicester Dedlock is an excellent master.


He supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was born to supersede the necessity of their having any.

He supposes all his servants to be utterly bereft of individual characters or opinions.


If he were to make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--would never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die.

If he were to make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned.


But he is an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to be so.


He has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is a most respectable, creditable woman.

But he has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is a most respectable woman.


He always shakes hands with her when he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; and if he were very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or run over, or placed in any situation expressive of a Dedlock at a disadvantage, he would say if he could speak, "Leave me, and send Mrs. Rouncewell here!"

He always shakes hands with her when he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; and if he were very ill, he would say, "send Mrs. Rouncewell here!"


feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer with her than with anybody else.

feeling his dignity safer with her than with anybody else.


She has had two sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back.

Her husband died many years ago: she has two sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back.


Even to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose their composure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner as she says what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was!

Even to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose their composure when she speaks of him, trembling as she says what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was!


Her second son would have been provided for at Chesney Wold and would have been made steward in due season, but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out of saucepans and setting birds to draw their own water with the least possible amount of labour, so assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure that a thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel and the job was done.

Her second son would have been made steward at Chesney Wold in due season, but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out of saucepans; a


This propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness.

propensity which gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness.


She felt it with a mother's anguish to be a move in the Wat Tyler direction, well knowing that Sir Leicester had that general impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tall chimney might be considered essential.


But the doomed young rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign of grace as he got older but, on the contrary, constructing a model of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his backslidings to the baronet.

When he built a model of a power-loom, she mentioned it, with many tears, to the baronet.


"Mrs. Rouncewell," said Sir Leicester, "I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any subject.


You had better get rid of your boy; you had better get him into some Works.


The iron country farther north is, I suppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies."

The iron country farther north is, I suppose, the right direction for a boy with these tendencies."


Farther north he went, and farther north he grew up; and if Sir Leicester Dedlock ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold to visit his mother, or ever thought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turning out by torchlight two or three nights in the week for unlawful purposes.


Nevertheless, Mrs. Rouncewell's son has, in the course of nature and art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called unto him Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson, who, being out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day in Mrs. Rouncewell's room at Chesney Wold.

established himself, and married: and Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson, who is out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day in Mrs. Rouncewell's room at Chesney Wold.


"And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt!


And, once again, I am glad to see you, Watt!"


Mrs. Rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.

Her hands tremble, as usual, on this reference.


"They say I am like my father, grandmother."


"Like him, also, my dear--but most like your poor uncle George!


Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has a plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable soldier who had gone over to the enemy.


So he has brought you up to follow in his ways and has sent you into foreign countries and the like?

So he has sent you into foreign countries and the like?


There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don't understand."


And I have seen a quantity of good company too!"


"Grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, "what a very pretty girl that was I found with you just now.


She is daughter of a widow in the village.


Maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young.


but she's an apt scholar and will do well.


She shows the house already, very pretty.

She shows visitors around very prettily.


"She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say.


And scarcer," says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits, "than it formerly was!"


The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the precepts of experience.


They have long been audible to the younger ears of her companion.


"What wheels on such a day as this, for gracious sake?"


After a short interval, a tap at the door.


A dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in--so fresh in her rosy and yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have beaten on her hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.

A dark, shy, village beauty comes in - so fresh in her delicate bloom that the drops of rain on her hair look like the dew upon a flower.


"It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house--yes, and if you please, I told them so!"

"It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house.


in quick reply to a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper.


"I went to the hall-door and told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this card to you."

I told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was driving begged me to bring this card to you."


"Read it, my dear Watt," says the housekeeper.


Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between them and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up.


"Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields.


"But he said that he and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting, ten miles off, this morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn't know what to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it.

"But he said that he and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the mail-coach, on business at the magistrates' meeting, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal about Chesney Wold, they had come through the wet to see it.


He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn's office, but he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's name if necessary."

He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn's office, but he knows Mr. Tulkinghorn."


Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.


Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place, and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's will.

Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part of the place, and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's will.


The old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour, and dismisses Rosa.

The old lady relaxes, and consents to the visitors' admission.


The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party.

The grandson, being smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party.


The grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, accompanies him--though to do him justice, he is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her.

The grandmother, pleased, accompanies him - though he is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her.


says Mr. Guppy, divesting himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall.

says Mr. Guppy, removing his wet coat in the hall.


"Us London lawyers don't often get an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know."

"Us London lawyers don't often get out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know."


The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves her hand towards the great staircase.

The old housekeeper, with gracious severity, waves her hand towards the great staircase.


Mr. Guppy and his friend follow Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a young gardener goes before to open the shutters.

Mr. Guppy and his friend follow Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them.


As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun.


They straggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up.

straggle about in the wrong places, don't care for the right things, yawn when more rooms are opened, and are clearly tired out.


In each successive chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat or other such nook and listens with stately approval to Rosa's exposition.

In each chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, as upright as the house itself, sits in a window-seat and listens with stately approval to Rosa's exposition.


Her grandson is so attentive to it that Rosa is shyer than ever--and prettier.

Her grandson is so attentive that Rosa is shyer than ever - and prettier.


Thus they pass on from room to room, raising the pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again.

Thus they pass from room to room, viewing the pictured Dedlocks.


It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and his inconsolable friend that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family greatness seems to consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves for seven hundred years.

It appears to Mr. Guppy and his friend that there is no end to these Dedlocks.


Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr. Guppy's spirits.


He is so low that he droops on the threshold and has hardly strength of mind to enter.


But a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a charm.

But a portrait over the chimney-piece acts upon him like a charm.


He stares at it with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.


"The picture over the fire-place," says Rosa, "is the portrait of the present Lady Dedlock.

"That is the portrait of the present Lady Dedlock," says Rosa.


It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master."

"It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the artist."


"Blest," says Mr. Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend, "if I can ever have seen her.

"I can't ever have seen her," says Mr. Guppy, in a kind of dismay.


Sir Leicester has always refused permission."

Sir Leicester has always refused permission for it to be engraved."


"I'll be shot if it ain't very curious how well I know that picture!


"The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock.


The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester."


Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates.


"It's unaccountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, "how well I know that picture!


I'm dashed," adds Mr. Guppy, looking round, "if I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!"

Dashed if I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!"


As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy's dreams, the probability is not pursued.


But he still remains so absorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it until the young gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out of the room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock again.

He remains so absorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it, and then comes out of the room dazed, walking around the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking for Lady Dedlock again.


He sees her rooms, which are the last shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death.

He sees her elegant rooms, which are the last shown, and he looks out of the windows onto the terrace.


All things have an end, even houses that people take infinite pains to see and are tired of before they begin to see them.


He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her description; which is always this: "The terrace below is much admired.

Rosa says, "The terrace below is much admired.


It is called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost's Walk."


"Pray tell us the story," says Watt in a half whisper.

asks Mr. Guppy.
"Pray tell us the story," says Watt.


"It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten," says the housekeeper, advancing.

"It is almost forgotten," says the housekeeper, advancing.


"It has never been more than a family anecdote."


"You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a picture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because I do assure you that the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without knowing how I know it!"

"You'll excuse my asking if it has anything to do with a picture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without knowing how!"


The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can guarantee that.

The story has nothing to do with a picture.


Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the information and is, moreover, generally obliged.


He retires with his friend, guided down another staircase by the young gardener, and presently is heard to drive away.

Mr. Guppy retires with his friend, and presently is heard to drive away.


Mrs. Rouncewell can trust to the discretion of her two young hearers and may tell THEM how the terrace came to have that ghostly name.

Mrs. Rouncewell tells her two young hearers how the terrace came to have that ghostly name.


She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window and tells them: "In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First--I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent king--Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold.

She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window and says:
"In the days of King Charles the First, Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold.


Whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, I can't say.


Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost.


She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes, a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim.


"Sir Morbury Dedlock," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "was, I have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr.

Sir Morbury was, of course, on the side of the King.


But it IS supposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the bad cause.

But it is said that his Lady favoured the bad cause


It is said that she had relations among King Charles's enemies, that she was in correspondence with them, and that she gave them information.

, and that she gave the King's enemies information.


When any of the country gentlemen who followed his Majesty's cause met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they supposed.

When any of his Majesty's supporters met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they supposed.


Do you hear a sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, Watt?"


"I hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and I hear a curious echo--I suppose an echo--which is very like a halting step."

"I hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and I hear a curious echo which is very like a halting step."


The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "Partly on account of this division between them, and partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury and his Lady led a troubled life.

The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "Partly on account of this division between them, Sir Morbury and his Lady led a troubled life.


They were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they had no children to moderate between them.

They were not well suited to each other, and they had no children to moderate between them.


After her favourite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which she had married.

After her favourite brother was killed in the civil wars by Sir Morbury's kinsman, her feeling was so violent that she hated the Dedlocks.


When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king's cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and the story is that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse stood.

When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king's cause, she is supposed to have crept down to the stables and lamed their horses at dead of night; and the story is that once, at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse stood.


There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or through the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip and from that hour began to pine away."

There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggle or a fall, she was lamed and from that hour began to pine away."


The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than a whisper.

The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a whisper.


"She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage.

"She had been a lady of a handsome figure.


She never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty every day.

She never complained of the change, or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon the terrace, and went up and down with greater difficulty every day.


At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement.

At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she had never spoken since that night), standing at the window, saw her drop upon the pavement.


He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, 'I will die here where I have walked.

He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him, and looking at him coldly, said, 'I will die here where I have walked.


And I will walk here, though I am in my grave.


I will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled.


And when calamity or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my step!'"

And when calamity or disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my step!'"


Rosa in the deepening gloom looks down upon the ground, half frightened and half shy.

Rosa looks down upon the ground, half frightened and half shy.


And from those days," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "the name has come down--the Ghost's Walk.

And from those days," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "the name has come down - the Ghost's Walk.


If the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for a long while together.


But it comes back from time to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard then."


"And disgrace, grandmother--" says Watt.


"Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold," returns the housekeeper.


Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound," says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair; "and what is to be noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD.


My Lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard.


Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed there, 'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can play music.

Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you that has a loud beat and can play music.


You understand how those things are managed?"


"Now, come hither," says the housekeeper.


"Hither, child, towards my Lady's pillow.


"I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen!


Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the beat, and everything?"

Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music?"


England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks.


Lord Coodle would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come in, and there being nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle, there has been no government.

The Prime Minister Lord Coodle has gone out, Sir Thomas Doodle won't come in, and there being nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle, there has been no government.


It is a mercy that the hostile meeting between those two great men, which at one time seemed inevitable, did not come off, because if both pistols had taken effect, and Coodle and Doodle had killed each other, it is to be presumed that England must have waited to be governed until young Coodle and young Doodle, now in frocks and long stockings, were grown up.


This stupendous national calamity, however, was averted by Lord Coodle's making the timely discovery that if in the heat of debate he had said that he scorned and despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas Doodle, he had merely meant to say that party differences should never induce him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration; while it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand, that Sir Thomas Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked Lord Coodle to go down to posterity as the mirror of virtue and honour.


Still England has been some weeks in the dismal strait of having no pilot (as was well observed by Sir Leicester Dedlock) to weather the storm; and the marvellous part of the matter is that England has not appeared to care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking and marrying and giving in marriage as the old world did in the days before the flood.

It is amazing that England has not appeared to care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking just the same as ever.


But Coodle knew the danger, and Doodle knew the danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the clearest possible perception of the danger.


At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in with him all his nephews, all his male cousins, and all his brothers-in-law.

At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing with him all his nephews, his male cousins, and his brothers-in-law.


Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country, chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer.

Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country, and campaign, chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer.


In this metamorphosed state he is available in a good many places simultaneously and can throw himself upon a considerable portion of the country at one time.


Britannia being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the form of sovereigns, and swallowing Doodle in the form of beer, and in swearing herself black in the face that she does neither--plainly to the advancement of her glory and morality--the London season comes to a sudden end, through all the Doodleites and Coodleites dispersing to assist Britannia in those religious exercises.

The London season comes to a sudden end, through all the Doodleites and Coodleites dispersing to assist in those exercises.


Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees, though no instructions have yet come down, that the family may shortly be expected, together with a pretty large accession of cousins and others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work.

Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees that the family may shortly be expected, together with a pretty large party of cousins and others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work.


And hence the stately old dame, taking Time by the forelock, leads him up and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that everything is ready, that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen cleared for action--all things prepared as beseems the Dedlock dignity.

And hence the stately old dame proceeds up and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and through the rooms, to witness that everything is ready, floors rubbed bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out, beds puffed, and kitchen cleared for action.


This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations are complete.

This summer evening, the preparations are complete.


Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so many appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the pictured forms upon the walls.

Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with no inhabitants except the pictured forms upon the walls.