Bleak House
in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow
bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent),
and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith.”
Here Mr. Guppy’s mother fell into an extraordinary passion of rolling
her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at her.
“It’s a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens,” said Mr. Guppy, “and in
the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mention my
friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believe has
known me,” Mr. Guppy looked at him with a sentimental air, “from
boyhood’s hour.”
Mr. Jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs.
“My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of
clerk and will live in the ’ouse,” said Mr. Guppy. “My mother will
likewise live in the ’ouse when her present quarter in the Old Street
Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there will be no
want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristocratic by
taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper
circles, fully backs me in the intentions I am now developing.”
Mr. Jobling said “Certainly” and withdrew a little from the elbow of
Mr Guppy’s mother.
“Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the
confidence of Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, “(mother, I wish you’d
be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson’s image was
formerly imprinted on my ’eart and that I made her a proposal of
marriage.”
“That I have heard,” returned my guardian.
“Circumstances,” pursued Mr. Guppy, “over which I had no control, but
quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a time.
At which time Miss Summerson’s conduct was highly genteel; I may even
add, magnanimous.”
My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.
“Now, sir,” said Mr. Guppy, “I have got into that state of mind
myself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I wish
to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth of which
perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image which I
did suppose had been eradicated from my ’eart is NOT eradicated. Its
influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it, I am
willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had
any control and to renew those proposals to Miss Summerson which I
had the honour to make at a former period. I beg to lay the ’ouse in
Walcot Square, the business, and myself before Miss Summerson for her
acceptance.”
“Very magnanimous indeed, sir,” observed my guardian.
“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Guppy with candour, “my wish is to BE
magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss
Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that the
opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I submit
may be taken into account as a set off against any little drawbacks
of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at.”
“I take upon myself, sir,” said my guardian, laughing as he rang the
bell, “to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson. She is
very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good
evening, and wishes you well.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. “Is that tantamount, sir, to
acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?”
“To decided rejection, if you please,” returned my guardian.
Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who
suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the ceiling.
“Indeed?” said he. “Then, Jobling, if you was the friend you
represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of
the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain’t
wanted.”
But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. She
wouldn’t hear of it. “Why, get along with you,” said she to my
guardian, “what do you mean? Ain’t my son good enough for you? You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!”
“My good lady,” returned my guardian, “it is hardly reasonable to ask
me to get out of my own room.”
“I don’t care for that,” said Mrs. Guppy. “Get out with you. If we
ain’t good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good
enough. Go along and find ’em.”
I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy’s
power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest
offence.
“Go along and find somebody that’s good enough for you,” repeated
Mrs. Guppy. “Get out!” Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Guppy’s mother
so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting out.
“Why don’t you get out?” said Mrs. Guppy. “What are you stopping here
for?”
“Mother,” interposed her son, always getting before her and pushing
her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, “WILL you
hold your tongue?”
“No, William,” she returned, “I won’t! Not unless he gets out, I
won’t!”
However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Guppy’s
mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very much
against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every
time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should
immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and
above all things that we should get out.
CHAPTER LXV
Beginning the World
The term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation from Mr.
Kenge that the cause would come on in two days. As I had sufficient
hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan and I agreed to
go down to the court that morning. Richard was extremely agitated and
was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the mind, that
my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported. But she looked
forward—a very little way now—to the help that was to come to her,
and never drooped.
It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had come on
there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not divest
myself of an idea that it MIGHT lead to some result now. We left home
directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time and
walked down there through the lively streets—so happily and
strangely it seemed!—together.
As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard and
Ada, I heard somebody calling “Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!” And
there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the window of a little
carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she had so
many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards’ distance. I
had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done,
but had not had a moment to go and see her. Of course we turned back,
and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so
overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers,
and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her
hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of
precious names, and telling Allan I had done I don’t know what for
her, that I was just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm
her down by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Allan,
standing at the window, was as pleased as Caddy; and I was as pleased
as either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I did, rather than
that I came off laughing, and red, and anything but tidy, and looking
after Caddy, who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as
she could see us.
This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to
Westminster Hall we found that the day’s business was begun. Worse
than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancery
that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear what
was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, for
occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of “Silence!” It appeared to
be something interesting, for every one was pushing and striving to
get nearer. It appeared to be something that made the professional
gentlemen very merry, for there were several young counsellors in
wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and when one of them
told the others about it, they put their hands in their pockets, and
quite doubled themselves up with laughter, and went stamping about
the pavement of the Hall.
We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He told us
Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was doing in it.
He said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he
could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him. No, he
said, over for good.
Over for good!
When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one another
quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had set
things right at last and that Richard and Ada were going to be rich?
It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!
Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the crowd,
and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot and
bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all
exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a farce
or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside, watching
for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundles of paper
began to be carried out—bundles in bags, bundles too large to be got
into any bags, immense masses of papers of all shapes and no shapes,
which the bearers staggered under, and threw down for the time being,
anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while they went back to bring out more.
Even these clerks were laughing. We glanced at the papers, and seeing
Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere, asked an official-looking person
who was standing in the midst of them whether the cause was over.
Yes, he said, it was all up with it at last, and burst out laughing
too.
At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with an
affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who was
deferential and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first to see
us. “Here is Miss Summerson, sir,” he said. “And Mr. Woodcourt.”
“Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!” said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to me with
polished politeness. “How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr. Jarndyce is
not here?”
No. He never came there, I reminded him.
“Really,” returned Mr. Kenge, “it is as well that he is NOT here
to-day, for his—shall I say, in my good friend’s absence, his
indomitable singularity of opinion?—might have been strengthened,
perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened.”
“Pray what has been done to-day?” asked Allan.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Kenge with excessive urbanity.
“What has been done to-day?”
“What has been done,” repeated Mr. Kenge. “Quite so. Yes. Why, not
much has been done; not much. We have been checked—brought up
suddenly, I would say—upon the—shall I term it threshold?”
“Is this will considered a genuine document, sir?” said Allan. “Will
you tell us that?”
“Most certainly, if I could,” said Mr. Kenge; “but we have not gone
into that, we have not gone into that.”
“We have not gone into that,” repeated Mr. Vholes as if his low
inward voice were an echo.
“You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt,” observed Mr. Kenge, using his
silver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, “that this has been a
great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has
been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed, not
inaptly, a monument of Chancery practice.”
“And patience has sat upon it a long time,” said Allan.
“Very well indeed, sir,” returned Mr. Kenge with a certain
condescending laugh he had. “Very well! You are further to reflect,
Mr. Woodcourt,” becoming dignified almost to severity, “that on the
numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms of