In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room

Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the
journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on his
face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and were,
in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely and strictly
self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as great an
injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or sentiment or any
romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is a
rather increased sense of power upon him as he loosely grasps one of
his veinous wrists with his other hand and holding it behind his back
walks noiselessly up and down.

There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty
large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, his
reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to
it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour or
so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. But he
happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at the documents
awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over the table, the old
man's sight for print or writing being defective at night--he opens
the French window and steps out upon the leads. There he again walks
slowly up and down in the same attitude, subsiding, if a man so cool
may have any need to subside, from the story he has related
downstairs.

The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk
on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read
their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though
their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he be
seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the
leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented
below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other
characters nearer to his hand.

As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his
thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in
passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling of his
room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is opposite
the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door, too, but the
night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs. These
eyes that meet his own are looking in through the glass from the
corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood has not flushed into
his face so suddenly and redly for many a long year as when he
recognizes Lady Dedlock.

He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the doors
behind her. There is a wild disturbance--is it fear or anger?--in her
eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she looked downstairs
two hours ago.

Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be as
pale, both as intent.

"Lady Dedlock?"

She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped
into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, like two
pictures.

"Why have you told my story to so many persons?"

"Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew it."

"How long have you known it?"

"I have suspected it a long while--fully known it a little while."

"Months?"

"Days."

He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in
his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has stood
before her at any time since her marriage. The same formal
politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be
defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same
distance, which nothing has ever diminished.

"Is this true concerning the poor girl?"

He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite understanding
the question.

"You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my story
also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls and cried
in the streets?"

So! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What power this
woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr. Tulkinghorn's
thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged grey
eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual under her gaze.

"No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out of Sir
Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand.
But it would be a real case if they knew--what we know."

"Then they do not know it yet?"

"No."

"Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?"

"Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, "I cannot give a
satisfactory opinion on that point."

And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he
watches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of this
woman are astonishing!"

"Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the
energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "I will make it
plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it,
and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr.
Rouncewell here. I knew very well that if he could have had the power
of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by
having for a moment been, although most innocently, the subject of my
great and distinguished patronage. But I have an interest in her, or
I should rather say--no longer belonging to this place--I had, and if
you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as
to remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy."

Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug
of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.

"You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that too.
Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claim that I
can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my husband in
obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness of your
discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you will
dictate. I am ready to do it."

And she would do it, thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm hand
with which she takes the pen!

"I will not trouble you, Lady Dedlock. Pray spare yourself."

"I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to spare
myself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than you have
done. Do what remains now."

"Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave to say
a few words when you have finished."

Their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do
it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened
window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and
the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow one! Where
are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add
the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn
existence? Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? Curious
questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under
the watching stars upon a summer night.

"Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," Lady Dedlock
presently proceeds, "I say not a word. If I were not dumb, you would
be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears."

He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with
her disdainful hand.

"Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My jewels
are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be found there.
So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some ready money I had
with me, please to say, but no large amount. I did not wear my own
dress, in order that I might avoid observation. I went to be
henceforward lost. Make this known. I leave no other charge with
you."

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. "I am
not sure that I understand you. You want--"

"To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go this
hour."

Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises, but he, without moving
hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill,
shakes his head.

"What? Not go as I have said?"

"No, Lady Dedlock," he very calmly replies.

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

"No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, but she makes no reply.

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

"I am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go on!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock."

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

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

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

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

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

"We are to meet as usual?"

"Precisely as usual, if you please."

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

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

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

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

"You may be assured of it."

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

"I can attest your fidelity, sir."

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

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

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

Whoa. That was some crazy indirect showdown. Even Tulkinghorn needs a breather. After a couple of minutes, Lady Dedlock comes to his room. There's no beating around the bush anymore, but she still stays super calm and her face is totally non-responsive. How long has he known her story? A couple of days. Does everyone else already know too? No, that was just to show what would happen if the secret got out. Can she make it so that Rosa isn't tainted by being associated with her? He doesn't know. Lady Dedlock offers to sign any papers she needs to to confirm all the facts. She tells Tulkinghorn that all her jewels, money, and fancy clothes are in their places. She is ready to leave the house. Whoa, not so fast, Tulkinghorn says. He doesn't want the secret out just yet. If she leaves, the honor and reputation of the Dedlock family will be ruined forever. For now he just wants her to continue as if everything were the same. Tulkinghorn says that he only wants what is best for the family, and the best way to preserve its place in the world is to keep up appearances. Lady Dedlock agrees, shoots him a hateful look, and leaves. He goes to sleep. She goes to her room, paces, rips out her hair, screams, and cries. Good soundproofing in those old houses, though - no one hears her. The next morning, everyone in Chesney Wold gets up as if nothing had happened.

Upstairs in Tulkinghorn's room, Lady Dedlock confronts the lawyer. She demands to know why he told her story to "so many persons." Tulkinghorn says that he wanted her to know that he was in on the secret. She indicates that she plans to leave Chesney Wold but wants to spare Sir Leicester any unnecessary pain. Tulkinghorn's "sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester," but as he has not yet decided how to act upon his discovery of Lady Dedlock's secret, he says that at least for a while he will keep the matter to himself. Tulkinghorn goes to sleep; Lady Dedlock, distraught, paces for hours in her room. The next morning the Dedlock house is a place of bustling hospitality. Upstairs in Tulkinghorn's room, Lady Dedlock confronts the lawyer. She demands to know why he told her story to "so many persons." Tulkinghorn says that he wanted her to know that he was in on the secret. She indicates that she plans to leave Chesney Wold but wants to spare Sir Leicester any unnecessary pain. Tulkinghorn's "sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester," but as he has not yet decided how to act upon his discovery of Lady Dedlock's secret, he says that at least for a while he will keep the matter to himself. Tulkinghorn goes to sleep; Lady Dedlock, distraught, paces for hours in her room. The next morning the Dedlock house is a place of bustling hospitality.

Lady Dedlock makes a momentous decision: Tragedy is fully upon her. Tulkinghorn's inflexibility and lack of affection and compassion are more impressive than ever. Dickens foreshadows the lawyer's imminent but unexpected death; the morning light finds Tulkinghorn "at his oldest; he looks as if the digger and the spade were both commissioned, and would soon be digging."

"In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room" The narrator says that Mr. Tulkinghorn goes up to his room at Chesney Wold, happy that he told the story. He steps outside and looks at the stars. Lady Dedlock appears. He tells her that he felt he had to let her know that he knew her secret, and that only he knows it so far. She tells him that he was right, and that she knows what will happen to Rosa if her secret is discovered. She offers to write down details to save Sir Leicester any trouble, but Tulkinghorn says it isn't necessary. She tells him that her jewels and other valuables are all in their places. Tulkinghorn doesn't understand what she means, and Lady Dedlock declares that she is leaving Chesney Wold immediately. He doesn't try to stop her but wants to tell her something first. She tells him she wants to move toward the window, and Tulkinghorn fears she'll jump out and kill herself. But she doesn't. He tells her that his only concern in all this is Sir Leicester and that her disappearance will destroy him and make her secret immediately known to all. Tulkinghorn suggests that she stay and continue to hide her guilt. He says he will alert her when he must make the secret known. She leaves his room

