CHAPTER LXIV

Esther’s Narrative

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.