'This,' said Mr. Skimpole, 'is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa – plays and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment daughter, Laura – plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedy daughter, Kitty – sings a little but don't play. We all draw a little, and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money.'
Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad to strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought that she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian, and that she took every opportunity of throwing in another.
'It is pleasant,' said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes from one to the other of us, 'and it is whimsically interesting, to trace peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, and I am the youngest.'
The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused by this droll fact; particularly the Comedy daughter.
'My dears, it is true,' said Mr. Skimpole, 'is it not? So it is, and so it must be, because, like the dogs in the hymn, "it is our nature to." Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative capacity, and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that we know nothing about chops in this house. But we don't; not the least. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread we don't know how to use. We admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want; but we don't quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with us? Live, and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!'
He laughed, but, as usual, seemed quite candid, and really to mean what he said.
'We have sympathy, my roses,' said Mr. Skimpole, 'sympathy for everything. Have we not?'
'O yes, papa!' cried the three daughters.
'In fact, that is our family department,' said Mr. Skimpole, 'in this hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of being interested, and we do look on, and we are interested. What more can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now, I dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all wrong in point of political economy; but it was very agreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions, and exchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home one day, and they and their young fledgelings have their nest upstairs. I dare say, at some time or other, Sentiment and Comedy will bring their husbands home, and have their nests up-stairs too. So we get on, we don't know how, but somehow.'
She looked very young, indeed, to be the mother of two children; and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the three daughters had grown up as they could, and had had just as little hap-hazard instruction as qualified them to be their father's playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were consulted, I observed, in their respective styles of wearing their hair; the Beauty daughter being in the classic manner; the Sentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing; and the Comedy daughter in the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. They were dressed to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way.
Ada and I conversed with these young ladies, and found them wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we could not help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previously volunteered to go home with us, and had withdrawn to dress himself for the purpose.
'My roses,' he said, when he came back, 'take care of mama. She is poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, I shall hear the larks sing, and preserve my amiability. It has been tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home.'
'That bad man!' said the Comedy daughter.
'At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his wallflowers, looking at the blue sky', Laura complained.
'And when the smell of hay was in the air!' said Arethusa.
'It showed a want of poetry in the man,' Mr. Skimpole assented; but with perfect good-humour. 'It was coarse. There was an absence of the finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken great offence,' he explained to us, 'at an honest man—'
'Not honest, papa. Impossible!' they all three protested.
'At a rough kind of fellow – a sort of human hedgehog rolled up,' said Mr. Skimpole, 'who is a baker in this neighbourhood, and from whom we borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we looked to a man who had got them, to lend them. Well! this morose person lent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn out, he wanted them back. He had them back. He was contented, you will say. Not at all. He objected to their being worn. I reasoned with him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, "Can you, at your time of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? That it is an object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to consider from a point of sight? Don't you know that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon?" He was unreasonable and unpersuadable, and used intemperate language. Being as patient as I am at this minute, I addressed another appeal to him. I said, "Now, my good man, however our business capacities may vary, we are all children of one great mother, Nature. On this blooming summer morning here you see me" (I was on the sofa) "with flowers before me, fruit upon the table, the cloudless sky above me, the air full of fragrance, contemplating Nature. I entreat you, by our common brotherhood, not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime, the absurd figure of an angry baker!" But he did,' said Mr. Skimpole, raising his laughing eyes in playful astonishment; 'he did interpose that ridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. And therefore I am very glad to get out of his way, and to go home with my friend Jarndyce.'
It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and the daughters remained behind to encounter the baker; but this was so old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. He took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful as any other aspect in which he showed himself, and rode away with us in perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeing through some open doors, as we went down-stairs, that his own apartment was a palace to the rest of the house.
I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something very startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in what ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guest was in such spirits on the way home, that I could do nothing but listen to him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Ada yielded to the same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind, which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we left Somers Town, veered completely round, before we were a couple of miles from it.
Whether of questionable childishness or not, in any other matters, Mr. Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright weather. In no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in the drawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I was yet looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcarolles and drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.
We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of music, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the ruined old Verulam wall, to-morrow, which he had begun a year or two ago and had got tired of; when a card was brought in, and my guardian read aloud in a surprised voice:
'Sir Leicester Dedlock!'
The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with me, and before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should have hurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in my giddiness, to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, or to know where it was. I heard my name, and found that my guardian was presenting me, before I could move to a chair.
'Pray be seated, Sir Leicester.'
'Mr. Jarndyce,' said Sir Leicester in reply, as he bowed and seated himself, 'I do myself the honour of calling here—'
'You do me the honour, Sir Leicester.'
'Thank you – of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire, to express my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I may have against a gentleman who – who is known to you and has been your host, and to whom therefore I will make no further reference, should have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort and charge, from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify a polite and refined taste, at my house, Chesney Wold.'
'You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf of those ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very much.'
'It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for the reasons I have mentioned I refrain from making further allusion – it is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done me the honour so far as to misapprehend my character, as to induce you to believe that you would not have been received by my local establishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy, which its members are instructed to show to all ladies and gentlemen who present themselves at that house. I merely beg to observe, sir, that the fact is the reverse.'
My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making any verbal answer.
'It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce,' Sir Leicester weightily proceeded. 'I assure you, sir, it has given – Me – pain – to learn from the housekeeper at Chesney Wold, that a gentleman who was in your company in that part of the county, and who would appear to possess a cultivated taste for the Fine Arts, was likewise deterred, by some such cause, from examining the family pictures with that leisure, that attention, that care, which he might have desired to bestow upon them, and which some of them might possibly have repaid.' Here he produced a card, and read, with much gravity and a little trouble, through his eye-glass, 'Mr. Hirrold, – Herald– Harold – Skampling – Skumpling – I beg your pardon, – Skimpole.'
'This is Mr. Harold Skimpole,' said my guardian, evidently surprised.
'Oh!' exclaimed Sir Leicester, 'I am happy to meet Mr. Skimpole, and to have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. I hope, sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county, you will be under no similar sense of restraint.'
'You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock. So encouraged, I shall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another visit to your beautiful house. The owners of such places as Chesney Wold,' said Mr. Skimpole, with his usual happy and easy air, 'are public benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a number of delightful objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poor men; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure that they yield, is to be ungrateful to our benefactors.'
Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. 'An artist, sir?'
'No,' returned Mr. Skimpole. 'A perfectly idle man. A mere amateur.'
Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped he might have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. Skimpole next came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole professed himself much flattered and honoured.
'Mr. Skimpole mentioned,' pursued Sir Leicester, addressing himself again to my guardian; 'mentioned to the housekeeper, who, as he may have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family—'
('That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on the occasion of my going down to visit Miss Summerson and Miss Glare,' Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.)
'That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there, was Mr. Jarndyce.' Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of that name. 'And hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I have professed my regret. That this should have occurred to any gentleman, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly known to Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant connexion with her, and for whom (as I learn from my Lady herself) she entertains a high respect, does, I assure you, give – Me – pain.'
'Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester,' returned my guardian. 'I am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your consideration. Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to apologise for it.'
I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor, and had not even appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises me to find that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impression on me as it passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind was so confused, and my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made his presence so distressing to me, that I thought I understood nothing, through the rushing in my head and the beating of my heart.
'I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock,' said Sir Leicester, rising, 'and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure of exchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards, on the occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the vicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to these ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr. Skimpole. Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it would afford me any gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn had favoured my house with his presence; but those circumstances are confined to that gentleman himself, and do not extend beyond him.'
'You know my old opinion of him,' said Mr. Skimpole, lightly appealing to us. 'An amiable bull, who is determined to make every colour scarlet!'
Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed, as if he could not possibly hear another word in reference to such an individual; and took his leave with great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with all possible speed, and remained there until I had recovered my self-command. It had been very much disturbed; but I was thankful to find, when I went down-stairs again, that they only rallied me for having been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.
By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when I must tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my being brought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to her house, – even of Mr. Skimpole's, however distantly associated with me, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, – was so painful, that I felt I could no longer guide myself without his assistance.
When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our usual talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again, and sought my guardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hour; and as I drew near, I saw the light shining out into the passage from his reading-lamp.
'May I come in, Guardian?'
'Surely, little woman. What's the matter?'
'Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiet time of saying a word to you about myself.'
He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned his kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that it wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before – on that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I could readily understand.
'What concerns you, my dear Esther,' said he, 'concerns us all. You cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear.'
'I know that, Guardian. But I have such need of your advice and support. O! you don't know how much need I have to-night.'
He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a little alarmed.
'Or how anxious I have been to speak to you,' said I, 'ever since the visitor was here to-day.'
'The visitor, my dear! Sir Leicester Dedlock?'
'Yes.'
He folded his arms, and sat looking at me with an air of the profoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I did not know how to prepare him.
'Why, Esther,' said he, breaking into a smile, 'our visitor and you are the two last persons on earth I should have thought of connecting together!'
'O yes, Guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago.'
The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before. He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen to that), and resumed his seat before me.
'Guardian,' said I, 'do you remember, when we were overtaken by the thunder-storm, Lady Dedlock's speaking to you of her sister?'
'Of course. Of course I do.'
'And reminding you that she and her sister had differed; had "gone their several ways"?'
'Of course.'
'Why did they separate, Guardian?'
His face quite altered as he looked at me. 'My child, what questions are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever did know, I believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those two handsome and proud women were! You have seen Lady Dedlock. If you had ever seen her sister, you would know her to have been as resolute and haughty as she.'
'O Guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!'
'Seen her?'
He paused a little, biting his lip. 'Then, Esther, when you spoke to me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he was all but married once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, and that that time had had its influence on his later life – did you know it all, and know who the lady was?'
'No, Guardian,' I returned, fearful of the light that dimly broke upon me. 'Nor do I know yet.'
'Lady Dedlock's sister.'
'And why,' I could scarcely ask him, 'why, Guardian, pray tell me why were they parted?'
'It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart. He afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture), that some injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of quarrel with her sister, had wounded her beyond all reason; but she wrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him – as in literal truth she did – and that the resolution was exacted from her by her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of honour, which were both her nature too. In consideration for those master points in him, and even in consideration for them in herself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and die in it. She did both, I fear: certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from that hour. Nor did any one.'
'O Guardian, what have I done!' I cried, giving way to my grief; 'what sorrow have I innocently caused!'
'You caused, Esther?'
'Yes, Guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sister is my first remembrance.'
'No, no!' he cried, starting.
'Yes, Guardian, yes! And her sister is my mother!'
I would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would not hear it then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put so plainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in my better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been with fervent gratitude towards him through so many years, I believed I had never loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart so fully, as I did that night. And when he had taken me to my room and kissed me at the door, and when at last I lay down to sleep, my thought was how could I ever be busy enough, how could I ever be good enough, how in my little way could I ever hope to be forgetful enough of myself, devoted enough to him, and useful enough to others, to show him how I blessed and honoured him.
Chapter XLIV
The letter and the answer
My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I told him what had been left untold on the previous night. There was nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret, and to avoid another such encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feeling, and entirely shared it. He charged himself even with restraining Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity. One person whom he need not name to me, it was not now possible for him to advise or help. He wished it were; but no such thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he dreaded discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight and by reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and kindness, I was as innocent of, as himself; and as unable to influence.
'Nor do I understand,' said he, 'that any doubts tend towards you, my dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion.'
'With the lawyer,' I returned. 'But two other persons have come into my mind since I have been anxious.' Then I told him all about Mr. Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when I little understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview I expressed perfect confidence.
'Well,' said my guardian. 'Then we may dismiss him for the present. Who is the other?'
I called to his recollection the French maid, and the eager offer of herself she had made to me.