Women wield a great deal of power in Bleak House, and one of the only instances of weakness occurs when Tulkinghorn convinces Lady Dedlock to stay at Chesney Wold in order to protect her secret. Excepting her emotional discovery of and reunion with her daughter, Lady Dedlock has always put on a haughty, implacable front. Society looks up to her, and she is the emblem of what a great lady is supposed to be. When Tulkinghorn makes it clear that he has the power to destroy her at any time, Lady Dedlock finds herself at someone else's mercy for the first time. Tulkinghorn recognizes the shock this must be; indeed, when Lady Dedlock requests that they speak by the window, he worries that she plans to kill herself. Shortly after this scene, Mademoiselle Hortense attempts to wield her own power over Tulkinghorn. She, of a much lesser station than Lady Dedlock, isn't so easily thwarted, and when Tulkinghorn threatens her, she threatens him right back. The fact that Lady Dedlock does give in to Tulkinghorn reveals the depths to which she has fallen, making the extent of her desperation clear. Esther is the unwitting cause of many people's unhappiness, which is ironic considering her selfless, generous nature. She is at the heart of Lady Dedlock's secret, the source of much of her guilt, shame, and regret. She could easily bring about Lady Dedlock's downfall, as well as Sir Leicester's and the entire Dedlock clan. Because of Esther's birth, the relationship between Lady Dedlock and her sister, Miss Barbary, was destroyed, as was the relationship between Miss Barbary and Mr. Boythorn. Esther, who wants nothing but happiness for those she loves, has indirectly brought about desperation and heartbreak. When she tells her secret to Mr. Jarndyce, she seems to half expect him to shun her for the havoc she passively wrought. Although Mr. Jarndyce's marriage proposal is rooted in love, it isn't rooted in romantic love, a distinction that Esther feels intuitively but can't quite articulate. The letter is full of affection and admiration, and the picture of her future life that Mr. Jarndyce paints for her is happy and peaceful, but Esther senses that something will still be missing. She tells herself she is happy with the proposal, but she does so while sobbing. Burning Mr. Woodcourt's flowers seems to be her acknowledgment that her hope for romantic love, however small, must now be forgotten forever. Indeed, since Mr. Jarndyce has always been such a father figure for Esther that his marriage proposal instantly seems troubling, even inappropriate, and their relationship lurches into complicated new territory. She still calls him "guardian," and she says her acceptance "made no difference." She kisses him, but it seems devoid of passion, and as Esther's narrative continues, things seem very much as they have always been. She may be the intended mistress of Bleak House, but at this point her position seems not to have changed at all.

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room Lady Dedlock goes to Tulkinghorn's room in the turret of Chesney Wold and asks why he has told her story to the company. He explains he wanted her to know he knew. She asks if she can save Rosa before it is known, for she expects him to expose her to the world. She also would like to sign anything that would be of help to her husband, for she intends to leave on that very night. She explains she does not ask to be spared, only to help the others. Tulkinghorn says that he does not intend to expose her because it would mean the ruin of Sir Leicester and the family name. Her flight would only spread the truth. He wants them both to keep the secret. She will continue her lie, knowing he could expose her at any time. He says he would never expose her without giving her notice first. She gives in, goes to her room and walks up and down all night in pain, followed by the step on Ghost's Walk.

Commentary on Chapter XLI Tulkinghorn is a sadist who pretends he cares about the Dedlock name. He is completely triumphant to have such a beautiful and powerful lady under his thumb. More than once he is forced to admire her control, which is only outmatched by his own. Tulkinghorn's control, however, is described as "self-repressed" , while Lady Dedlock is a passionate woman who keeps "raging passions down" . She asks for mercy in a dignified way, not for herself, but for her husband and Rosa. Her tragic nobility makes Tulkinghorn's blackmail look cowardly. She once says that she has to go to the window because she can't breathe. This is the same feeling Mr. George had in the presence of Tulkinghorn, for he has a suffocating influence. He does not like women, but he has conquered this one, and he is "sedately satisfied" .


Esther's Narrative

It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother who had
told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture to
approach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense of
the peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by my
fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as a living
creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could not always
conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when I first knew
the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. I felt as if I
did not even dare to hear it. If the conversation anywhere, when I
was present, took that direction, as it sometimes naturally did, I
tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeated something that I
knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious now that I often did
these things when there can have been no danger of her being spoken
of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearing anything that might
lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me.

It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother's
voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to
do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so
new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public mention
of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door of her house
in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I once sat in the
theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide
asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or
confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over. My lot has
been so blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story
of goodness and generosity in others. I may well pass that little and
go on.

When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many conversations
with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. My dear girl was
deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so much wrong, but
she was so faithful to Richard that she could not bear to blame him
even for that. My guardian was assured of it, and never coupled his
name with a word of reproof. "Rick is mistaken, my dear," he would
say to her. "Well, well! We have all been mistaken over and over
again. We must trust to you and time to set him right."

We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust to
time until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he had
written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and
persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devoted Richard
was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would make amends
when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in the dark,
he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those
clouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion and
misunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work the
suit out and come through it to his right mind. This was his
unvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained such possession
of his whole nature that it was impossible to place any consideration
before him which he did not, with a distorted kind of reason, make a
new argument in favour of his doing what he did. "So that it is even
more mischievous," said my guardian once to me, "to remonstrate with
the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone."

I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr.
Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.

"Adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "My dear, who would advise
with Skimpole?"

"Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I.

"Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouraged by
Skimpole?"

"Not Richard?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer
creature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advising or
encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or
anything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as
Skimpole."

"Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us and now looked
over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?"

"What made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing his head,
a little at a loss.

"Yes, cousin John."

"Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he is
all sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility,
and--and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,
somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in his youth
attached too much importance to them and too little to any training
that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he became what he
is. Hey?" said my guardian, stopping short and looking at us
hopefully. "What do you think, you two?"

Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be an
expense to Richard.

"So it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That must not
be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will never do."

And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever
introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.

"Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his
face. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! There is
nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the value of
money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.
Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it and
thinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I'll be bound, my dear?"

"Oh, yes!" said I.

"Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you have the
man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any harm in
it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in mere
simplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'll
understand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole and
caution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an
infant!"

In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day and
presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.

He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there
were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in
cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better tenant
than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody
always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude for
business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, I don't
know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a
state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or three of
the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker
was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge
from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps
were the only signs of its being inhabited.

A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the
rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry
answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stopping
up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and
I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of
her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in. The
lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then applied
herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good action
either, and said would we go upstairs?

We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture
than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without further ceremony
entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingy enough and not at
all clean, but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a
large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and
plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music,
newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures. A broken pane of glass
in one of the dirty windows was papered and wafered over, but there
was a little plate of hothouse nectarines on the table, and there was
another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a
bottle of light wine. Mr. Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in
a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china
cup--it was then about mid-day--and looking at a collection of
wallflowers in the balcony.

He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose and
received us in his usual airy manner.

"Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without some
little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. "Here
I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and
mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee,
and my claret; I am content. I don't want them for themselves, but
they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solar about legs of beef
and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!"

"This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he ever
prescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us.

"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this is the
bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his
feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!"

He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings! Not
an ambitious note, but still he sings."

"These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?"

"No," he answered. "No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His man
wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether he should
wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I think not--if
your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, for he went
away."

My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "Is it
possible to be worldly with this baby?"

"This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret in a
tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call it Saint
Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. I have a
blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a Sentiment
daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see them all.
They'll be enchanted."

He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and asked him
to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first. "My dear
Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa, "as many
moments as you please. Time is no object here. We never know what
o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get on in life,
you'll tell me? Certainly. But we DON'T get on in life. We don't
pretend to do it."

My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear him?"

"Now, Harold," he began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick."

"The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "I
suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms
with you. But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthful poetry,
and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. I love him."

The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really had
a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not, for
the moment, Ada too.

"You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned Mr.
Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold."

"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to what I
don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping one of the
cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with an
ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.

"If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "you
must not let him pay for both."

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial face irradiated
by the comicality of this idea, "what am I to do? If he takes me
anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any money. If I
had any money, I don't know anything about it. Suppose I say to a
man, how much? Suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? I know
nothing about seven and sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue
the subject with any consideration for the man. I don't go about
asking busy people what seven and sixpence is in Moorish--which I
don't understand. Why should I go about asking them what seven and
sixpence is in Money--which I don't understand?"

"Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless
reply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you must
borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that
circumstance), and leave the calculation to him."

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything to
give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition.
Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson, I
thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had only to
make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or a
bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a shower
of money."

"Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor."

"No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "You
surprise me.

"And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said my
guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.
Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage him
in that reliance, Harold."

