'You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can't imagine what association I had, with a hand like that; but I surely had some.'
'You had some?' Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
'O yes!' returns my Lady, carelessly. 'I think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing – what is it! – Affidavit?'
'Yes.'
'How very odd!'
They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows brightly on the panelled wall, and palely on the window-glass, where, through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind, and a grey mist creeps along: the only traveller besides the waste of clouds.
My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands before the fire, with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. He looks across his arm at my Lady.
'Yes,' he says, 'I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what is very strange, I found him—'
'Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!' Lady Dedlock languidly anticipates.
'I found him dead.'
'O dear me!' remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the fact, as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.
'I was directed to his lodging – a miserable, poverty-stricken place – and I found him dead.'
'You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn,' observes Sir Leicester. 'I think the less said—'
'Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out' (it is my Lady speaking). 'It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking! Dead?'
Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. 'Whether by his own hand—'
'Upon my honour!' cries Sir Leicester. 'Really!'
'Do let me hear the story!' says my Lady.
'Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say—'
'No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn.'
Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point; though he still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really – really—
'I was about to say,' resumes the lawyer, with undisturbed calmness, 'that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own act; though whether by his own deliberate intention, or by mischance, can never certainly be known. The Coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally.'
'And what kind of man,' my Lady asks, 'was this deplorable creature?'
'Very difficult to say,' returns the lawyer, shaking his head. 'He had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour, and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition.'
'What did they call the wretched being?'
'They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name.'
'Not even any one who had attended on him?'
'No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found him.'
'Without any clue to anything more?'
'Without any; there was,' says the lawyer meditatively, 'an old portmanteau; but – No, there were no papers.'
During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another – as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying, that as it is quite clear that no association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer); he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.
'Certainly, a collection of horrors,' says my Lady, gathering up her mantles and furs; 'but they interest one for the moment!. Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me.'
Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference, and holds it open while she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner, and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner – again, next day – again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences: so oddly out of place, and yet so perfectly at home. They appear to take as little note of one another, as any two people, enclosed within the same walls, could. But whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know how much the other knows – all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts.
Chapter XIII
Esther's narrative
We held many consultations about what Richard was to be; first, without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him; but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether he might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he had thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked him what he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try and decide within himself, whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary boyish inclination, or a strong impulse, Richard answered, Well, he really had tried very often, and he couldn't make out.
'How much of this indecision of character,' Mr. Jarndyce said to me, 'is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or confirmed in him a habit of putting off – and trusting to this, that, and the other chance, without knowing what chance – and dismissing everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of much older and steadier people may be even changed by the circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences, and escape them.'
I felt this to be true; though, if I may venture to mention what I thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard's education had not counteracted those influences, or directed his character. He had been eight years at a public school, and had learnt, I understood, to make Latin Verses of several sorts, in the most admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to him. He had been adapted to the Verses, and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection, that if he had remained at school until he was of age, I suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again, unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. Still, although I had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always remembered all through life, I did doubt whether Richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying them quite so much.
To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject, and do not even now know whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses to the same extent – or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever did.
'I haven't the least idea,' said Richard, musing, 'what I had better be. Except that I am quite sure I don't want to go into the Church, it's a toss-up.'
'You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge's way?' suggested Mr. Jarndyce.
'I don't know that, sir!' replied Richard. 'I am fond of boating. Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's a capital profession!'
'Surgeon—' suggested Mr. Jarndyce.
'That's the thing, sir!' cried Richard.
I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.
'That's the thing, sir!' repeated Richard, with the greatest enthusiasm. 'We have got it at last. M.R.G.S.!'
He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily. He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he only came to this conclusion, because, having never had much chance of finding out for himself what he was fitted for, and having never been guided to the discovery, he was taken by the newest idea, and was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, I wondered whether the Latin Verses often ended in this, or whether Richard's was a solitary case.
Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him, seriously, and to put it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter. Richard was a little grave after these interviews; but invariably told Ada and me 'that it was all right,' and then began to talk about something else.
'By Heaven!' cried Mr. Boy thorn, who interested himself strongly in the subject – though I need not say that, for he could do nothing weakly; 'I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is in it, the better for mankind, and the worse for those mercenary task-masters and low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base and despicable,' cried Mr. Boythorn, 'the treatment of Surgeons aboard ship is such, that I would submit the legs – both legs – of every member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture, and render it a transportable offence in any qualified practitioner to set them, if the system were not wholly changed in eight-and-forty hours!'
