Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls
in corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brown holland,
carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the Dedlock ancestors retire from
the light of day again. Around and around the house the leaves fall thick, but
never fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and
slow. Let the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves
into full barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle- deep. Howls the
shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rain beats, the windows rattle, and
the chimneys growl. Mists hide in the avenues, veil the points of view, and move
in funeral-wise across the rising grounds. On all the house there is a cold,
blank smell like the smell of a little church, though something dryer,
suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there in the long nights and
leave the flavour of their graves behind them.
But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as Chesney Wold at
the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices or mourning when it mourns,
expecting when a Dedlock dies--the house in town shines out awakened. As warm
and bright as so much state may be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scents
that bear no trace of winter as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so
that the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb
the stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap those chilled bones of Sir
Leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir Leicester is glad to repose in
dignified contentment before the great fire in the library, condescendingly
perusing the backs of his books or honouring the fine arts with a glance of
approbation. For he has his pictures, ancient and modern. Some of the Fancy Ball
School in which art occasionally condescends to become a master, which would be
best catalogued like the miscellaneous articles in a sale. As '"Three
high-backed chairs, a table and cover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one
flask, one Spanish female's costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg
the model, and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote." Or "One stone terrace
(cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian senator's dress complete,
richly embroidered white satin costume with profile portrait of Miss Jogg the
model, one Scimitar superbly mounted in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate
Moorish dress (very rare), and Othello."
Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estate business to
do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Lady pretty often, too; and he
and she are as composed, and as indifferent, and take as little heed of one
another, as ever. Yet it may be that my Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that
he knows it. It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch
of compunction, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty and all the state
and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the greater zest for what he is
set upon and makes him the more inflexible in it. Whether he be cold and cruel,
whether immovable in what he has made his duty, whether absorbed in love of
power, whether determined to have nothing hidden from him in ground where he has
burrowed among secrets all his life, whether he in his heart despises the
splendour of which he is a distant beam, whether he is always treasuring up
slights and offences in the affability of his gorgeous clients--whether he be
any of this, or all of this, it may be that my Lady had better have five
thousand pairs of fashionahle eyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance, than the
two eyes of this rusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black
breeches tied with ribbons at the knees.
Sir Leicester sits in my Lady's room--that room in which Mr. Tulkinghorn read
the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce-- particularly complacent. My Lady, as on
that day, sits before the fire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is
particularly complacent because he has found in his newspaper some congenial
remarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework of society. They
apply so happily to the late case that Sir Leicester has come from the library
to my Lady's room expressly to read them aloud. "The man who wrote this
article," he observes by way of preface, nodding at the fire as if he were
nodding down at the man from a mount, "has a well-balanced mind."
The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my Lady, who, after
a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid resignation of herself to a show
of listening, becomes distraught and falls into a contemplation of the fire as
if it were her fire at Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Leicester,
quite unconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionally stopping
to remove his glass and express approval, as "Very true indeed," "Very properly
put," "I have frequently made the same remark myself," invariably losing his
place after each observation, and going up and down the column to find it again.
Sir Leicester is reading with infinite gravity and state when the door opens,
and the Mercury in powder makes this strange announcement, "The young man, my
Lady, of the name of Guppy."
Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, "The young man of
the name of Guppy?"
Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of Guppy, much
discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of introduction in his
manner and appearance.
"Pray," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, "what do you mean by announcing with
this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?"
"I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would see the young
man whenever he called. I was not aware that you were here, Sir Leicester."
With this apology, Mercury directs a scornful and indignant look at the young
man of the name of Guppy which plainly says, "What do you come calling here for
and getting ME into a row?"
"It's quite right. I gave him those directions," says my Lady. "Let the young
man wait."
"By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I will not interrupt
you." Sir Leicester in his gallantry retires, rather declining to accept a bow
from the young man as he goes out and majestically supposing him to be some
shoemaker of intrusive appearance.
Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has left the
room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. She suffers him to stand by
the door and asks him what he wants.
"That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a little
conversation," returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed.
"You are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?"
"Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescended to favour
me with an answer."
"And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversation
unnecessary? Can you not still?"
Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent "No!" and shakes his head.
"You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after all, that
what you have to say does not concern me--and I don't know how it can, and don't
expect that it will--you will allow me to cut you short with but little
ceremony. Say what you have to say, if you please."
My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards the fire
again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of the name of Guppy.
"With your ladyship's permission, then," says the young man, "I will now
enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship in my first letter, in
the law. Being in the law, I have learnt the habit of not committing myself in
writing, and therefore I did not mention to your ladyship the name of the firm
with which I am connected and in which my standing--and I may add income--is
tolerably good. I may now state to your ladyship, in confidence, that the name
of that firm is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln's Inn, which may not be altogether
unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce."
My Lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. She has ceased to
toss the screen and holds it as if she were listening.
"Now, I may say to your ladyship at once," says Mr. Guppy, a little
emboldened, "it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce that made me
so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I have no doubt did appear,
and does appear, obtrusive--in fact, almost blackguardly."
After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the contrary, and not
receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds, "If it had been Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I
should have gone at once to your ladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the
Fields. I have the pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn--at least
we move when we meet one another--and if it had been any business of that sort,
I should have gone to him."
My Lady turns a little round and says, "You had better sit down."
"Thank your ladyship." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, your ladyship"-- Mr. Guppy
refers to a little slip of paper on which he has made small notes of his line of
argument and which seems to involve him in the densest obscurity whenever he
looks at it--"I--Oh, yes!--I place myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If
your ladyship was to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr.
Tulkinghorn of the present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable
situation. That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon your ladyship's
honour."
My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the screen, assures
him of his being worth no complaint from her.
"Thank your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy; "quite satisfactory. Now-- I--dash
it!--The fact is that I put down a head or two here of the order of the points I
thought of touching upon, and they're written short, and I can't quite make out
what they mean. If your ladyship will excuse me taking it to the window half a
moment, I--"
Mr. Guppy, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-birds, to whom he
says in his confusion, "I beg your pardon, I am sure." This does not tend to the
greater legibility of his notes. He murmurs, growing warm and red and holding
the slip of paper now close to his eyes, now a long way off, "C.S. What's C.S.
for? Oh! C.S.! Oh, I know! Yes, to be sure!" And comes back enlightened.
"I am not aware," says Mr. Guppy, standing midway between my Lady and his
chair, "whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to see, a young lady
of the name of Miss Esther Summerson."
My Lady's eyes look at him full. "I saw a young lady of that name not long
ago. This past autumn."
"Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?" asks Mr. Guppy,
crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, and scratching the corner of
his mouth with his memoranda.
My Lady removes her eyes from him no more.
"No."
"Not like your ladyship's family?"
"No."
"I think your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "can hardly remember Miss
Summerson's face?"
"I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do with me?"
"Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson's image imprinted
on my 'eart--which I mention in confidence--I found, when I had the honour of
going over your ladyship's mansion of Chesney Wold while on a short out in the
county of Lincolnshire with a friend, such a resemblance between Miss Esther
Summerson and your ladyship's own portrait that it completely knocked me over,
so much so that I didn't at the moment even know what it WAS that knocked me
over. And now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near (I have often,
since that, taken the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your carriage in
the park, when I dare say you was not aware of me, but I never saw your ladyship
so near), it's really more surprising than I thought it."
Young man of the name of Guppy! There have been times, when ladies lived in
strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call, when that poor life of
yours would NOT have been worth a minute's purchase, with those beautiful eyes
looking at you as they look at this moment.
My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him again what he
supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with her.
"Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to his paper, "I am
coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! 'Mrs. Chadband.' Yes." Mr. Guppy draws his
chair a little forward and seats himself again. My Lady reclines in her chair
composedly, though with a trifle less of graceful ease than usual perhaps, and
never falters in her steady gaze. "A--stop a minute, though!" Mr. Guppy refers
again. "E.S. twice? Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on."
Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech with, Mr.
Guppy proceeds.
"Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson's birth and
bringing up. I am informed of that fact because--which I mention in
confidence--I know it in the way of my profession at Kenge and Carboy's. Now, as
I have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss Summerson's image is imprinted
on my 'eart. If I could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well
related, or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship's
family she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might
make a sort of a claim upon Miss Summerson to look with an eye of more dedicated
favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she
hasn't favoured them at all."
A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady's face.
"Now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy,
"though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of us professional
men--which I may call myself, for though not admitted, yet I have had a present
of my articles made to me by Kenge and Carboy, on my mother's advancing from the
principal of her little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy--that
I have encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought
Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge of her. That lady was a Miss
Barbary, your ladyship."
Is the dead colour on my Lady's face reflected from the screen which has a
green silk ground and which she holds in her raised hand as if she had forgotten
it, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on her?
"Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "ever happen to hear of Miss Barbary?"
"I don't know. I think so. Yes."
"Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship's family?"
My Lady's lips move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her head.
"NOT connected?" says Mr. Guppy. "Oh! Not to your ladyship's knowledge,
perhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes." After each of these interrogatories, she has
inclined her head. "Very good! Now, this Miss Barbary was extremely close--seems
to have been extraordinarily close for a female, females being generally (in
common life at least) rather given to conversation--and my witness never had an
idea whether she possessed a single relative. On one occasion, and only one, she
seems to have been confidential to my witness on a single point, and she then
told her that the little girl's real name was not Esther Summerson, but Esther
Hawdon."
"My God!"
Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him looking him through, with the
same dark shade upon her face, in the same attitude even to the holding of the
screen, with her lips a little apart, her brow a little contracted, but for the
moment dead. He sees her consciousness return, sees a tremor pass across her
frame like a ripple over water, sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a
great effort, sees her force herself back to the knowledge of his presence and
of what he has said. All this, so quickly, that her exclamation and her dead
condition seem to have passed away like the features of those long-preserved
dead bodies sometimes opened up in tombs, which, struck by the air like
lightning, vanish in a breath.
"Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon?"
"I have heard it before."
"Name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship's family?"
"No."
"Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "I come to the last point of the case,
so far as I have got it up. It's going on, and I shall gather it up closer and
closer as it goes on. Your ladyship must know--if your ladyship don't happen, by
any chance, to know already--that there was found dead at the house of a person
named Krook, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great distress.
Upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and which law-writer was an
anonymous character, his name being unknown. But, your ladyship, I have
discovered very lately that that law- writer's name was Hawdon."
"And what is THAT to me?"
"Aye, your ladyship, that's the question! Now, your ladyship, a queer thing
happened after that man's death. A lady started up, a disguised lady, your
ladyship, who went to look at the scene of action and went to look at his grave.
She hired a crossing- sweeping boy to show it her. If your ladyship would wish
to have the boy produced in corroboration of this statement, I can lay my hand
upon him at any time."
The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does NOT wish to have him
produced.
"Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed," says Mr. Guppy.
"If you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on her fingers when
she took her glove off, you'd think it quite romantic."
There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen. My Lady
trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, again with that expression
which in other times might have been so dangerous to the young man of the name
of Guppy.
"It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap behind him by
which he could be possibly identified. But he did. He left a bundle of old
letters."
The screen still goes, as before. All this time her eyes never once release
him.
"They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your ladyship, they will
come into my possession."
"Still I ask you, what is this to me?"
"Your ladyship, I conclude with that." Mr. Guppy rises. "If you think there's
enough in this chain of circumstances put together-- in the undoubted strong
likeness of this young lady to your ladyship, which is a positive fact for a
jury; in her having been brought up by Miss Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating
Miss Summerson's real name to be Hawdon; in your ladyship's knowing both these
names VERY WELL; and in Hawdon's dying as he did--to give your ladyship a family
interest in going further into the case, I will bring these papers here. I don't
know what they are, except that they are old letters: I have never had them in
my posession yet. I will bring those papers here as soon as I get them and go
over them for the first time with your ladyship. I have told your ladyship my
object. I have told your ladyship that I should be placed in a very disagreeable
situation if any complaint was made, and all is in strict confidence."
Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppy, or has he any
other? Do his words disclose the length, breadth, depth, of his object and
suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they hide? He is a match for my
Lady there. She may look at him, but he can look at the table and keep that
witness-box face of his from telling anything.
"You may bring the letters," says my Lady, "if you choose."
"Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour," says Mr.
Guppy, a little injured.
"You may bring the letters," she repeats in the same tone, "if you --please."
"It shall he done. I wish your ladyship good day."
On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and clasped like an
old strong-chest. She, looking at him still, takes it to her and unlocks it.
"Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of that sort,"
says Mr. Guppy, "and I couldn't accept anything of the kind. I wish your
ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you all the same."
So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where the supercilious
Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave his Olympus by the
hall-fire to let the young man out.
As Sir Leicester basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper, is there
no influence in the house to startle him, not to say to make the very trees at
Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms, the very portraits frown, the very
armour stir?
No. Words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in and shut out
throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered trumpet-tongued indeed
by my Lady in her chamber to carry any faint vibration to Sir Leicester's ears;
and yet this cry is in the
house, going upward from a wild figure on its knees.
"O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as my cruel
sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had renounced me and my
name! O my child, O my child!"
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