"Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? Have you forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and who it is?"

"Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? Have you forgotten the stain upon this place?"


Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it in her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or foot or raising his voice, "Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop and hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring the alarm-bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out before every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it."

Without deigning to reply, she moves to the door when he says to her, without raising his voice, "Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop and hear me, or I shall ring the alarm-bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out before every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it."


He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her hand confusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one else, but when so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees indecision for a moment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value.

He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her hand confusedly to her head. Mr. Tulkinghorn


He promptly says again, "Have the goodness to hear me, Lady Dedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has risen. She hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down.

motions to the chair. She hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down.


"The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, Lady Dedlock; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize for them. The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester is so well known to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long have appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery."

"Lady Dedlock, because of my position, I must long have appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery."


"Sir," she returns without looking up from the ground on which her eyes are now fixed, "I had better have gone. It would have been far better not to have detained me. I have no more to say."

"Sir," she returns without looking up, "I had better have gone. I have no more to say."


"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear."

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, but there is a little more to hear."


"I wish to hear it at the window, then. I can't breathe where I am."


His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant's misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the terrace below. But a moment's observation of her figure as she stands in the window without any support, looking out at the stars--not up--gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens, reassures him. By facing round as she has moved, he stands a little behind her.

As she walks that way he has an instant's misgiving that she may intend to leap over and strike her life out upon the terrace below. But a moment's observation of her figure as she stands in the window looking out at the stars reassures him. He stands a little behind her.


"Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision satisfactory to myself on the course before me. I am not clear what to do or how to act next. I must request you, in the meantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not to wonder that I keep it too."

"Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision about the course before me. I am not clear what to do or how to act next. I must request you, in the meantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not to wonder that I keep it too."


"Pardon me, Lady Dedlock. This is an important subject. You are honouring me with your attention?"

"You are honouring me with your attention?"


"Thank you. I might have known it from what I have seen of your strength of character. I ought not to have asked the question, but I have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I go on. The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester."

"Thank you. The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester."


"Then why," she asks in a low voice and without removing her gloomy look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in his house?"

"Then why," she asks in a low voice, "do you detain me in his house?"


"Because he IS the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I have no occasion to tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that his reliance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of the sky would not amaze him more than your fall from your high position as his wife."

"Because he is the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I need not tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that his reliance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of the sky would not amaze him more than your fall from your high position as his wife."


She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly as ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.

She breathes quickly, but stands as unflinchingly as ever.


"I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of this case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means of my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as to shake your hold upon Sir Leicester and Sir Leicester's trust and confidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate. Not that he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that nothing can prepare him for the blow."

"I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of this case, I would as soon have rooted up the oldest tree on this estate as have shaken Sir Leicester's trust and confidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate; because nothing can prepare him for the blow."


"Not my flight?" she returned. "Think of it again."


"Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and a hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would be impossible to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be thought of."

"Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth far and wide. It would be impossible to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be thought of."


There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no remonstrance.


"When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he and the family credit are one. Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, Sir Leicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and his patrimony"--Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here--"are, I need not say to you, Lady Dedlock, inseparable."


"Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-trot style, "I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up if it can be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his wits or laid upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon him to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him be accounted for? What could have caused it? What could have divided you? Lady Dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying would come on directly, and you are to remember that it would not affect you merely (whom I cannot at all consider in this business) but your husband, Lady Dedlock, your husband."

"Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up if it can be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his wits? If I inflicted this shock upon him tomorrow morning, how could the change in him be accounted for? What could have caused it? What could have divided you? Lady Dedlock, the street-talk would start directly, and it would not affect you merely (whom I cannot at all consider in this business) but your husband."


He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic or animated.

He gets plainer as he goes on, but not an atom more animated.


"There is another point of view," he continues, "in which the case presents itself. Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even knowing what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but it might be so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. Better for common sense, better for him, better for me. I must take all this into account, and it combines to render a decision very difficult."

"There is another point of view," he continues. "Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even knowing what we know. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. Better for common sense, better for him, better for me. I must take all this into account, and it makes a decision very difficult."


She stands looking out at the same stars without a word. They are beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her.

She stands looking out at the same stars without a word, as if their coldness froze her.


"My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by this time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business consideration of the matter like a machine. "My experience teaches me, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I know would do far better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three fourths of their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicester married, and so I always have thought since. No more about that. I must now be guided by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must beg you to keep your own counsel, and I will keep mine."

"My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, going on in his business consideration of the matter like a machine, "that most people would do far better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three fourths of their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicester married, and so I always have thought since. No more about that. I must now be guided by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must ask you to keep your own counsel, and I will keep mine."


"I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your pleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky.

"I am to drag my present life on, at your pleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky.


"It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the stake?"


"I am sure that what I recommend is necessary."


"I am to remain on this gaudy platform on which my miserable deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when you give the signal?" she said slowly.


"Not without notice, Lady Dedlock. I shall take no step without forewarning you."


She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from memory or calling them over in her sleep.


"And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years?"


"As you have done so many years. I should not have made that reference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you that your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no better than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we have never wholly trusted each other."

"As you have done so many years. Your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no better than it was."


She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time before asking, "Is there anything more to be said to-night?"

She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time before asking, "Is there anything more to be said tonight?"


"Why," Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his hands, "I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my arrangements, Lady Dedlock."


"Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in any communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our interview I have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester's feelings and honour and the family reputation. I should have been happy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not."

"Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business precaution, that I have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester's feelings and honour and the family reputation. I should have been happy to have made Lady Dedlock a consideration, too, if the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not."


Both before and after saying it she remains absorbed, but at length moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence, towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as he would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten years ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is not an ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But as he reflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint upon herself.

She turns towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is not an ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But as he reflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint upon herself.


He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, her hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. He would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and down for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed by the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk. But he shuts out the now chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep. And truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into the turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the digger and the spade were both commissioned and would soon be digging.

He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own rooms with her hair wildly thrown back, her hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. He would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and down for hours, without pause, followed by the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk. But he shuts out the chilly air, draws the curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep.
At last the stars go out; the


The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repentant country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins entering on various public employments, principally receipt of salary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty thousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of Bath and the terror of every other community. Also into rooms high in the roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables, where humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers' lodges, and in holy matrimony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright sun, drawing everything up with it--the Wills and Sallys, the latent vapour in the earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the great kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the lightsome air. Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn's unconscious head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock are in their happy home and that there is hospitality at the place in Lincolnshire.

wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repentant country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins, and at the chaste Volumnia, dreaming of a hideous old general in Bath. Also into rooms high in the roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables, where humbler ambition dreams of bliss. Up comes the bright sun, drawing everything up with it - the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf, the smoke of the great kitchen fire wreathing itself high into the air. Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn's unconscious head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock are in their happy home in Lincolnshire.


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.

The days when I visited that miserable corner which my dear girl brightened can never fade in my remembrance. 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.

Not a day passed without my going there. 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 fear of his making Richard poorer, I felt as if his careless gaiety was inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada's life. I clearly perceived that Ada shared my feelings. I therefore resolved to make a private visit to Mr. Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself.


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.

I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley. As I approached the Skimpole 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 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 while gained admission from an Irishwoman who was in the yard.


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?

Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute, was enchanted to see me. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? he asked. Would I have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment daughter? Or all three 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.

I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself only.


"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!"

"My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! 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."

"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. So let us talk of something else."


Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still wished to pursue the subject.

Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to say 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.

"Parallel case, exactly!" said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted face.


"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--"

"This naturally causes Ada much anxiety, and as I think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by visitors, 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.

I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by both hands with a radiant face and 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!"

"Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most assuredly not. When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I don't go anywhere for pain. Now, I have had very little pleasure at our dear Richard's lately, and your wisdom shows 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, because tradespeople always want them from me. Next, our young friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, 'This is the man who borrowed pounds,' which I did. 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.

This he said with a smile 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."

"Besides," he went on in his light-hearted tone, "if I don't go anywhere for pain, 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. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds and who can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course! 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.

I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point were gained, it mattered little how. I had determined to mention something else, however.


"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."

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying before I go that I was much surprised to learn recently that you knew with whom that poor boy left Bleak House, and that you accepted money on that occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would hurt him; 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.


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?"

He thought about it with a whimsical expression, then 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.

I gave him to understand in the gentlest words I could use that he seemed to have disregarded 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?"

"You know that 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 puts this case, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money?"


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."

"My dear Miss Summerson, I can't be bribed.


"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 don't attach any value to money. I don't know about it, I don't want it. How can I be bribed?"


I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the capacity for arguing the question.

I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I was not able to argue.


"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."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am above the rest of mankind in such a case as that. I am as free as the air.


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!"

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. 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. Should the Skimpole have refused the note? Skimpole protests to Bucket, 'What's this for? I don't understand it, take it away.' Bucket still entreats Skimpole to accept it. Skimpole reasons with himself, this is a police-officer, an intelligent man, useful to society. If it is blameable in Skimpole to take the note, it is blameable in Bucket to offer the note - much more blameable, because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think well of 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.

I had nothing to offer in reply and therefore took my leave.


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."

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 his having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (as we afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary behind him, which was published and which showed him to have been the victim of a part of mankind combining 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.

And now I come to a part of my story touching myself, and for which I was quite unprepared. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as a part of my life that was gone, like my childhood.


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.

The months were gliding away, and my dear girl was the same beautiful star in the miserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court day after day, listlessly sitting there even when he knew there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned.


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.

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 that alarmed us greatly, and that returned more frequently as the months went on.
My dear girl was right in saying that he pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost was made 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.

I was at their lodgings, 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, and we would walk home together.
One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight o'clock. I could not leave quite punctually, for I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches to finish; but within a few minutes of the hour 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.

When we came to the usual place of meeting, 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.

It was the first walk we had ever taken together. We spoke of Richard and Ada the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had done, but I hoped he might understand 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.

We were standing by the open 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--"

"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!"

"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, stop, stop!" I entreated him. "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."

"Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is not a lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know how many hearts Esther 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."

"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "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.

I said it with a stronger heart, for when I heard his praise I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for that. Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life tonight, I felt 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 gained from him.


"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."

"Dear Esther, if you are not free to think of my love, I will not urge it. 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 to tell you this. I have always feared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled tonight. 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.

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.


"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--"

"Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part tonight, something is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish - 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."

- but I shall treasure the memory of your generosity to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am. 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."

"If I am ever better than I used to be," I said, "believe that it will have sprung up from tonight and that I 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."

"I have," he answered. "With help from Mr. Jarndyce, 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.

One other thing I needed to touch upon before he left me.


"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."

"Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know 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.

It was indeed a gladness 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."

"From my childhood I have been," said I, "the object of the untiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love."


"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."

"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 the shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your highest homage and respect had not been his already, they would have been his, I think, on this assurance, for my sake."


He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I gave him my hand again.

He fervently replied that indeed they would have been. I gave him my hand again.


"The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this theme between us for ever."

"The first until we meet tomorrow, the second as a farewell to this theme between us for ever."


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.

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 before my fortitude gave way 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!

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called me the beloved of his life and had said I would evermore be dear to him, 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!


My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I told him what had been left untold on the previous night. There was nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid another such encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feeling and entirely shared it. He charged himself even with restraining Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity. One person whom he need not name to me, it was not now possible for him to advise or help. He wished it were, but no such thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he dreaded discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight and by reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and kindness, I was as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence.

My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I told him what had been left untold on the previous night. There was nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid another such encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feeling and entirely shared it. He knew something of Mr. Tulkinghorn, both by sight and reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and kindness, I was innocent.


"Nor do I understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards you, my dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion."

"Nor do I understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards you, my dear."


"With the lawyer," I returned. "But two other persons have come into my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all about Mr. Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when I little understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview I expressed perfect confidence.

"Not with the lawyer," I returned. "But I am anxious about two other people." Then I told him about Mr. Guppy, who I feared might have guessed, but in whose silence after our last interview I expressed perfect confidence.


"Well," said my guardian. "Then we may dismiss him for the present. Who is the other?"


I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of herself she had made to me.

I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of service she had made to me.


"Ha!" he returned thoughtfully. "That is a more alarming person than the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, and it was natural that you should come into her head. She merely proposed herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more."

"Ha!" he returned thoughtfully. "That is a more alarming person than the clerk. But after all, my dear, she merely proposed herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more."


"Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her death-bed," said my guardian. "It would be useless self-distress and torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be nothing better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you were before you had it. It is the best you can do for everybody's sake. I, sharing the secret with you--"

"Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and walked through the grass," said my guardian. "It would be useless self-distress to reckon up such chances and possibilities. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be nothing better than yourself; be that, as you were before you had this knowledge. It is the best you can do for everybody's sake. I, sharing the secret with you-"


"And lightening it, guardian, so much," said I.


"--will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear daughter's sake."

"-will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can. And if the time should come when I can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear daughter's sake."


I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a moment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again; and all at once, I don't know how, it flashed upon me as a new and far-off possibility that I understood it.

I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a moment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again; and all at once, I don't know how, I understood it.


"My dear Esther," said my guardian, "I have long had something in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you."


"I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately considered. Would you object to my writing it?"

"I have had some difficulty in approaching it. Would you object to my writing it?"


"Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for ME to read?"

"Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for me to read?"


"Then see, my love," said he with his cheery smile, "am I at this moment quite as plain and easy--do I seem as open, as honest and old-fashioned--as I am at any time?"

"Then see, my love," said he with his cheery smile, "do I seem at this moment as open, honest and old-fashioned as usual?"


I answered in all earnestness, "Quite." With the strictest truth, for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.

I answered in all earnestness, "Quite." With truth, for his momentary hesitation was gone.


"Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?" said he with his bright clear eyes on mine.


"Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess, Esther?"

"Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on me, Esther?"


"Most thoroughly," said I with my whole heart.


"My dear girl," returned my guardian, "give me your hand."


He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of manner--the old protecting manner which had made that house my home in a moment--said, "You have wrought changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last you have done me a world of good since that time."

He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down into my face with the protecting manner which had made that house my home - said, "You have wrought changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. You have done me a world of good since that time."


"Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!"


"But," said he, "that is not to be remembered now."


"Yes, Esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, "it is to be forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite assured of that, my dear?"

"Yes, Esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, "it is to be forgotten now, for a while. You are only to remember now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite assured of that, my dear?"


"That's much," he answered. "That's everything. But I must not take that at a word. I will not write this something in my thoughts until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never write it. If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send Charley to me this night week--'for the letter.' But if you are not quite certain, never send. Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing as in everything. If you are not quite certain on that one point, never send!"

"That's much," he answered. "All the same, I will not write this something in my thoughts until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never write it. If you are sure of that, send Charley to me in one week - 'for the letter.' But if you are not quite certain, never send for it."


"Guardian," said I, "I am already certain, I can no more be changed in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shall send Charley for the letter."

"Guardian," said I, "I am already certain. I shall send Charley for the letter."


He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in reference to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole week. When the appointed night came, I said to Charley as soon as I was alone, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley, and say you have come from me--'for the letter.'" Charley went up the stairs, and down the stairs, and along the passages--the zig-zag way about the old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that night--and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and up the stairs, and brought the letter. "Lay it on the table, Charley," said I. So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed, and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many things.

He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said about this conversation all week. When the appointed night came, I said to Charley, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley, and say you have come from me for the letter."
Charley went up the stairs and along the passages. The zig-zag way about the old house seemed very long in my listening ears that night. She came back with the letter and laid it on the table and went to bed, and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many things.


I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute face so cold and set, and when I was more solitary with Mrs. Rachael than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or to look at. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends in all around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I lived my happy life there over again, I went through my illness and recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.

I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute face so cold and set. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I went through my illness and recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.


I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid it down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did. It asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.

I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and in the unselfish consideration it showed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid it down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did. It asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.


It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind protecting manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places were reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all the feelings they had awakened his. It dwelt on my being young, and he past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while I was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be right. But he had considered this step anew since our late confidence and had decided on taking it, if it only served to show me through one poor instance that the whole world would readily unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood. I was the last to know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of that he said no more, for I was always to remember that I owed him nothing and that he was my debtor, and for very much. He had often thought of our future, and foreseeing that the time must come, and fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now very nearly of age) would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up, had become accustomed to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it. If I felt that I could ever give him the best right he could have to be my protector, and if I felt that I could happily and justly become the dear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter chances and changes than death, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but even then I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the same, he knew.

It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his face, and heard his voice, and felt his kind manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places were reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all the feelings they had awakened his.
It dwelt on my being young, and he past the prime of life; on his writing to me with a silvered head. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be right. But he had considered this step anew since our late confidence and had decided on taking it. I was always to remember that I owed him nothing and that he was my debtor.
He had often thought of our future, and foreseeing that the time must come, perhaps very soon, when Ada (now nearly of age) would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up, had reflected on this proposal. If I felt that I could happily become the dear companion of his remaining life, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but I must have ample time for reconsideration. Meanwhile, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the same, he knew.


This was the substance of the letter, written throughout with a justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his integrity he stated the full case.


But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking he had had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from it. That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions, he could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my disfigurement and my inheritance of shame. That the more I stood in need of such fidelity, the more firmly I might trust in him to the last.

But he did not hint that when I had been better looking he had had this same step in his thoughts and had refrained from it. That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions, he could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my disfigurement and my inheritance of shame.


But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that I had but one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to thank him poorly, and what had I wished for the other night but some new means of thanking him?

But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of the history I had been remembering, and I felt that I had but one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to thank him poorly, and what had I wished for the other night but some new means of thanking him?


Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect--for it was strange though I had expected the contents--but as if something for which there was no name or distinct idea were indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very hopeful; but I cried very much.

Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect - but as if something for which there was no name or distinct idea were indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very hopeful; but I cried very much.


By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen, and I said, "Oh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!" I am afraid the face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my finger at it, and it stopped.

By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen, and I said, "Oh, Esther, can that be you!" I am afraid the face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my finger at it, and it stopped.


"That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my dear, when you showed me such a change!" said I, beginning to let down my hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to be as cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us begin for once and for all."

"That is more like it!" said I, beginning to let down my hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to be as cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us begin for once and for all."


I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a little still, but that was because I had been crying, not because I was crying then.

When I went on with my hair I sobbed a little still, but that was because I had been crying, not because I was crying then.


"And so Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with your best friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a great deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of men."


I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else, how should I have felt, and what should I have done! That would have been a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and blank form that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss before I laid them down in their basket again.

I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else, how should I have felt, and what should I have done! That would have been a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and blank form that I gave my housekeeping keys a kiss before I laid them down in their basket again.


Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, how often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why I should be busy, busy, busy--useful, amiable, serviceable, in all honest, unpretending ways. This was a good time, to be sure, to sit down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me at first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) that I was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House, why should it seem strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I had not. "Don't you remember, my plain dear," I asked myself, looking at the glass, "what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars were there about your marrying--"

Then I went on to think how often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why I should be busy and useful. This was a good time, to be sure, to sit down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me at first, why should it seem strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I had not.
"Don't you remember, my plain dear," I asked myself, "what Mrs. Woodcourt said, before those scars were there, about your marrying-"


Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remains of the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now. They had only been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone, but it would be better not to keep them now.

Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remains of the flowers. They had only been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone, but it would be better not to keep them now.


They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room--our sitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a candle and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it in my hand, I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and I stole in to kiss her.

They were in a book, which was in the next room - our sitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a candle and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and I stole in to kiss her.


It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for crying; but I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another. Weaker than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them for a moment to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard, though, indeed, the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I took them into my own room and burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant.

It was weak in me, I know; but I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another. Weaker than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them for a moment to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard, though, indeed, the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I took them into my own room and burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant.


On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guardian just as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. There being not the least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I think there was none) in mine. I was with him several times in the course of the morning, in and out, when there was no one there, and I thought it not unlikely that he might speak to me about the letter, but he did not say a word.

On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guardian just as usual, quite as frank, open and free. There being not the least constraint in his manner, there was none (I think) in mine. About the letter, he said not a word.


So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week, over which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, every day, that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but he never did.


I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. I tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could not write an answer that at all began like a good answer, so I thought each night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more days, and he never said a word.

I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. I tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could not write an answer that began like a good answer, so I thought each night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more days, and he never said a word.


At last, Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one afternoon going out for a ride; and I, being dressed before Ada and going down, came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing at the drawing-room window looking out.

At last, Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one afternoon going out for a ride; and I, being ready before Ada, came upon my guardian, standing at the drawing-room window looking out.


He turned on my coming in and said, smiling, "Aye, it's you, little woman, is it?" and looked out again.

He turned and said, smiling, "Aye, it's you, little woman, is it?"


I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had come down on purpose. "Guardian," I said, rather hesitating and trembling, "when would you like to have the answer to the letter Charley came for?"


"Is Charley to bring it?" he asked pleasantly.


"No. I have brought it myself, guardian," I returned.


I put my two arms round his neck and kissed him, and he said was this the mistress of Bleak House, and I said yes; and it made no difference presently, and we all went out together, and I said nothing to my precious pet about it.


It was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange for Richard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himself was the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr. Badger at any moment, he began to doubt whether he wanted to leave him at all. He didn't know, he said, really. It wasn't a bad profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked it as well as he liked any other--suppose he gave it one more chance! Upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information with great rapidity. His fervour, after lasting about a month, began to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer arrived before he finally separated from Mr. Badger and entered on an experimental course of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his waywardness, he took great credit to himself as being determined to be in earnest "this time." And he was so good-natured throughout, and in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him.

It was not so easy as it had appeared to arrange for Richard's making a trial at Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himself was the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr. Badger, he began to doubt whether he wanted to. He didn't know, he said, really. It wasn't a bad profession; perhaps he liked it as well as any other - suppose he gave it one more chance! Upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and bones and seemed to acquire a great deal of information very quickly.
After about a month his fervour began to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer arrived before he finally left Mr. Badger for Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. He took great credit for being determined to be in earnest "this time." And he was so good-natured, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult to be displeased with him.


"As to Mr. Jarndyce," who, I may mention, found the wind much given, during this period, to stick in the east; "As to Mr. Jarndyce," Richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in the world, Esther! I must be particularly careful, if it were only for his satisfaction, to take myself well to task and have a regular wind-up of this business now."

"As to Mr. Jarndyce," (who found the wind sticking much in the east during this time,) "he is the finest fellow in the world," Richard would say to me. "I must be careful to take myself well to task."


The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch and nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. However, he told us between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent that he wondered his hair didn't turn grey. His regular wind-up of the business was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Kenge's about midsummer to try how he liked it.

The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch and nothing could hold, was ludicrous. However, he told us sometimes that he was taking himself to task so well that he wondered his hair didn't turn grey.


All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described him in a former illustration--generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I happened to say to Ada, in his presence, half jestingly, half seriously, about the time of his going to Mr. Kenge's, that he needed to have Fortunatus' purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in this way, "My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman! Why does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger's I should have been obliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking lecture-fees. So I make four pounds--in a lump--by the transaction!"


It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what arrangements should be made for his living in London while he experimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to Bleak House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener than once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were to settle down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments or chambers where we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; "but, little woman," he added, rubbing his head very significantly, "he hasn't settled down there yet!" The discussions ended in our hiring for him, by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house near Queen Square. He immediately began to spend all the money he had in buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging; and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any purchase that he had in contemplation which was particularly unnecessary and expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost and made out that to spend anything less on something else was to save the difference.

It was a question much discussed where he should live in London while he studied the law, for we had now gone back to Bleak House, which was too far off to allow his coming oftener than once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were to settle down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments where we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; "but, little woman," he added, "he hasn't settled down there yet!"
The discussions ended in our hiring for him, by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house near Queen Square. He immediately began to spend all his money in buying little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging; and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any unnecessary purchase, he took credit for what it would have cost and spent it on something else.


While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Boythorn's was postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of his lodging, there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could have gone with us at that time of the year very well, but he was in the full novelty of his new position and was making most energetic attempts to unravel the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently we went without him, and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy.

Meanwhile our visit to Mr. Boythorn's was postponed. At length Richard moved into his lodging, and was soon making energetic attempts to unravel the mysteries of the fatal lawsuit. Consequently we went on our visit without him, and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy.


We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach and had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture had been all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who took possession of it on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday, but he seemed quite relieved to think that it was gone. Chairs and table, he said, were wearisome objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety of expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you looked them out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to be bound to no particular chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, and from mahogany to walnut, and from this shape to that, as the humour took one!

We made a pleasant journey into Lincolnshire by the coach and had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture had been all removed, it appeared, by the person who took possession of it on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday, but he seemed quite relieved that it was gone. Chairs and tables, he said, were wearisome and monotonous objects. How pleasant, then, to be bound to no particular chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, as the humour took one!


"The oddity of the thing is," said Mr. Skimpole with a quickened sense of the ludicrous, "that my chairs and tables were not paid for, and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible. Now, that seems droll! There is something grotesque in it. The chair and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. Why should my landlord quarrel with HIM? If I have a pimple on my nose which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiar ideas of beauty, my landlord has no business to scratch my chair and table merchant's nose, which has no pimple on it. His reasoning seems defective!"

"The oddity of the thing is," said Mr. Skimpole, "that my chairs and tables were not paid for, and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible. Now, that seems droll! The chair merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent!"


"Well," said my guardian good-humouredly, "it's pretty clear that whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to pay for them."


"Exactly!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That's the crowning point of unreason in the business! I said to my landlord, 'My good man, you are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to pay for those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate manner. Have you no consideration for HIS property?' He hadn't the least."

"Exactly!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That's what I said to my landlord. 'My good man, are you not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to pay for those things that you are sweeping off? Have you no consideration for his property?' He hadn't the least."


"And refused all proposals," said my guardian.


"Refused all proposals," returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made him business proposals. I had him into my room. I said, 'You are a man of business, I believe?' He replied, 'I am,' 'Very well,' said I, 'now let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pens and paper, here are wafers. What do you want? I have occupied your house for a considerable period, I believe to our mutual satisfaction until this unpleasant misunderstanding arose; let us be at once friendly and business-like. What do you want?' In reply to this, he made use of the figurative expression--which has something Eastern about it--that he had never seen the colour of my money. 'My amiable friend,' said I, 'I never have any money. I never know anything about money.' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'what do you offer if I give you time?' 'My good fellow,' said I, 'I have no idea of time; but you say you are a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a business-like way with pen, and ink, and paper--and wafers--I am ready to do. Don't pay yourself at another man's expense (which is foolish), but be business-like!' However, he wouldn't be, and there was an end of it."

"I made him business proposals. I said, 'Let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pens and paper. I have occupied your house to our mutual satisfaction until now; let us be friendly and business-like.' He replied that he had never seen the colour of my money. 'My amiable friend,' said I, 'I never have any money. I never know anything about money.' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'what do you offer if I give you time?' 'My good fellow,' said I, 'I have no idea of time; but you say you are a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a business-like way, I am ready to do. Be business-like!' However, he wouldn't be, and there was an end of it."


If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole's childhood, it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the journey he had a very good appetite for such refreshment as came in our way (including a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but never thought of paying for anything. So when the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly asked him what he considered a very good fee indeed, now--a liberal one--and on his replying half a crown for a single passenger, said it was little enough too, all things considered, and left Mr. Jarndyce to give it him.

On the journey Mr. Skimpole had a very good, child-like appetite for such refreshment as came in our way (including some choice hothouse peaches), but never thought of paying for anything. When the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly asked him what he considered a liberal one - and on his replying half a crown for a single passenger, said it was little enough too, and left Mr. Jarndyce to give it him.


It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, the larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light wind blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fragrance! Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to alight from the coach--a dull little town with a church-spire, and a marketplace, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very few men sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little bits of shade. After the rustling of the leaves and the waving of the corn all along the road, it looked as still, as hot, as motionless a little town as England could produce.

It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, the larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields filled the air with such a delicious fragrance! Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we alighted from the coach - a dull little town with a church-spire, a market-cross, one intensely sunny street, and a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it.


At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn on horseback, waiting with an open carriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. He was overjoyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.

At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn, on horseback, waiting with an open carriage to take us to his house a few miles off. He was overjoyed to see us.


"By heaven!" said he after giving us a courteous greeting. "This a most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of an abominable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. It is twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon. The coachman ought to be put to death!"

"By heaven!" said he. "This is a most infamous coach. It is the most abominable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. It is twenty-


"IS he after his time?" said Mr. Skimpole, to whom he happened to address himself. "You know my infirmity."


"Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!" replied Mr. Boythorn, referring to his watch. "With two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes. Deliberately! It is impossible that it can be accidental! But his father--and his uncle--were the most profligate coachmen that ever sat upon a box."

six minutes late! With two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel of a coachman has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes!


While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all smiles and pleasure.

He ought to be put to death!"
While he said this, he handed us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness.


"I am sorry, ladies," he said, standing bare-headed at the carriage-door when all was ready, "that I am obliged to conduct you nearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through Sir Leicester Dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property I have sworn never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pending the present relations between us, while I breathe the breath of life!" And here, catching my guardian's eye, he broke into one of his tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless little market-town.

"I am sorry, ladies," he said, "that I am obliged to conduct you nearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through Sir Leicester Dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property I have sworn never to set foot, while I breathe!" And he broke into one of his tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless little market-town.


"Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?" said my guardian as we drove along and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by the roadside.

"Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?" said my guardian as we drove along and Mr. Boythorn trotted alongside.


"Sir Arrogant Numskull is here," replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha ha ha! Sir Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has been laid by the heels here. My Lady," in naming whom he always made a courtly gesture as if particularly to exclude her from any part in the quarrel, "is expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the least surprised that she postpones her appearance as long as possible. Whatever can have induced that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that ever baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!"

"Sir Arrogant Numskull is here," replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha ha ha! I am glad to say, he has been laid by the heels here. My Lady," - he made a courtly gesture as if to exclude her from any part in the quarrel - "is expected daily. Whatever can have induced that transcendent woman to marry him is an impenetrable mystery. Ha ha ha ha!"


"I suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "WE may set foot in the park while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us, does it?"

"I suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "We may set foot in the park while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us, does it?"


"I can lay no prohibition on my guests," he said, bending his head to Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully upon him, "except in the matter of their departure. I am only sorry that I cannot have the happiness of being their escort about Chesney Wold, which is a very fine place! But by the light of this summer day, Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are likely to have but a cool reception. He carries himself like an eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race of eight-day clocks in gorgeous cases that never go and never went--Ha ha ha!--but he will have some extra stiffness, I can promise you, for the friends of his friend and neighbour Boythorn!"

"I can lay no prohibition on my guests," said Boythorn with smiling politeness. "I am only sorry that I cannot be their escort about Chesney Wold, which is a very fine place! But, Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are likely to have a cool reception. He carries himself as stiffly as a grandfather clock at all times - Ha ha ha! - but he will have some extra stiffness, I can promise you, for the friends of his neighbour Boythorn!"


"I shall not put him to the proof," said my guardian. "He is as indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to the honour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such a view of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough for me."

"I shall not test it by seeing him," said my guardian. "A sight of the grounds and perhaps a view of the house are quite enough for me."


"Well!" said Mr. Boythorn. "I am glad of it on the whole. It's in better keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajax defying the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little church on a Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable congregation expect to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have no doubt he is surprised that I don't. For he is, by heaven, the most self-satisfied, and the shallowest, and the most coxcombical and utterly brainless ass!"

"Well!" said Mr. Boythorn. "I am glad of it. I am looked upon around here as a second Ajax defying the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little church on a Sunday, most of the congregation expect to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! By heaven, he is the most self-satisfied and utterly brainless ass!"


Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his attention from its master.

On our coming to the ridge of a hill, our friend pointed out Chesney Wold.