'Wouldn't you give them a week?' asked Mr. Jarndyce.
'No!' cried Mr. Boythorn, firmly. 'Not on any consideration! Eight-and-forty hours! As to Corporations, Parishes, Vestry-Boards, and similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods, who assemble to exchange such speeches that, by Heaven! they ought to be worked in quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it were only to prevent their detestable English from contaminating a language spoken in the presence of the Sun – as to those fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemen in the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense the inestimable services of the best years of their lives, their long study, and their expensive education, with pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, I would have the necks of every one of them wrung, and their skulls arranged in Surgeons' Hall for the contemplation of the whole profession – in order that its younger members might understand from actual measurement, in early life, how thick skulls may become!'
He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with a most agreeable smile, and suddenly thundering, Ha, ha, ha! over and over again, until anybody else might have been expected to be quite subdued by the exertion.
As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice, after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr. Jarndyce, and had expired; and he still continued to assure Ada and me, in the same final manner, that it was 'all right;' it became advisable to take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge, therefore, came down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his eyeglasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I was a little girl.
'Ah!' said Mr. Kenge. 'Yes. Well! A very good profession, Mr. Jarndyce; a very good profession.'
'The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently pursued,' observed my Guardian, with a glance at Richard.
'O, no doubt,' said Mr. Kenge. 'Diligently.'
'But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits, that are worth much,' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'it is not a special consideration which another choice would be likely to escape.'
'Truly,' said Mr. Kenge. 'And Mr. Richard Carstone, who has so meritoriously acquitted himself in the – shall I say the classic shades? – in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in that tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born, not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he enters.'
'You may rely upon it,' said Richard, in his off-hand manner, 'that I shall go at it and do my best.'
'Very well, Mr. Jarndyce!' said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding his head. 'Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that he means to go at it, and to do his best,' nodding feelingly and smoothly over those expressions; 'I would submit to you, that we have only to inquire into the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now, with reference to placing Mr. Richard with some sufficiently eminent practitioner. Is there any one in view at present?'
'No one, Rick, I think?' said my Guardian.
'No one, sir,' said Richard.
'Quite so!' observed Mr. Kenge. 'As to situation, now. Is there any particular feeling on that head?'
'N – no,' said Richard.
'Quite so!' observed Mr. Kenge again.
'I should like a little variety,' said Richard; '—I mean a good range of experience.'
'Very requisite, no doubt,' returned Mr. Kenge. 'I think this may be easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce? We have only, in the first place, to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and, as soon as we make our want – and, shall I add, our ability to pay a premium? – known, our only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large number. We have only, in the second place, to observe those little formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life, and our being under the guardianship of the Court. We shall soon be– shall I say, in Mr. Richard's own light-hearted manner, "going at it" – to our heart's content. It is a coincidence,' said Mr. Kenge, with a tinge of melancholy in his smile, 'one of those coincidences which may or may not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that I have a cousin in the medical profession. He might be deemed eligible by you, and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I can answer for him as little as for you; but he might!'
As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that Mr. Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had before proposed to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we should make our visit at once, and combine Richard's business with it.
Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a cheerful lodging near Oxford Street, over an upholsterer's shop. London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours at a time; seeing the sights; which appeared to be less capable of exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal theatres, too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth seeing. I mention this, because it was at the theatre that I began to be made uncomfortable again, by Mr. Guppy.
I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada; and Richard was in the place he liked best, behind Ada's chair; when, happening to look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Guppy, with his hair flattened down upon his head, and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me. I felt, all through the performance, that he never looked at the actors, but constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection.
It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night, because it was so very embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But, from that time forth, we never went to the play without my seeing Mr. Guppy in the pit, always with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down, and a general feebleness about him. If he were not there when we went in, and I began to hope he would not come, and yielded myself for a little while to the interest of the scene, I was certain to encounter his languishing eyes when I least expected it, and, from that time, to be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening.
