CHAPTER LXI

A Discovery

The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl

brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I

never wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in

my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will

shine for ever.

Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I found

Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano

and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides my very much

mistrusting the probability of his being there without making Richard

poorer, I felt as if there were something in his careless gaiety too

inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada’s life. I clearly

perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. I therefore resolved,

after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to Mr. Skimpole

and try delicately to explain myself. My dear girl was the great

consideration that made me bold.

I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. As I

approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I

felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.

Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signally

defeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go through

with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole’s

door—literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone—and after a

long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area

when I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to

light the fire with.

Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a

little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he

asked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I

have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment

daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect

nosegay?

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

only if he would give me leave.

“My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course,” he said, bringing

his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, “of

course it’s not business. Then it’s pleasure!”

I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was not

quite a pleasant matter.

“Then, my dear Miss Summerson,” said he with the frankest gaiety,

“don’t allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT a

pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter creature,

in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am

imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an unpleasant

matter, how much less should you! So that’s disposed of, and we will

talk of something else.”

Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still

wished to pursue the subject.

“I should think it a mistake,” said Mr. Skimpole with his airy laugh,

“if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I don’t!”

“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, raising my eyes to his, “I have so often

heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of

life—”

“Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who’s the junior

partner? D?” said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. “Not an idea of them!”

“—That perhaps,” I went on, “you will excuse my boldness on that

account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is

poorer than he was.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Skimpole. “So am I, they tell me.”

“And in very embarrassed circumstances.”

“Parallel case, exactly!” said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted

countenance.

“This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I

think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by

visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind,

it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that—if you

would—not—”

I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by

both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way

anticipated it.

“Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most assuredly

not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I

don’t go anywhere for pain, because I was made for pleasure. Pain

comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very little pleasure at

our dear Richard’s lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates

why. Our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which was once so

captivating in them, begin to think, ‘This is a man who wants

pounds.’ So I am; I always want pounds; not for myself, but because

tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our young friends begin to

think, becoming mercenary, ‘This is the man who HAD pounds, who

borrowed them,’ which I did. I always borrow pounds. So our young

friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate

in their power of imparting pleasure to me. Why should I go to see

them, therefore? Absurd!”

Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned

thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence quite

astonishing.

“Besides,” he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of

light-hearted conviction, “if I don’t go anywhere for pain—which

would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous

thing to do—why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I

went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of

mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be

disagreeable. They might say, ‘This is the man who had pounds and who

can’t pay pounds,’ which I can’t, of course; nothing could be more

out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn’t go near

them—and I won’t.”

He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing but

Miss Summerson’s fine tact, he said, would have found this out for

him.

I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point were

gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything

leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however,

and I thought I was not to be put off in that.

“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, “I must take the liberty of saying before I

conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best

authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor

boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that

occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would

hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much

surprised.”

“No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?” he returned

inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.

“Greatly surprised.”

He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and

whimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his

most engaging manner, “You know what a child I am. Why surprised?”

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he

begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to

understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed

to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was much

amused and interested when he heard this and said, “No, really?” with

ingenuous simplicity.

“You know I don’t intend to be responsible. I never could do it.

Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me—or below

me,” said Mr. Skimpole. “I don’t even know which; but as I understand

the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her

practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should imagine

it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?”

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.

“Ah! Then you see,” said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, “I am

hopeless of understanding it.”

I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my

guardian’s confidence for a bribe.

“My dear Miss Summerson,” he returned with a candid hilarity that was

all his own, “I can’t be bribed.”

“Not by Mr. Bucket?” said I.

“No,” said he. “Not by anybody. I don’t attach any value to money. I

don’t care about it, I don’t know about it, I don’t want it, I don’t

keep it—it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?”

I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the

capacity for arguing the question.

“On the contrary,” said Mr. Skimpole, “I am exactly the man to be

placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above the

rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with philosophy in

such a case as that. I am not warped by prejudices, as an Italian

baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. I feel myself as far

above suspicion as Caesar’s wife.”

Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful

impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed

the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen in

anybody else!

“Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy received

into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.

The boy being in bed, a man arrives—like the house that Jack built.

Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the house

and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is a

bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received

into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.

Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man

who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in

a state that I strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well.

Should the Skimpole have refused the note? WHY should the Skimpole

have refused the note? Skimpole protests to Bucket, ‘What’s this for?

I don’t understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.’ Bucket

still entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why Skimpole,

not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Skimpole

perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is

a tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person

of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception

and execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they

run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us

comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer and

intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong

faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very

useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want

it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket’s weapons; shall

I positively paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And

again. If it is blameable in Skimpole to take the note, it is

blameable in Bucket to offer the note—much more blameable in Bucket,

because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think well of

Bucket; Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the

general cohesion of things, that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The

state expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that’s

all he does!”

I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took

my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits, would

not hear of my returning home attended only by “Little Coavinses,”

and accompanied me himself. He entertained me on the way with a

variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at parting, that

he should never forget the fine tact with which I had found that out

for him about our young friends.

As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may at once

finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him and

my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds and on his

having heartlessly disregarded my guardian’s entreaties (as we

afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His being

heavily in my guardian’s debt had nothing to do with their

separation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary

behind him, with letters and other materials towards his life, which

was published and which showed him to have been the victim of a

combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. It was

considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of it myself

than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening the book. It

was this: “Jarndyce, in common with most other men I have known, is

the incarnation of selfishness.”

And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly

indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance

occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in

my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as

belonging to a part of my life that was gone—gone like my infancy or

my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that

subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has

recalled them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the

last words of these pages, which I see now not so very far before me.

The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the

hopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the

miserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court

day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long when he knew

there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, and became

one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether any of the

gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.

So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to avow

in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the fresh

air now “but for Woodcourt.” It was only Mr. Woodcourt who could

occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time and rouse

him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body that alarmed

us greatly, and the returns of which became more frequent as the

months went on. My dear girl was right in saying that he only pursued

his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have no doubt that

his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the more intense

by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a

gamester.

I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was there at

night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimes my

guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walk home

together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight o’clock. I

could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually at the time, for

I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches more to do to

finish what I was about; but it was within a few minutes of the hour

when I bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss

for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr. Woodcourt went with me, as

it was dusk.

When we came to the usual place of meeting—it was close by, and Mr.

Woodcourt had often accompanied me before—my guardian was not there.

We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there were no signs

of him. We agreed that he was either prevented from coming or that he

had come and gone away, and Mr. Woodcourt proposed to walk home with

me.

It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very

short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and Ada

the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had done—my

appreciation of it had risen above all words then—but I hoped he

might not be without some understanding of what I felt so strongly.

Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian was

out and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very same

room into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthful

lover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her young heart,

the very same room from which my guardian and I had watched them

going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their hope and

promise.

We were standing by the opened window looking down into the street

when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he loved

me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was all unchanged to

him. I learned in a moment that what I had thought was pity and

compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh, too late to know

it now, too late, too late. That was the first ungrateful thought I

had. Too late.

“When I returned,” he told me, “when I came back, no richer than when

I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so

inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish

thought—”

“Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!” I entreated him. “I do not

deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that time,

many!”

“Heaven knows, beloved of my life,” said he, “that my praise is not a

lover’s praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around you

see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens,

what sacred admiration and what love she wins.”

“Oh, Mr. Woodcourt,” cried I, “it is a great thing to win love, it is

a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and

the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and

sorrow—joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not deserved it

better; but I am not free to think of yours.”

I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and when

I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was true,

I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for that.

Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night, I could

be worthier of it all through my life. And it was a comfort to me,

and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise up within me that was

derived from him when I thought so.

He broke the silence.

“I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who will

evermore be as dear to me as now”—and the deep earnestness with

which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep—“if, after

her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, I urged it.

Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which I

took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I have

always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of

good fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should

tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night.

I distress you. I have said enough.”

Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he

thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! I

wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when he

showed that first commiseration for me.

“Dear Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “before we part to-night, something is

left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish—I never

shall—but—”

I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his

affliction before I could go on.

“—I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its

remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I

know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a

noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me

could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none

that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall

make me better.”

He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How could

I ever be worthy of those tears?

“If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together—in tending

Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life—you ever

find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it

used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and

that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr.

Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that while my

heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been

beloved by you.”

He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I felt

still more encouraged.

“I am induced by what you said just now,” said I, “to hope that you

have succeeded in your endeavour.”

“I have,” he answered. “With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who

know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have

succeeded.”

“Heaven bless him for it,” said I, giving him my hand; “and heaven

bless you in all you do!”

“I shall do it better for the wish,” he answered; “it will make me

enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.”

“Ah! Richard!” I exclaimed involuntarily, “What will he do when you

are gone!”

“I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss

Summerson, even if I were.”

One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me. I

knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take if I

reserved it.

“Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “you will be glad to know from my lips

before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright

before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or

desire.”

It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.

“From my childhood I have been,” said I, “the object of the untiring

goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound by every

tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in

the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day.”

“I share those feelings,” he returned. “You speak of Mr. Jarndyce.”

“You know his virtues well,” said I, “but few can know the greatness

of his character as I know it. All its highest and best qualities

have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping

out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your highest homage

and respect had not been his already—which I know they are—they

would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in the feeling it

would have awakened in you towards him for my sake.”

He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I gave

him my hand again.

“Good night,” I said, “Good-bye.”

“The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this

theme between us for ever.”

“Yes.”

“Good night; good-bye.”

He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street. His

love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly upon

me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way again

and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called me

the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear to

him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the

triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had died

away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not too late to be

animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and contented. How easy

my path, how much easier than his!