'Ha!' he returned thoughtfully, 'that is a more alarming person than the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, and it was natural that you should come into her head. She merely proposed herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more.'
'Her manner was strange,' said I.
'Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off, and showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her death-bed,' said my guardian. 'It would be useless self-distress and torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be nothing better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you were before you had it. It is the best you can do for everybody's sake. I sharing the secret with you—'
'And lightening it, Guardian, so much,' said I.
'—Will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear daughter's sake.'
I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank him! I was going out at the door, when he asked me to stay a moment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again; and all at once, I don't know how, it flashed upon me as a new and far-off possibility that I understood it.
'My dear Esther,' said my guardian, 'I have long had something in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you.'
'Indeed?'
'I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately considered. Would you object to my writing it?'
'Dear Guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for me to read?'
'Then see, my love,' said he, with his cheery smile; 'am I at this moment quite as plain and easy – do I seem as open, as honest and old-fashioned, as I am at any time?'
I answered in all earnestness, 'Quite.' With the strictest truth, for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.
'Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?' said he, with his bright clear eyes on mine.
I answered, most assuredly he did not.
'Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess, Esther?'
'Most thoroughly,' said I, with my whole heart.
'My dear girl,' returned my guardian, 'give me your hand.'
He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and, looking down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of manner – the old protecting manner which had made that house my home in a moment – said, 'You have wrought changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last you have done me a world of good, since that time.'
'Ah, Guardian, what have you done for me since that time!'
'But,' said he, 'that is not to be remembered now.'
'It never can be forgotten.'
'Yes, Esther,' said he, with a gentle seriousness, 'it is to be forgotten now; to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember now, that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite assured of that, my dear?'
'I can, and I do,' I said.
'That's much,' he answered. 'That's everything. But I must not take that, at a word. I will not write this something in my thoughts, until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never write it. If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send Charley to me this night week—"for the letter." But if you are not quite certain, never send. Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing as in everything. If you are not quite certain on that one point, never send!'
'Guardian,' said I, 'I am already certain. I can no more be changed in that conviction, than you can be changed towards me. I shall send Charley for the letter.'
He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in reference to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole week. When the appointed night came, I said to Charley as soon as I was alone, 'Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley, and say you have come from me– "for the letter." ' Charley went up the stairs, and down the stairs, and along the passages – the zigzag way about the old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that night – and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and up the stairs, and brought the letter. 'Lay it on the table, Charley,' said I. So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed, and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many things.
I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute face so cold and set; and when I was more solitary with Mrs. Rachael, than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or to look at. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends in all around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw my dear girl, and was received into that sisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I lived my happy life there over again, I went through my illness and recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.
I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read much at a time. But I read it through three times, before I laid it down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did. It asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House?
It was not a love letter though it expressed so much love, but was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind protecting manner, in every line. It addressed me as if our places were reversed; as if all the good deeds had been mine, and all the feelings they had awakened, his. It dwelt on my being young, and he past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while I was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage, and lose nothing by rejecting it; for no new relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be right. But he had considered this step anew, since our late confidence, and had decided on taking it; if it only served to show me, through one poor instance, that the whole world would readily unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood. I was the last to know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of that he said no more; for I was always to remember that I owed him nothing, and that he was my debtor, and for very much. He had often thought of our future; and, foreseeing that the time must come, and fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now very nearly of age) would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up, had become accustomed to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it. If I felt that I could ever give him the best right he could have to be my protector, and if I felt that I could happily and justly become the dear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter chances and changes than Death, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably, while this letter was yet so new to me; but, even then, I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the same, he knew.
This was the substance of the letter; written throughout with a justice and a dignity, as if he were indeed my responsible guardian, impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his integrity he stated the full case.
But he did not hint to me, that when I had been better-looking, he had had this same proceeding in his thoughts, and had refrained from it. That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions, he could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my disfigurement, and my inheritance of shame. That the more I stood in need of such fidelity, the more firmly I might trust in him to the last.