The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear
girl brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I never
wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in my memory there is
a mournful glory shining on the place which will shine for ever.
Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I found Mr.
Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano and talking in
his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides my very much mistrusting the
probability of his being there without making Richard poorer, I felt as if there
were something in his careless gaiety too inconsistent with what I knew of the
depths of Ada's life. I clearly perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. I
therefore resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to Mr.
Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. My dear girl was the great
consideration that made me bold.
I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. As I
approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I felt what a
desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr. Skimpole and how extremely
likely it was that he would signally defeat me. However, I thought that being
there, I would go through with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr.
Skimpole's door-- literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone--and after a
long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area when I
knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to light the fire
with.
Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a little, was
enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he asked. Who would I prefer
for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty
daughter, or his Sentiment daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once
in a perfect nosegay?
I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself only if
he would give me leave.
'My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course," he said, bringing his
chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, of course it's not
business. Then it's pleasure!"
I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was not quite a
pleasant matter.
"Then, my dear Miss Summerson," said he with the frankest gaiety, "don't
allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT a pleasant matter? I
never do. And you are a much pleasanter creature, in every point of view, than
I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never
allude to an unpleasant matter, how much less should you! So that's disposed of,
and we will talk of something else."
Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still wished to
pursue the subject.
"I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole with his airy laugh, "if I
thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I don't!"
"Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, "I have so often heard you
say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of life--"
"Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's the junior partner?
D?" said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. "Not an idea of them!"
"--That perhaps," I went on, "you will excuse my boldness on that account. I
think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is poorer than he was."
"Dear me!" said Mr. Skimpole. "So am I, they tell me."
"And in very embarrassed circumstances."
"Parallel case, exactly!" said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted countenance.
"This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I think she
is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by visitors, and as Richard has
one uneasiness always heavy on his mind, it has occurred to me to take the
liberty of saying that--if you would--not--"
I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by both hands
and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way anticipated it.
"Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most assuredly not. Why
SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I don't go anywhere
for pain, because I was made for pleasure. Pain comes to ME when it wants me.
Now, I have had very little pleasure at our dear Richard's lately, and your
practical sagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthful
poetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, 'This is a man who
wants pounds.' So I am; I always want pounds; not for myself, but because
tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our young friends begin to think,
becoming mercenary, 'This is the man who HAD pounds, who borrowed them,' which I
did. I always borrow pounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is
much to be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure to me.
Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd!"
Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned thus,
there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence quite astonishing.
"Besides," he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of light- hearted
conviction, "if I don't go anywhere for pain--which would be a perversion of the
intention of my being, and a monstrous thing to do--why should I go anywhere to
be the cause of pain? If I went to see our young friends in their present
ill-regulated state of mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me
would be disagreeable. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds and who
can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course; nothing could be more out of the
question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn't go near them--and I won't."
He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing but Miss
Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this out for him.
I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point were gained,
it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything leading to it. I had
determined to mention something else, however, and I thought I was not to be put
off in that.
"Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying before I conclude
my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best authority, some little
time ago, that you knew with whom that poor boy left Bleak House and that you
accepted a present on that occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for
I fear it would hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much
surprised."
"No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?" he returned inquiringly,
raising his pleasant eyebrows.
"Greatly surprised."
He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and whimsical
expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his most engaging manner,
"You know what a child I am. Why surprised?"
I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he begged I
would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to understand in the
gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed to involve a disregard of
several moral obligations. He was much amused and interested when he heard this
and said, "No, really?" with ingenuous simplicity.
"You know I don't intend to be responsible. I never could do it.
Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me--or below me," said Mr.
Skimpole. "I don't even know which; but as I understand the way in which my dear
Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her practical good sense and clearness)
puts this case, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do you
know?"
I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.
"Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, "I am hopeless of
understanding it."
I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my guardian's
confidence for a bribe.
"My dear Miss Summerson," he returned with a candid hilarity that was all his
own, "I can't be bribed."
"Not by Mr. Bucket?" said I.
"No," said he. "Not by anybody. I don't attach any value to money. I don't
care about it, I don't know about it, I don't want it, I don't keep it--it goes
away from me directly. How can I be bribed?"
I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the capacity for
arguing the question.
"On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am exactly the man to be placed in a
superior position in such a case as that. I am above the rest of mankind in such
a case as that. I can act with philosophy in such a case as that. I am not
warped by prejudices, as an Italian baby is by bandages. I am as free as the
air. I feel myself as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife."
Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful impartiality
with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed the matter about like a
ball of feathers, was surely never seen in anybody else!
"Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy received into the
house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. The boy being in bed,
a man arrives--like the house that Jack built. Here is the man who demands the
boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly
object to. Here is a bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is
received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man who demands
the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly
object to. Those are the facts. Very well. Should the Skimpole have refused the
note? WHY should the Skimpole have refused the note? Skimpole protests to
Bucket, 'What's this for? I don't understand it, it is of no use to me, take it
away.' Bucket still entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why
Skimpole, not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Skimpole
perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is a tamed
lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarly
directed energy and great subtlety both of conception and execution, who
discovers our friends and enemies for us when they run away, recovers our
property for us when we are robbed, avenges us comfortably when we are murdered.
This active police-officer and intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of
his art, a strong faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes
it very useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want it
myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket's weapons; shall I positively
paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And again. If it is blameable
in Skimpole to take the note, it is blameable in Bucket to offer the note--much
more blameable in Bucket, because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to
think well of Bucket; Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the
general cohesion of things, that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The state
expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that's all he does!"
I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took my
leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits, would not hear of my
returning home attended only by "Little Coavinses," and accompanied me himself.
He entertained me on the way with a variety of delightful conversation and
assured me, at parting, that he should never forget the fine tact with which I
had found that out for him about our young friends.