I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would only have brushed up his hair, or turned up his collar, it would have been bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put such a constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or to cry at it, or to move or to speak. I seemed able to do nothing naturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back of the box, I could not bear to do that; because I knew Richard and Ada relied on having me next them, and that they could never have talked together so happily if anybody else had been in my place. So there I sat, not knowing where to look – for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Guppy's eyes were following me – and thinking of the dreadful expense to which this young man was putting himself on my account.
Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared that the young man would lose his situation, and that I might ruin him. Sometimes, I thought of confiding in Richard; but was deterred by the possibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy, and giving him black eyes. Sometimes, I thought, should I frown at him, or shake my head. Then I felt I could not do it. Sometimes, I considered whether I should write to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a correspondence would be to make the matter worse. I always came to the conclusion, finally, that I could do nothing. Mr. Guppy's perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly – where I am sure I saw him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. The upholsterer's where we lodged, being at the corner of two streets, and my bedroom window being opposite the post, I was afraid to go near the window when I went up-stairs, lest I should see him (as I did one moonlight night) leaning against the post, and evidently catching cold. If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the day-time, I really should have had no rest from him.
While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr. Guppy so extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring us to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge's cousin was a Mr. Bayham Badger, who had a good practice at Chelsea, and attended a large public Institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Richard into his house, and to superintend his studies; and as it seemed that those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger's roof, and Mr. Badger liked Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger 'well enough,' an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor's consent was obtained, and it was all settled.
On the day when matters were concluded between Richard and Mr. Badger, we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger's house. We were to be 'merely a family party,' Mrs. Badger's note said; and we found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surrounded in the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little, playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little, reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanising a little. She was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youthfully dressed, and of a very fine complexion. If I add, to the little list of her accomplishments, that she rouged a little, I do not mean that there was any harm in it.
Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking gentleman, with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised eyes: some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. He admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands. We had barely taken our seats, when he said to Mr. Jarndyce quite triumphantly,
'You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham Badger's third!'
'Indeed?' said Mr. Jarndyce.
'Her third!' said Mr. Badger. 'Mrs. Bayham Badger has not the appearance, Miss Summerson, of a lady who has had two former husbands?'
I said 'Not at all!'
'And most remarkable men!' said Mr. Badger, in a tone of confidence. 'Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. Badger's first husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name of Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of European reputation.'
Mrs. Badger overheard him, and smiled.
'Yes, my dear!' Mr. Badger replied to the smile, 'I was observing to Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, that you had had two former husbands – both very distinguished men. And they found it, as people generally do, difficult to believe.'
'I was barely twenty,' said Mrs. Badger, 'when I married Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; I am quite a sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I became the wife of Professor Dingo.'
('Of European reputation,' added Mr. Badger in an undertone.)
'And when Mr. Badger and myself were married,' pursued Mrs. Badger, 'we were married on the same day of the year. I had become attached to the day.'
'So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands – two of them highly distinguished men,' said Mr. Badger, summing up the facts; 'and, each time, upon the twenty-first of March at Eleven in the forenoon!'
We all expressed our admiration.
'But for Mr. Badger's modesty,' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'I would take leave to correct him, and say three distinguished men.'
'Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce! What I always tell him!' observed Mrs. Badger.
'And, my dear,' said Mr. Badger, 'what do I always tell you? That without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction as I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have many opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak – no, really,' said Mr. Badger to us generally, 'so unreasonable – as to put my reputation on the same footing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. Jarndyce,' continued Mr. Bayham Badger, leading the way into the next drawing-room, 'in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was taken on his return home from the African Station, where he had suffered from the fever of the country. Mrs. Badger considers it too yellow. But it's a very fine head. A very fine head!'
We all echoed 'A very fine head!'
'I feel when I look at it,' said Mr. Badger, ' "that's a man I should like to have seen!" It strikingly bespeaks the firstclass man that Captain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, Professor Dingo. I knew him well – attended him in his last illness – a speaking likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Swosser. Over the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham Badger in esse, I possess the original, and have no copy.'
Dinner was now announced, and we went down-stairs. It was a very genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. But the Captain and the Professor still ran in Mr. Badger's head, and, as Ada and I had the honour of being under his particular care, we had the full benefit of them.
'Water, Miss Summerson? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray. Bring me the Professor's goblet, James!'
Ada very much admired some artificial flowers, under a glass.
'Astonishing how they keep!' said Mr. Badger. 'They were presented to Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the Mediterranean.'
He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret.