Richard had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass afew days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Woodcourt,who, having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger andhaving written to my guardian, "by her son Allan's desire," toreport that she had heard from him and that he was well "and senthis kind remembrances to all of us," had been invited by myguardian to make a visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearlythree weeks. She took very kindly to me and was extremelyconfidential, so much so that sometimes she almost made meuncomfortable. I had no right, I knew very well, to beuncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt it wasunreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not quite help it.
She was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her handsfolded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked tome that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was herbeing so upright and trim, though I don't think it was that,because I thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been thegeneral expression of her face, which was very sparkling and prettyfor an old lady. I don't know what it was. Or at least if I donow, I thought I did not then. Or at least--but it don't matter.
Of a night when I was going upstairs to bed, she would invite meinto her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair; and,dear me, she would tell me about Morgan ap-Kerrig until I was quitelow-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses fromCrumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinn-willinwodd (if those are the rightnames, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite fierywith the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what theywere (being in Welsh), further than that they were highlyeulogistic of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.
"So, Miss Summerson," she would say to me with stately triumph,"this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever myson goes, he can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not havemoney, but he always has what is much better--family, my dear."I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-Kerrigin India and China, but of course I never expressed them. I usedto say it was a great thing to be so highly connected.
"It IS, my dear, a great thing," Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. "Ithas its disadvantages; my son's choice of a wife, for instance, islimited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family islimited in much the same manner."Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much as toassure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance betweenus notwithstanding.
"Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and always with someemotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionateheart, "was descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoortsof MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in theRoyal Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of thelast representatives of two old families. With the blessing ofheaven he will set them up again and unite them with another oldfamily."It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used totry, only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because--but I neednot be so particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me change it.
"My dear," she said one night, "you have so much sense and you lookat the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of lifethat it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these familymatters of mine. You don't know much of my son, my dear; but youknow enough of him, I dare say, to recollect him?""Yes, ma'am. I recollect him.""Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of character,and I should like to have your opinion of him.""Oh, Mrs. Woodcourt," said I, "that is so difficult!""Why is it so difficult, my dear?" she returned. "I don't see itmyself.""To give an opinion--""On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT'S true."I didn't mean that, because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house agood deal altogether and had become quite intimate with myguardian. I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever inhis profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness toMiss Flite were above all praise.
"You do him justice!" said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my hand. "Youdefine him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in his professionfaultless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, I mustconfess he is not without faults, love.""None of us are," said I.
"Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought tocorrect," returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head.
"I am so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear,as a third party wholly disinterested, that he is ficklenessitself."I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could havebeen otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in thepursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.
"You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted, "but I don'trefer to his profession, look you.""Oh!" said I.
"No," said she. "I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He isalways paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always hasbeen, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has neverreally cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing thisto do any harm or to express anything but politeness and goodnature. Still, it's not right, you know; is it?""No," said I, as she seemed to wait for me.
"And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear."I supposed it might.
"Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should bemore careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others.
And he has always said, 'Mother, I will be; but you know me betterthan anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm--in short, meannothing.' All of which is very true, my dear, but is nojustification. However, as he is now gone so far away and for anindefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities andintroductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, mydear," said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles,"regarding your dear self, my love?""Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?""Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seekhis fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek YOURfortune and to find a husband, Miss Summerson? Hey, look you! Nowyou blush!"I don't think I did blush--at all events, it was not important if Idid--and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I hadno wish to change it.
"Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet tocome for you, my love?" said Mrs. Woodcourt.
"If you believe you are a good prophet," said I.
"Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and veryworthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and veryhappy.""That is a good fortune," said I. "But why is it to be mine?""My dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it--you are sobusy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether thatthere's suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody,my love, will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriagethan I shall."It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I thinkit did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that nightuncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like toconfess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still.
I would have given anything not to have been so much in the brightold lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it. Itgave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time Ithought she was a story-teller, and at another time that she wasthe pink of truth. Now I suspected that she was very cunning, nextmoment I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocentand simple. And after all, what did it matter to me, and why didit matter to me? Why could not I, going up to bed with my basketof keys, stop to sit down by her fire and accommodate myself for alittle while to her, at least as well as to anybody else, and nottrouble myself about the harmless things she said to me? Impelledtowards her, as I certainly was, for I was very anxious that sheshould like me and was very glad indeed that she did, why should Iharp afterwards, with actual distress and pain, on every word shesaid and weigh it over and over again in twenty scales? Why was itso worrying to me to have her in our house, and confidential to meevery night, when I yet felt that it was better and safer somehowthat she should be there than anywhere else? These wereperplexities and contradictions that I could not account for. Atleast, if I could--but I shall come to all that by and by, and itis mere idleness to go on about it now.
So when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose her but wasrelieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came down, and Caddy broughtsuch a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation.
First Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) thatI was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet said, wasno news at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonsense. ThenCaddy told us that she was going to be married in a month and thatif Ada and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl inthe world. To be sure, this was news indeed; and I thought wenever should have done talking about it, we had so much to say toCaddy, and Caddy had so much to say to us.
It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over hisbankruptcy--"gone through the Gazette," was the expression Caddyused, as if it were a tunnel--with the general clemency andcommiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs insome blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, andhad given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, Ishould think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and hadsatisfied every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man.
So, he had been honourably dismissed to "the office" to begin theworld again. What he did at the office, I never knew; Caddy saidhe was a "custom-house and general agent," and the only thing Iever understood about that business was that when he wanted moneymore than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardlyever found it.
As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming thisshorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in HattonGarden (where I found the children, when I afterwards went there,cutting the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and chokingthemselves with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between himand old Mr. Turveydrop; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very humble andmeek, had deferred to Mr. Turveydrop's deportment so submissivelythat they had become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr.
Turveydrop, thus familiarized with the idea of his son's marriage,had worked up his parental feelings to the height of contemplatingthat event as being near at hand and had given his gracious consentto the young couple commencing housekeeping at the academy inNewman Street when they would.
"And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?""Oh! Poor Pa," said Caddy, "only cried and said he hoped we mightget on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn't say so beforePrince, he only said so to me. And he said, 'My poor girl, youhave not been very well taught how to make a home for your husband,but unless you mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you badbetter murder him than marry him--if you really love him.'""And how did you reassure him, Caddy?""Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low andhear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't help cryingmyself. But I told him that I DID mean it with all my heart andthat I hoped our house would be a place for him to come and findsome comfort in of an evening and that I hoped and thought I couldbe a better daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentionedPeepy's coming to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again andsaid the children were Indians.""Indians, Caddy?""Yes," said Caddy, "wild Indians. And Pa said"--here she began tosob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world--"that he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them wastheir being all tomahawked together."Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jellyby didnot mean these destructive sentiments.
"No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be welteringin their blood," said Caddy, "but he means that they are veryunfortunate in being Ma's children and that he is very unfortunatein being Ma's husband; and I am sure that's true, though it seemsunnatural to say so."I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed.
"Oh! You know what Ma is, Esther," she returned. "It's impossibleto say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it oftenenough; and when she IS told it, she only gives me a placid look,as if I was I don't know what--a steeple in the distance," saidCaddy with a sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head and says'Oh, Caddy, Caddy, what a tease you are!' and goes on with theBorrioboola letters.""And about your wardrobe, Caddy?" said I. For she was under norestraint with us.
"Well, my dear Esther,'' she returned, drying her eyes, "I must dothe best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkindremembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the questionconcerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it andwould be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows norcares."Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother,but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I amafraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found somuch to admire in the good disposition which had survived undersuch discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I)proposed a little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This washer staying with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one,and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, andsewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of tomake the most of her stock. My guardian being as pleased with theidea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matterand brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all thepurchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr.
Jellyby had found in the docks I suppose, but which he at allevents gave her. What my guardian would not have given her if wehad encouraged him, it would be difficult to say, but we thought itright to compound for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet.
He agreed to this compromise, and if Caddy had ever been happy inher life, she was happy when we sat down to work.
She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked herfingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could nothelp reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart andpartly with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soongot over that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she,and my darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out ofthe town, and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.
Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious "to learnhousekeeping," as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of herlearning housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such ajoke that I laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comicalconfusion when she proposed it. However, I said, "Caddy, I am sureyou are very welcome to learn anything that you can learn of ME, mydear," and I showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgetyways. You would have supposed that I was showing her somewonderful inventions, by her study of them; and if you had seenher, whenever I jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me,certainly you might have thought that there never was a greaterimposter than I with a blinder follower than Caddy Jellyby.
So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, andbackgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, thethree weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Caddy to seewhat could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind totake care of my guardian.
When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished lodgingin Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or three times,where preparations were in progress too--a good many, I observed,for enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few forputting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of thehouse--but our great point was to make the furnished lodging decentfor the wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand withsome faint sense of the occasion.
The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs.
Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (theback one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with waste-paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might belittered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinkingstrong coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews byappointment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be goinginto a decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellybycame home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen.
There he got something to eat if the servant would give himanything, and then, feeling that he was in the way, went out andwalked about Hatton Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambledup and t............