As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may at once finish
what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him and my guardian, based
principally on the foregoing grounds and on his having heartlessly disregarded
my guardian's entreaties (as we afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to
Richard. His being heavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with their
separation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary behind him, with
letters and other materials towards his life, which was published and which
showed him to have been the victim of a combination on the part of mankind
against an amiable child. It was considered very pleasant reading, but I never
read more of it myself than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening
the book. It was this: "Jarndyce, in common with most other men I have known, is
the incarnation of selfishness."
And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly indeed, and
for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance occurred. Whatever little
lingerings may have now and then revived in my mind associated with my poor old
face had only revived as belonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like
my infancy or my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that
subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has recalled them. And
I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the last words of these pages,
which I see now not so very far before me.
The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the hopes she
had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the miserable corner.
Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court day after day, listlessly sat
there the whole day long when he knew there was no remote chance of the suit
being mentioned, and became one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder
whether any of the gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.
So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to avow in his
cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the fresh air now "but for
Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Woodcourt who could occasionally divert his
attention for a few hours at a time and rouse him, even when he sunk into a
lethargy of mind and body that alarmed us greatly, and the returns of which
became more frequent as the months went on. My dear girl was right in saying
that he only pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have no
doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the more intense
by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a gamester.
I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was there at night, I
generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimes my guardian would meet me
in the neighbourhood, and we would walk home together. One evening he had
arranged to meet me at eight o'clock. I could not leave, as I usually did, quite
punctually at the time, for I was working for my dear girl and had a few
stitches more to do to finish what I was about; but it was within a few minutes
of the hour when I bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling my last
kiss for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr. Woodcourt went with me, as it
was dusk.
When we came to the usual place of meeting--it was close by, and Mr.
Woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was not there. We waited
half an hour, walking up and down, but there were no signs of him. We agreed
that he was either prevented from coming or that he had come and gone away, and
Mr. Woodcourt proposed to walk home with me.
It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very short one
to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and Ada the whole way. I did
not thank him in words for what he had done--my appreciation of it had risen
above all words then--but I hoped he might not be without some understanding of
what I felt so strongly.
Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian was out and
that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very same room into which I had
brought my blushing girl when her youthful lover, now her so altered husband,
was the choice of her young heart, the very same room from which my guardian and
I had watched them going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their
hope and promise.
We were standing by the opened window looking down into the street when Mr.
Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he loved me. I learned in a
moment that my scarred face was all unchanged to him. I learned in a moment that
what I had thought was pity and compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love.
Oh, too late to know it now, too late, too late. That was the first ungrateful
thought I had. Too late.
"When I returned," he told me, "when I came back, no richer than when I went
away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so inspired by sweet
consideration for others and so free from a selfish thought--"
"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I do not deserve
your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that time, many!"
"Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is not a lover's
praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around you see in Esther
Summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens, what sacred admiration and
what love she wins."
"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "it is a great thing to win love, it is a great
thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and the hearing of it
causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and sorrow--joy that I have won it,
sorrow that I have not deserved it better; but I am not free to think of yours."
I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and when I heard
his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was true, I aspired to be
more worthy of it. It was not too late for that. Although I closed this
unforeseen page in my life to-night, I could be worthier of it all through my
life. And it was a comfort to me, and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity
rise up within me that was derived from him when I thought so.
He broke the silence.
"I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who will evermore
be as dear to me as now"--and the deep earnestness with which he said it at once
strengthened me and made me weep-- "if, after her assurance that she is not free
to think of my love, I urged it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond
idea of you which I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I
have always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of good
fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should tell it you in
vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have
said enough."
Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he thought me,
and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! I wished to help him in
his trouble, as I had wished to do when he showed that first commiseration for
me.
"Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part to-night, something is left for
me to say. I never could say it as I wish--I never shall--but--"
I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his affliction
before I could go on.
"--I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its
remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I know you are
not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a noble love that is which is
so faithful. What you have said to me could have affected me so much from no
other lips, for there are none that could give it such a value to me. It shall
not be lost. It shall make me better."
He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How could I ever
be worthy of those tears?
"If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--in tending Richard
and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life --you ever find anything in
me which you can honestly think is better than it used to be, believe that it
will have sprung up from to-night and that I shall owe it to you. And never
believe, dear dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that
while my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been
beloved by you."
He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I felt still
more encouraged.
"I am induced by what you said just now," said I, "to hope that you have
succeeded in your endeavour."
"I have," he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who know him
so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have succeeded."
"Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand; "and heaven bless you
in all you do!"
"I shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will make me enter on
these new duties as on another sacred trust from you."
"Ah! Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "What will he do when you are
gone!"
"I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss Summerson,
even if I were."
One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me. I knew
that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take if I reserved it.
"Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know from my lips before I say
good night that in the future, which is clear and bright before me, I am most
happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or desire."
It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.
"From my childhood I have been," said I, "the object of the untiring goodness
of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound by every tie of attachment,
gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in the compass of a life could
express the feelings of a single day."
"I share those feelings," he returned. "You speak of Mr. Jarndyce."
"You know his virtues well," said I, "but few can know the greatness of his
character as I know it. All its highest and best qualities have been revealed to
me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping out of that future in which I am
so happy. And if your highest homage and respect had not been his already--which
I know they are--they would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in the
feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for my sake."
He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I gave him my
hand again.
"Good night," I said, "Good-bye."
"The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this theme
between us for ever."
"Yes."
"Good night; good-bye."
He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street. His love, in
all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly upon me that he had not
left me a minute when my fortitude gave way again and the street was blotted out
by my rushing tears.
But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called me the
beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear to him as I was
then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the triumph of having heard those
words. My first wild thought had died away. It was not too late to hear them,
for it was not too late to be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and
contented. How easy my path, how much easier than his!
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