Bleak House
before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther.”
I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it
necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.
“It takes him a long time to dress,” said Caddy, “because he is very
much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation to
support. You can’t think how kind he is to Pa. He talks to Pa of an
evening about the Prince Regent, and I never saw Pa so interested.”
There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing his
deportment on Mr. Jellyby that quite took my fancy. I asked Caddy if
he brought her papa out much.
“No,” said Caddy, “I don’t know that he does that, but he talks to
Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of course
I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but they get
on together delightfully. You can’t think what good companions they
make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life, but he takes one
pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop’s box regularly and keeps putting it to
his nose and taking it away again all the evening.”
That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes of
life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Gha
appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.
“As to Peepy,” said Caddy with a little hesitation, “whom I was most
afraid of—next to having any family of my own, Esther—as an
inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentleman to
that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear! He lets
him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the crusts of
his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the house; he
tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short,” said Caddy
cheerily, “and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl and ought to
be very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?”
“To the Old Street Road,” said I, “where I have a few words to say to
the solicitor’s clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach-office on
the very day when I came to London and first saw you, my dear. Now I
think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house.”
“Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,”
returned Caddy.
To the Old Street Road we went and there inquired at Mrs. Guppy’s
residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the parlours and
having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nut
in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for,
immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. She was an
old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an
unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room was
prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in it
which, I had almost written here, was more like than life: it
insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not to
let him off.
Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there too.
He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at a table
reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.
“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, rising, “this is indeed an oasis.
Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady and
get out of the gangway.”
Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish
appearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner,
holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation,
with both hands.
I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine was
more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.
“I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir,” said I.
Mr. Guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his
breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket
with a bow. Mr. Guppy’s mother was so diverted that she rolled her
head as she smiled and made a silent appeal to Caddy with her elbow.
“Could I speak to you alone for a moment?” said I.
Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy’s mother just now, I think
I never saw. She made no sound of laughter, but she rolled her head,
and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appealed to
Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder, and was so
unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty
she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-door into her
bedroom adjoining.
“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, “you will excuse the waywardness of
a parent ever mindful of a son’s appiness. My mother, though highly
exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal dictates.”
I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have
turned so red or changed so much as Mr. Guppy did when I now put up
my veil.
“I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here,” said I,
“in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge’s because, remembering what
you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I feared
I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy.”
I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I never saw
such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension.
“Miss Summerson,” stammered Mr. Guppy, “I—I—beg your pardon, but in
our profession—we—we—find it necessary to be explicit. You have
referred to an occasion, miss, when I—when I did myself the honour
of making a declaration which—”
Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly
swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to
swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the
room, and fluttered his papers.
“A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss,” he explained,
“which rather knocks me over. I—er—a little subject to this sort of
thing—er—by George!”
I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his
hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his
chair into the corner behind him.
“My intention was to remark, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, “dear
me—something bronchial, I think—hem!—to remark that you was so
good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration.
You—you wouldn’t perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses
are present, it might be a satisfaction to—to your mind—if you was
to put in that admission.”
“There can be no doubt,” said I, “that I declined your proposal
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy.”
“Thank you, miss,” he returned, measuring the table with his troubled
hands. “So far that’s satisfactory, and it does you credit. Er—this
is certainly bronchial!—must be in the tubes—er—you wouldn’t
perhaps be offended if I was to mention—not that it’s necessary, for
your own good sense or any person’s sense must show ’em that—if I
was to mention that such declaration on my part was final, and there
terminated?”
“I quite understand that,” said I.
“Perhaps—er—it may not be worth the form, but it might be a
satisfaction to your mind—perhaps you wouldn’t object to admit that,
miss?” said Mr. Guppy.
“I admit it most fully and freely,” said I.
“Thank you,” returned Mr. Guppy. “Very honourable, I am sure. I
regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over
which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall
back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form whatever,
but it will ever be a retrospect entwined—er—with friendship’s
bowers.” Mr. Guppy’s bronchitis came to his relief and stopped his
measurement of the table.
“I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?” I began.
“I shall be honoured, I am sure,” said Mr. Guppy. “I am so persuaded
that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will—will keep you
as square as possible—that I can have nothing but pleasure, I am
sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer.”
“You were so good as to imply, on that occasion—”
“Excuse me, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, “but we had better not travel out
of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I implied
anything.”
“You said on that occasion,” I recommenced, “that you might possibly
have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my fortunes by
making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I presume that
you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an
orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence of Mr.
Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I have come to beg
of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kindness to relinquish
all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this sometimes, and I
have thought of it most lately—since I have been ill. At length I
have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose and
act upon it in any way, to come to you and assure you that you are
altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in reference to me
that would do me the least service or give me the least pleasure. I
am acquainted with my personal history, and I have it in my power to
assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such means. You
may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a long time. If so, excuse
my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the
assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to
do this, for my peace.”
“I am bound to confess,” said Mr. Guppy, “that you express yourself,
miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I gave you
credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and
if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I am prepared to
tender a full apology. I should wish to be understood, miss, as
hereby offering that apology—limiting it, as your own good sense and
right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present
proceedings.”
I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had upon
him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to do
something I asked, and he looked ashamed.
“If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so that I
may have no occasion to resume,” I went on, seeing him about to
speak, “you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately as
possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in a
confidence which I have really wished to respect—and which I always
have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my illness. There
really is no reason why I should hesitate to say that I know very
well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request to
you is quite removed. Therefore I make the entreaty I have now
preferred, and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me
to accede to it.”
I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had looked
more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and very
earnest when he now replied with a burning face, “Upon my word and
honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am a living
man, I’ll act according to your wish! I’ll never go another step in
opposition to it. I’ll take my oath to it if it will be any
satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time touching
the matters now in question,” continued Mr. Guppy rapidly, as if he
were repeating a familiar form of words, “I speak the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so—”
“I am quite satisfied,” said I, rising at this point, “and I thank
you very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!”
Mr. Guppy’s mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipient
of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave. Mr.
Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either
imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there,
staring.
But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and
with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently,