Soon after I had that conversation with my guardian, he put a sealed paper in my hand one morning and said, "This is for next month, my dear." I found in it two hundred pounds.
I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thought were necessary. Regulating my purchases by my guardian's taste, which I knew very well of course, I arranged my wardrobe to please him and hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all so quietly because I was not quite free from my old apprehension that Ada would be rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet himself. I had no doubt that under all the circumstances we should be married in the most private and simple manner. Perhaps I should only have to say to Ada, "Would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my pet?" Perhaps our wedding might even be as unpretending as her own, and I might not find it necessary to say anything about it until it was over. I thought that if I were to choose, I would like this best.
The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her that I was going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged some time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for me and was remarkably softened now in comparison with what she had been when we first knew her. There was no trouble she would not have taken to have been of use to me, but I need hardly say that I only allowed her to take as little as gratified her kindness without tasking it.
Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, and of course it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had plenty of occupation, which I was glad of; and as to Charley, she was absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround herself with great heaps of it--baskets full and tables full--and do a little, and spend a great deal of time in staring with her round eyes at what there was to do, and persuade herself that she was going to do it, were Charley's great dignities and delights.
Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree with my guardian on the subject of the will, and I had some sanguine hopes of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainly did encourage expectations. In Richard, the discovery gave occasion for a burst of business and agitation that buoyed him up for a little time, but he had lost the elasticity even of hope now and seemed to me to retain only its feverish anxieties. From something my guardian said one day when we were talking about this, I understood that my marriage would not take place until after the term-time we had been told to look forward to; and I thought the more, for that, how rejoiced I should be if I could be married when Richard and Ada were a little more prosperous.
The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out of town and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's business. He had told me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary. I had just come in one night from my dear girl's and was sitting in the midst of all my new clothes, looking at them all around me and thinking, when a letter from my guardian was brought to me. It asked me to join him in the country and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken and at what time in the morning I should have to leave town. It added in a postscript that I would not be many hours from Ada.
I expected few things less than a journey at that time, but I was ready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early next morning. I travelled all day, wondering all day what I could be wanted for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for this purpose, and now I thought it might be for that purpose, but I was never, never, never near the truth.
It was night when I came to my journey's end and found my guardian waiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards evening I had begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) that he might be ill. However, there he was, as well as it was possible to be; and when I saw his genial face again at its brightest and best, I said to myself, he has been doing some other great kindness. Not that it required much penetration to say that, because I knew that his being there at all was an act of kindness.
Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at table he said, "Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have brought you here?"
"Well, guardian," said I, "without thinking myself a Fatima or you a Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it."
"Then to ensure your night's rest, my love," he returned gaily, "I won't wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much wished to express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poor unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, and his value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle here, it came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of some unpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. I therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up for him and making it habitable. However, when I walked over it the day before yesterday and it was reported ready, I found that I was not housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they ought to be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly be got to come and give me her advice and opinion. And here she is," said my guardian, "laughing and crying both together!"
Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell him what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.
"Tut, tut!" said my guardian. "You make too much of it, little woman. Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!"
"It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian--with a heart full of thanks."
"Well, well," said he. "I am delighted that you approve. I thought you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress of Bleak House."
I kissed him and dried my eyes. "I know now!" said I. "I have seen this in your face a long while."
"No; have you really, my dear?" said he. "What a Dame Durden it is to read a face!"
He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, and was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. When I went to bed, I cried. I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it was with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with pleasure. I repeated every word of the letter twice over.
A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast we went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my mighty housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gate in a side wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing I saw was that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner of my beds and flowers at home.
"You see, my dear," observed my guardian, standing still with a delighted face to watch my looks, "knowing there could be no better plan, I borrowed yours."
We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees were sporting on the grass, to the house itself--a cottage, quite a rustic cottage of doll's rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around it; with water sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; at its nearest point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town, where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag was flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind. And still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw in the papering on the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the arrangement of all the pretty objects, MY little tastes and fancies, MY little methods and inventions which they used to laugh at while they praised them, my odd ways everywhere.
I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful, but one secret doubt arose in my mind when I saw this, I thought, oh, would he be the happier for it! Would it not have been better for his peace that I should not have been so brought before him? Because although I was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly, and it might remind him mournfully of what be believed he had lost. I did not wish him to forget me--perhaps he might not have done so, without these aids to his memory--but my way was easier than his, and I could have reconciled myself even to that so that he had been the happier for it.
"And now, little woman," said my guardian, whom I had never seen so proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching my appreciation of them, "now, last of all, for the name of this house."
"What is it called, dear guardian?"
"My child," said he, "come and see,"
He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and said, pausing before we went out, "My dear child, don't you guess the name?"
"No!" said I.
We went out of the porch and he showed me written over it, Bleak House.
He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting down beside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, "My darling girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been really solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer," smiling as he referred to it, "I had my own too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under different circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one day, I need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my letter, and you brought your answer. You are following what I say, my child?"
I was cold, and I trembled violently, but not a word he uttered was lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun's rays descended, softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, I felt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels.
"Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now. When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would really make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I soon had no doubt at all."
I clasped him round the neck and hung my head upon his breast and wept. "Lie lightly, confidently here, my child," said he, pressing me gently to him. "I am your guardian and your father now. Rest confidently here."
Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially, like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like the sunshine, he went on.
"Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being contented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret when Dame Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good that could never change in her better far than she did. Well! I have long been in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine. But I would not have my Esther's bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my dear girl's virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales!"
He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept afresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his praise.
"Hush, little woman! Don't cry; this is to be a day of joy. I have looked forward to it," he said exultingly, "for months on months! A few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say. Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther's worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'I clearly perceive--and indeed I know, to boot--that your son loves my ward. I am further very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so religiously, that you should never suspect it though you watched her night and day.' Then I told her all our story--ours--yours and mine. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'come you, knowing this, and live with us. Come you, and see my child from hour to hour; set what you see against her pedigree, which is this, and this'--for I scorned to mince it--'and tell me what is the true legitimacy when you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.' Why, honour to her old Welsh blood, my dear," cried my guardian with enthusiasm, "I believe the heart it animates beats no less warmly, no less admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!"
He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in his old fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on the protecting manner I had thought about!
"One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent--but I gave him no encouragement, not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me all that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead--stood beside your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my life!"
He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My husband--I have called him by that name full seven happy years now--stood at my side.
"Allan," said my guardian, "take from me a willing gift, the best wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I know you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you. You know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has made its namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing."
He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he said more softly, "Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. Allan, take my dear."
He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, "I shall be found about here somewhere. It's a west wind, little woman, due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I'll run away and never come back!"
What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope, what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the month was out, but when we were to come and take possession of our own house was to depend on Richard and Ada.
We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in town, Allan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyful news to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to her for a few minutes before lying down to sleep, but I went home with my guardian first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his side, for I did not like to think of its being empty so soon.
When we came home we found that a young man had called three times in the course of that one day to see me and that having been told on the occasion of his third call that I was not expected to return before ten o'clock at night, he had left word that he would call about then. He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.
As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as I always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell out that in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my guardian of his old proposal and his subsequent retraction. "After that," said my guardian, "we will certainly receive this hero." So instructions were given that Mr. Guppy should be shown in when he came again, and they were scarcely given when he did come again.
He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but recovered himself and said, "How de do, sir?"
"How do you do, sir?" returned my guardian.
"Thank you, sir, I am tolerable," returned Mr. Guppy. "Will you allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old Street Road, and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friend has gone by the name of Weevle, but his name is really and truly Jobling."
My guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.
"Tony," said Mr. Guppy to his friend after an awkward silence. "Will you open the case?"
"Do it yourself," returned the friend rather tartly.
"Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir," Mr. Guppy, after a moment's consideration, began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she displayed by nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking at me in a most remarkable manner, "I had an idea that I should see Miss Summerson by herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has passed between us on former occasions?"
"Miss Summerson," returned my guardian, smiling, "has made a communication to that effect to me."
"That," said Mr. Guppy, "makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I believe with satisfaction to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination that's enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that he don't want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it."
"Thank you, Mr. Guppy," returned my guardian. "I am quite willing--I believe I use a legal phrase--to admit the certificate."
Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his pocket and proceeded without it.
"I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which takes the form of an annuity"--here Mr. Guppy's mother rolled her head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me--"and a few pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know," said Mr. Guppy feelingly.
"Certainly an advantage," returned my guardian.
"I HAVE some connexion," pursued Mr. Guppy, "and it lays in the direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a 'ouse in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent), and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith."
Here Mr. Guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion of rolling her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at her.
"It's a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said Mr. Guppy, "and in the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mention my friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believe has known me," Mr. Guppy looked at him with a sentimental air, "from boyhood's hour."
Mr. Jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs.
"My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of clerk and will live in the 'ouse," said Mr. Guppy. "My mother will likewise live in the 'ouse when her present quarter in the Old Street Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there will be no want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristocratic by taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper circles, fully backs me in the intentions I am now developing."
Mr. Jobling said "Certainly" and withdrew a little from the elbow of Mr Guppy's mother.
"Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the confidence of Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "(mother, I wish you'd be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson's image was formerly imprinted on my 'eart and that I made her a proposal of marriage."
"That I have heard," returned my guardian.
"Circumstances," pursued Mr. Guppy, "over which I had no control, but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a time. At which time Miss Summerson's conduct was highly genteel; I may even add, magnanimous."
My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.
"Now, sir," said Mr. Guppy, "I have got into that state of mind myself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I wish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth of which perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image which I did suppose had been eradicated from my 'eart is NOT eradicated. Its influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it, I am willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had any control and to renew those proposals to Miss Summerson which I had the honour to make at a former period. I beg to lay the 'ouse in Walcot Square, the business, and myself before Miss Summerson for her acceptance."
"Very magnanimous indeed, sir," observed my guardian.
"Well, sir," replied Mr. Guppy with candour, "my wish is to BE magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that the opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I submit may be taken into account as a set off against any little drawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at."
"I take upon myself, sir," said my guardian, laughing as he rang the bell, "to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson. She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good evening, and wishes you well."
"Oh!" said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. "Is that tantamount, sir, to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?"
"To decided rejection, if you please," returned my guardian.
Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the ceiling.
"Indeed?" said he. "Then, Jobling, if you was the friend you represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain't wanted."
But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. She wouldn't hear of it. "Why, get along with you," said she to my guardian, "what do you mean? Ain't my son good enough for you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!"
"My good lady," returned my guardian, "it is hardly reasonable to ask me to get out of my own room."
"I don't care for that," said Mrs. Guppy. "Get out with you. If we ain't good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good enough. Go along and find 'em."
I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy's power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest offence.
"Go along and find somebody that's good enough for you," repeated Mrs. Guppy. "Get out!" Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Guppy's mother so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting out. "Why don't you get out?" said Mrs. Guppy. "What are you stopping here for?"
"Mother," interposed her son, always getting before her and pushing her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, "WILL you hold your tongue?"
"No, William," she returned, "I won't! Not unless he gets out, I won't!"
However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Guppy's mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very much against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and above all things that we should get out.

Soon after that conversation with my guardian, he put a sealed paper in my hand one morning and said, "This is for next month, my dear." I found in it two hundred pounds.
I now began quietly to make necessary preparations, arranging my wardrobe to please my guardian's taste. I did it so quietly because I was not quite free from my old apprehension that Ada would be rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet himself. I had no doubt that we should be married in the most private and simple manner. Perhaps I should only have to say to Ada, "Would you like to come and see me married tomorrow, my pet?" Perhaps I might not find it necessary to say anything about it until it was over. I thought that if I were to choose, I would like this best.
The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her that I was going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged some time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for me and was remarkably softened now in comparison to when we first knew her.
Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, nor my darling. So I had plenty of occupation, which I was glad of; and as to Charley, she was absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround herself with great heaps of it, and do a little, and spend a great deal of time in staring at what there was to do, and persuade herself that she was going to do it, were Charley's great dignities and delights.
Meanwhile, I could not agree with my guardian on the subject of the will, for I had some hopes of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainly did encourage expectations. In Richard, the discovery buoyed him up for a little time, but hope seemed to make him feverish and anxious. From something my guardian said one day when we were talking about this, I understood that my marriage would not take place until after the Chancery term-time; and I thought how rejoiced I should be if I could be married when Richard and Ada were a little more prosperous.
The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called up to Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's business. He had told me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary. I had just come in one night from my dear girl's and was sitting in the midst of all my new clothes, looking at them and thinking, when a letter from my guardian was brought to me. It asked me to join him in the country and mentioned by which stage-coach I should have to leave town in the morning. It added in a postscript that I would not be long away from Ada.
I had not expected a journey at that time, but I set off as appointed early next morning. I travelled all day, wondering what I could be wanted for; now I thought it might be for this purpose, and now I thought it might be for that, but I was never near the truth.
It was night when I came to my journey's end and found my guardian waiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards evening I had begun to fear (as his letter was a very short one) that he might be ill. However, when I saw his genial face at its brightest and best, I said to myself, he has been doing some great kindness. Not that there was anything unusual in that.
Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at the table he said, "Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have brought you here?"
"Well, guardian," said I, "I am a little curious."
"Then, my love," he returned gaily, "I won't wait until tomorrow to tell you. I have very much wished to express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his services and value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle here, it came into my head that I might ask him to accept some suitable little place to live. I therefore caused such a house to be looked for, and one was found on very easy terms, and I have been making it habitable. However, when I walked over it the day before yesterday, I found that I was not housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they ought to be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly give me her advice. And here she is," said my guardian, "laughing and crying both together!"
Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell him this, but I could not say a word.
"Tut, tut!" said my guardian. "You make too much of it, little woman. Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!"
"It is with pleasure, guardian - with a heart full of thanks."
"Well, well," said he. "I am delighted that you approve. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress of Bleak House."
I kissed him and dried my eyes. "I know!" said I. "I have seen this in your face a long while."
When I went to bed, I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it was with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was. I repeated every word of the letter twice over.
After breakfast we went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my mighty housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gate in a side wall, and the first thing I saw was that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner of my beds and flowers at home.
"You see, my dear," observed my guardian, standing still with a delighted face to watch my looks, "knowing there could be no better plan, I borrowed yours."
We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were nestling among the green leaves, to the house itself - a rustic cottage of small rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around it; and across a meadow the cheerful town, where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups. As we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw my little tastes and fancies, my odd ways everywhere.
I could not say enough in admiration, but one secret doubt arose in my mind. I thought, oh, would he be the happier for it? Because although I was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly, and it might remind him mournfully of what he believed he had lost. I did not wish him to forget me - but my way was easier than his, and I could have reconciled myself even to that if he had been the happier for it.
"And now, little woman," said my guardian, whom I had never seen so proud and joyful, "now, last of all, for the name of this house."
"What is it called, dear guardian?"
"My child," said he, "come and see."
He took me to the porch, and showed me, written over it, Bleak House.
He led me to a seat among the leaves. Sitting down beside me and taking my hand, he said, smiling, "My darling girl, I wish for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer, I had my own happiness too much in view, for I had dreamed of making you my wife; but I had yours in view too. You are following what I say, my child?"
I was cold, and I trembled violently. As I sat looking at him in the sun's rays, softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, I felt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels.
"Hear me, my love, but do not speak. When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would really make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I soon had no doubt at all."
I clasped him round the neck and hung my head upon his breast and wept.
"Rest confidently here, my child," said he, pressing me gently to him. "I am your guardian and your father now."
Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and radiantly, like the sunshine, he went on.
"Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being contented with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw with whom you would be happier. Well! I have long been in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, in mine. But I would not have a jot of my dear girl's virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales!"
He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed afresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his praise.
"Hush, little woman! Don't cry; this is to be a day of joy. I have looked forward to it," he said exultingly, "for months on months! A few words more, Dame Trot. Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther's worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'I clearly perceive that your son loves my ward. I am very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to duty and affection, so completely and religiously, that you should never suspect it though you watched her night and day.' Then I told her all our story. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'come you, knowing this, and live with us. Come and see my child; set what you see against her pedigree, which is this' - for I scorned to mince words - 'and tell me what is the true legitimacy.' Why, honour to her old Welsh blood, my dear," cried my guardian with enthusiasm, "her heart beats no less warmly, no less lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!"
He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in his old fatherly way again.
"One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent - but I gave him no encouragement. He was to come and tell me all that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead - stood beside your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my life!"
He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My husband - I have called him by that name seven happy years now - stood at my side.
"Allan," said my guardian, "take from me a willing gift, the best wife that ever man had. I know you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you. You know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has made its namesake. Let me share its happiness sometimes, and what do I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing."
He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he said more softly, "Esther, my dearest, I know that my mistake has caused you some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old place in your affections. Allan, take my dear."
He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in the sunlight outside said cheerfully, "I shall be found about here somewhere. It's a west wind, little woman! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I'll run away and never come back!"
What happiness was ours that day, what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the month was out, but when we were to come and live in our own house was to depend on Richard and Ada.
We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in town, Allan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyful news to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to her for a few minutes, but I went home with my guardian first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his side, for I did not like to think of its being empty so soon.
At home we found that a young man had called three times in the course of that day to see me, and had left word that he would call again that evening. He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.
As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, I told my guardian of Mr. Guppy's old proposal and his subsequent retraction.
"After that," said my guardian, "we will certainly receive this hero." So when Mr. Guppy came again, he was shown in.
He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but recovered himself and said, "How de do, sir?"
"How do you do, sir?" returned my guardian.
"Thank you, sir, I am tolerable," returned Mr. Guppy. "Will you allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy, and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle, that is to say, Jobling."
My guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.
"Tony," said Mr. Guppy to his friend after an awkward silence. "Will you open the case?"
"Do it yourself," returned the friend rather tartly.
"Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir," Mr. Guppy began, while his mother nudged Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winked at me in a most remarkable manner, "I had an idea that I should see Miss Summerson by herself. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has passed between us on former occasions?"
"She has," returned my guardian, smiling.
"That," said Mr. Guppy, "makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I am now admitted on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my certificate. I have no capital myself, but my mother has a small annuity" - here his mother rolled her head and again winked at me - "and I have taken a 'ouse in the locality of Lambeth, and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith."
Here Mr. Guppy's mother began smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at her.
"It's a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said Mr. Guppy, "and in the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. My friend Jobling will assist me in the capacity of clerk and will live in the 'ouse. Likewise my mother; and consequently there will be no want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristocratic by taste, and fully backs me in the intentions I am now developing."
Mr. Jobling said "Certainly," and withdrew a little from Mrs. Guppy's elbow.
"Now, you may know, sir," said Mr. Guppy, "that Miss Summerson's image was formerly imprinted on my 'eart and that I made her a proposal of marriage."
"That I have heard," returned my guardian.
"Circumstances over which I had no control weakened the impression of that image for a time. At which time Miss Summerson's conduct was highly genteel and generous."
My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.
"Now, sir," said Mr. Guppy, "I wish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a height of which perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image which I supposed had been eradicated from my 'eart is not eradicated. Yielding to it, I am willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had any control and to renew my proposals to Miss Summerson."
"I take upon myself, sir," said my guardian, laughing as he rang the bell, "to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson. She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good evening, and wishes you well."
"Oh!" said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. "Is that acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?"
"Rejection, if you please," returned my guardian.
Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who suddenly turned very angry.
"Why, get along with you," said she to my guardian, "what do you mean? Ain't my son good enough for you? Get out with you!"
"My good lady," returned my guardian, "it is hardly reasonable to ask me to get out of my own room."
"I don't care for that," said Mrs. Guppy. "Get out with you. If we ain't good enough for you, go and find somebody that is."
I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy's jocularity changed.
"Why don't you get out?" she said. "What are you stopping here for?"
"Mother," interposed her son, "will you hold your tongue?"
"No, William, I won't!"
However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on her and took her, very much against her will, downstairs, her voice rising as she got lower, and insisting that we should immediately get out.


I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved. I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it was not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it if I could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.
I proceed to other passages of my narrative.
During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us. When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him in our old way--though I could have done that sooner if he would have believed me--I resumed my work and my chair beside his. He had appointed the time himself, and we were alone.
"Dame Trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to the growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time--as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short."
"And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?" said I.
"Aye, my dear? Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to take care of itself."
I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.
"Bleak House," he repeated--and his tone did NOT sound sorrowful, I found--"must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you."
"It's like you, guardian," said I, "to have been taking that into consideration for a happy surprise to both of us."
"Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow."
"Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?"
"I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden."
"Does he still say the same of Richard?"
"Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about him; who CAN be?"
My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twice in a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin John as it had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of laying any injunctions upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand that she felt it a part of her duty to him to be sparing of her visits at our house. My guardian's delicacy had soon perceived this and had tried to convey to her that he thought she was right.
"Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I. "When will he awake from his delusion!"
"He is not in the way to do so now, my dear," replied my guardian. "The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made me the principal representative of the great occasion of his suffering."
I could not help adding, "So unreasonably!"
"Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot," returned my guardian, "what shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason and injustice from beginning to end--if it ever has an end--how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than older men did in old times."
His gentleness and consideration for Richard whenever we spoke of him touched me so that I was always silent on this subject very soon.
"I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors," pursued my guardian. "When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be astonished too!"
He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.
"Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. Therefore I have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month, next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can wait."
But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, I thought, had Mr. Woodcourt.
"So he tells me," returned my guardian. "Very good. He has made his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do you like her, my dear?"
In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I liked her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.
"I think so too," said my guardian. "Less pedigree? Not so much of Morgan ap--what's his name?"
That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a very harmless person, even when we had had more of him.
"Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains," said my guardian. "I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?"
No. And yet--
My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.
I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I could say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been better if we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly have explained why even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not to anybody else.
"You see," said my guardian, "our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt's way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you."
Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I could not have suggested a better arrangement, but I was not quite easy in my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think!
"It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do better."
"Sure, little woman?"
Quite sure. I had had a moment's time to think, since I had urged that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.
"Good," said my guardian. "It shall be done. Carried unanimously."
"Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work.
It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and never resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that were to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last theme.
"You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another country. Have you been advising him since?"
"Yes, little woman, pretty often."
"Has he decided to do so?"
"I rather think not."
"Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said I.
"Why--yes--perhaps," returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a very deliberate manner. "About half a year hence or so, there is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated--streams and streets, town and country, mill and moor--and seems to present an opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men's sometimes do, I dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care for. It is Woodcourt's kind."
"And will he get this appointment?" I asked.
"Why, little woman," returned my guardian, smiling, "not being an oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has the best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped."
"The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian."
"You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will."
We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.
I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner where she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever I found I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours, and used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no fear of becoming troublesome just yet.
On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other times he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. Sometimes I would come upon him lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes's office. Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln's Inn, near the place where I had first seen him, oh how different, how different!
That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles I used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office I knew very well. It was not a large amount in the beginning, he had married in debt, and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what was meant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the wheel--as I still heard it was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save, but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.
She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She adorned and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she had been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought natural when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed that I half believed she was blinded by her love for Richard to his ruinous career.
I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression. As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming out. She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce, as she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Monday at five o'clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, which never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest reticule of documents on her arm.
"My dear!" she began. "So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? TO be sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you."
"Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I. "I am glad of that, for I was afraid of being a little late."
"No, he is not come in," returned Miss Flite. "He has had a long day in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don't like Vholes, I hope? DON'T like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!"
"I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now," said I.
"My dearest," returned Miss Flite, "daily and hourly. You know what I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor's table? My dear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?"
It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it was no surprise.
"In short, my valued friend," pursued Miss Flite, advancing her lips to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, "I must tell you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted, and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es."
"Indeed?" said I.
"Ye-es," repeated Miss Flite in her most genteel accents, "my executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.) I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance."
It made me sigh to think of him.
"I did at one time mean," said Miss Flite, echoing the sigh, "to nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular, my charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out, poor man, so I have appointed his successor. Don't mention it. This is in confidence."
She carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a folded piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke.
"Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds."
"Really, Miss Flite?" said I, knowing how it pleased her to have her confidence received with an appearance of interest.
She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy. "Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach!"
The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever seen in her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names of her birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own lips, quite chilled me.
This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard (who arrived within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner. Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for some minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what we were to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of holding a little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the window where I was sitting and began upon Symond's Inn.
"A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official one," said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to make it clearer for me.
"There is not much to see here," said I.
"Nor to hear, miss," returned Mr. Vholes. "A little music does occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish him?"
I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.
"I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his friends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that the gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?"
"He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious."
"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.
He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to the ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face as if they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though there were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.
"Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?" he resumed.
"Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend," I answered.
"But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance."
"That can do little for an unhappy mind," said I.
"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.
So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Richard were wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were something of the vampire in him.
"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his gloved hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the same in black kid or out of it, "this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr. C.'s."
I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been engaged when they were both very young, I told him (a little indignantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now darkened his life.
"Just so," assented Mr. Vholes again. "Still, with a view to everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission, Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.'s connexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself, but also to my own reputation--dear to myself as a professional man aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for whom I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, I will even say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support."
"It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes," said I, "if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which you are engaged with him."
Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even that.
"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit that the young lady who has taken Mr. C.'s name upon herself in so ill-advised a manner--you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.'s connexions--is a highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mixing much with general society in any but a professional character; still I trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never did give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young lady is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests--"
"Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"
"Pardon me," returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the same inward and dispassionate manner. "Mr. C. takes certain interests under certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In reference to Mr. C,'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, in my desire that everything should be openly carried on--I used those words, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is producible at any time--I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid down the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a client of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral (that is to say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out. I HAVE carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. As open as I was to Mr. Jarndyce, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.'s affairs in a very bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir? Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I have to thank you very much, sir!"
He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he came into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr. Vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client's progress.
We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing Richard, anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took off his gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for I doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host's face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenly in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot use the expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youth and youthful beauty had all fallen away.
He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself to be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me from the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.
Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his office.
"Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.
"Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying myself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C."
Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes was a good fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.
Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I put things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lamp being first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting his eyes.
I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time, rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when Mr. Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night; and Richard readily consenting, they went out together.
They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm round her waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that side), but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without striking any note.
"Esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, "Richard is never so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."
I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr. Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house and had known us all there, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard had always liked him, and--and so forth.
"All true," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we owe to you."
I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no more about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I felt her trembling.
"Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife indeed. You shall teach me."
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak, that it was she who had something to say to me.
"When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther."
"I know, I know, my darling."
"When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake--as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!"
In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--a firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying away with them--I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.
"You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely know Richard better than my love does."
She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear, dear girl!
"I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me."
I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I now thought I began to know what it was.
"And something else supports me, Esther."
She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in motion.
"I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him back."
Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her in mine.
"If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, 'I thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored through me!'"
Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against me!
"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will. Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I look at Richard."
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child."

I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all about me I derived much consolation; and I have already said so much about myself that I will not dwell upon my sorrow.
I had an illness, but it was not a long one. During this time, we were in London; Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us. When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him in our old way, I resumed my work and my chair beside his. We were alone.
"Dame Trot," said he, "welcome to the growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme, little woman. I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps more. Quite to settle here for a while, in short."
"And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?" said I.
"Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to take care of itself."
I thought he sounded sorrowful, but looking up I saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.
"Bleak House," he said, "is a long way from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you. I wish to hear as often of Ada as I can while I am estranged from poor Rick. And of him too, poor fellow."
"Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt this morning, guardian?"
"I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden."
"Does he still say the same of Richard?"
"Just the same. He believes he has no direct bodily illness; yet he is not easy about him. Who can be?"
My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, sometimes twice a day. But we had foreseen that this would only last until I was quite myself. Her fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin John as ever, but on the other hand she felt it her duty to Richard to be sparing of her visits to our house. My guardian had soon perceived this and had tried to tell her that he thought she was right.
"Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I. "When will he awake from his delusion!"
"Not yet, my dear," replied my guardian. "The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made me the main cause of his suffering."
"So unreasonably!"
"Ah, Dame Trot," returned my guardian, "what shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice from beginning to end - if it ever has an end - how should poor Rick pluck reason out of it?"
His gentleness and consideration for Richard so touched me that I fell silent.
"Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave to time and chance. We must not shipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford the chance of another separation from a friend. Therefore I have begged of Woodcourt, and now beg of you, not to raise this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can wait."
But I had already discussed it with Rick, I confessed; and so, I thought, had Mr. Woodcourt.
"So he tells me," returned my guardian. "Very good. He has made his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers; and there is nothing more to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do you like her, my dear?"
In answer to this abrupt question, I said I liked her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.
"I think so too," said my guardian. "Not so much of Morgan ap - what's his name?"
That was what I meant, I acknowledged, harmless though he was.
"Then, little woman, can I keep Mrs. Woodcourt here for a little while?" My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.
I had nothing to say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been better if we had had some other guest, but I could hardly have explained why even to myself.
"You see," said my guardian, "Woodcourt can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you."
Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it, but I was not quite easy in my mind.
"It is a very good plan, dear guardian."
"Sure, little woman?"
Quite sure. I urged myself to think, and I was quite sure.
"Good," said my guardian. "It shall be done. Carried unanimously."
"Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work.
It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be embroidering. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him, I thought I would go back to our last theme.
"You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt earlier, that you thought he would give a long trial to another country. Has he decided to do so?"
"I rather think not."
"Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said I.
"Why - yes - perhaps," returned my guardian, in a very deliberate manner. "In about six months, a doctor for the poor is to be appointed in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated - town and country, mill and moor - and seems to present an opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good service. The ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road is the kind I care for. It is Woodcourt's kind."
"And will he get this appointment?"
"Why, little woman," returned my guardian, smiling, "not being an oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. There will be a great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be hoped."
"The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian."
"You are right, little woman."
We said no more about it, nor about the future of Bleak House.
I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner where she lived. Whenever I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours, that I had no fear of becoming troublesome just yet.
On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other times he would be writing or reading at that table of his, always covered with papers. Sometimes I would find him lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes's office, or lounging about the neighbourhood and biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln's Inn, near the place where I had first seen him, but oh, how different!
I knew that the money Ada brought him was melting away. It was not a large amount in the beginning; he had married in debt, and I heard that Mr. Vholes's shoulder was still at the wheel. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save, but they were getting poorer every day.
She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She adorned and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she had been at home, and a little quieter than before, her face was so unshadowed that I half believed she was blinded by her love for Richard to his ruinous career.
I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression. As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming out. She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce, as she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Monday at five o'clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, and with her bag of documents on her arm.
"My dear!" she began. "How do you do! And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? To be sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you."
"Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I.
"No, he has had a long day in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don't like Vholes, I hope? Dan-gerous man!"
"I am afraid you see Richard there oftener than ever now," said I.
"My dearest," returned Miss Flite, "daily and hourly. Next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins quite to amuse our little party. And I must tell you a secret. I have made him my executor. Appointed him. In my will. Ye-es."
"Indeed?" said I.
"Ye-es," repeated Miss Flite. "I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance. I did at one time mean to appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular, most exemplary! But he wore out, poor man, so I have appointed his successor. This is in confidence."
Her face clouded as she went on.
"Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds. Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach!"
The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever seen in her and went her way. Her fearful manner of running over the names of her birds quite chilled me.
This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard shortly brought him to share our dinner. Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for some minutes both out of the room preparing it. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of holding a little conversation in a low voice with me.
"I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish him?"
I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.
"I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his friends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that the gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?"
"He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious."
"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.
He stood feeling the pimples on his face as if they were ornaments and speaking evenly as though there were not a human passion in his nature.
"Mr. Woodcourt attends on Mr. C., I believe?" he resumed.
"Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend," I answered.
"But I mean in medical attendance."
"That can do little for an unhappy mind," said I.
"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.
So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if there were something of the vampire in him.
"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his gloved hands, "this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr. C.'s."
I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been engaged when they were both very young, I told him (a little indignantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now darkened his life.
"Just so," assented Mr. Vholes again. "Still, with a view to everything being openly carried on, I will observe that I consider this a very ill-advised marriage indeed."
"It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better marriage," said I, "if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which you are engaged with him."
Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough - or rather gasp - into one of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute it.
"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit that the young lady is a highly genteel young lady, and is considered a beauty (I have heard) among the clerks in the Inn. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests-"
"Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"
"In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, that Mr. C. wished to watch his own interests, and that it devolved upon me to carry out his wish. I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. As open as I was to Mr. Jarndyce, I am to you. I openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.'s affairs in a very bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Thank you very much, sir!"
He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he came into the room. We sat down to dinner, and I observed Richard anxiously. I thought him thin and languid, slovenly in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits up now and then, and at other times relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot say that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youthful beauty had all fallen away.
He ate little and seemed indifferent to his food, was more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all gone, but it shone out of him sometimes, just as occasionally little momentary glimpses of my own face looked out from the mirror. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like the echo of a joyful sound.
Yet he was as glad as ever to have me there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and said he would retire to his office.
"Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.
"Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be neglected, sir."
Richard saw him out. On his return he told us that Vholes was a good fellow, a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.
Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I tidied up. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lamp being first removed, as he complained of its hurting his eyes.
I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time when Mr. Woodcourt came in. He sat down by Richard and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in a short walk, as it was a moonlight airy night; and they went out together.
They left my dear girl sitting at the piano with me beside her. I drew my arm round her waist. She put her left hand in mine, but kept her right upon the keys, without striking any note.
"Esther, my dearest," she said, "Richard is never so well as when he is with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."
I pointed out how this could scarcely be, because Mr. Woodcourt had always liked Richard, and Richard had always liked him.
"True," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we owe to you."
I thought it best to say no more about it. I felt her trembling.
"Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife. You shall teach me."
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering over the keys, and I knew she had something more to say to me.
"When I married Richard I was aware of what was before him. I had never known any trouble or anxiety, but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther."
"I know, my darling."
"When we were married I hoped that I might be able to convince him of his mistake, that he might not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake. But if I had not had that hope, I would have married him just the same! My dearest Esther, I see what you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely know Richard better than my love does."
She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear, dear girl!
"I see him at his worst every day. I know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I grieved for what he did and so make him more unhappy. I want him to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me."
I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I now thought I began to know what it was.
"And something else supports me, Esther."
She stopped a minute.
"In a little while, I don't know what great aid may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him back."
Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her in mine.
"I look forward through years and years, Esther, and think that a beautiful daughter may be a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head!"
Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against me!
"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther - though sometimes even they depart before a dread that arises when I look at Richard."
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child."