"My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear Miss
Simmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It's business,
and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me. He emerges
from great feats of business, presents the brightest prospects before
me as their result, and calls upon me to admire them. I do admire
them--as bright prospects. But I know no more about them, and I tell
him so."

The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before us,
the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his innocence, the
fantastic way in which he took himself under his own protection and
argued about that curious person, combined with the delightful ease
of everything he said exactly to make out my guardian's case. The
more I saw of him, the more unlikely it seemed to me, when he was
present, that he could design, conceal, or influence anything; and
yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present, and the
less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do with any
one for whom I cared.

Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.
Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters
(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quite
delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish
character. He soon came back, bringing with him the three young
ladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now a
delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of
disorders.

"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?"

"Oh, 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 fledglings have their nest upstairs. I dare say at some time or
other Sentiment and Comedy will bring THEIR husbands home and have
THEIR nests upstairs 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
haphazard 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 downstairs, 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 barcaroles 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 farther 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 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 Clare,"
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 apologize 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 downstairs 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. Oh! 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!"

"Oh, 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."

"Oh, 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."

"Oh, 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.

Esther goes through life in a state of shock. Every time conversation goes anywhere near the Dedlocks or Chesney Wold she has to leave the room. Thinking about the fact that she can never talk to her mom again is beyond miserable. Meanwhile Ada and Jarndyce talk about Richard and how totally underwater he is with his obsession with Chancery and his fears and mistrust about Jarndyce. It doesn't seem like there's anything to do about it, though, since they've tried reasoning with him already. He's just delusional at this point. But maybe at least they can get Skimpole away from him, Esther suggests. Jarndyce defends Skimpole and says whatever bad influence he is having is unintentional. Esther is like, well, even so. So the whole gang goes to visit Skimpole's to see what can be done. His house is, not surprisingly, falling apart. But he's got a lot of good food and good wine on the table. Jarndyce and Ada start trying to talk to Skimpole, telling him that Richard is actually quite poor, and to stop mooching off him please. Skimpole waves them off with his whole "I don't understand money, I'm just a naive artistic guy" shtick. This seems to satisfy Jarndyce. Skimpole then introduces Ada and Esther to his three daughters, who have been raised to be exactly like him. His wife, meanwhile, comes and has a private chat with Jarndyce, who gives her some money. Finally Skimpole complains that yet another guy has been harassing him this morning because of some debts and decides to go to Bleak House to get away from him. Esther wonders why he doesn't think his daughters and wife are going to be stuck at home having to deal with the man. She's totally onto him but can't really do anything about it. Back at Bleak House, they suddenly have a visitor. It turns out to be... Sir Dedlock! Esther almost has a heart attack. But he's just there to say that he heard they had been staying at Boythorn's house. He knows Lady Dedlock knows and likes Jarndyce and he's sorry if they felt like they couldn't come to Chesney Wold and have a nice tour of the place just because he and Boythorn are in a fight. Jarndyce is surprised to see him and thanks him. He leaves. What a totally bizarre visit. Shmoop is guessing this scene is meant to humanize Sir Dedlock somewhat? He's high and mighty, but does he actually care about personal relationships and old-timey values like hospitality? It's hard to say. Anyway, this visit makes Esther decide to tell Jarndyce the truth. She goes to see him that night, and together they fill each other in on some key details. First, from Jarndyce: Boythorn's old fiancee was Lady Dedlock's sister , who out of nowhere and without saying why cut off all communication with him. Esther explains that she did that because she decided to raise Esther. She was her aunt, and Lady Dedlock is her mother. Jarndyce is floored but is super nice and loving to Esther. He talks to her and makes her feel OK and generally responds in as positive a way as possible. Esther goes to sleep that night wondering "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" .

For fear of increasing her mother's peril, Esther refrains from writing to her or trying to see her. Worried about Skimpole's influence on Richard, she and Ada discuss that situation with Mr. Jarndyce. Jarndyce says that in order to understand Skimpole better, the three of them should visit the "infant" in his home. This home, where Skimpole lives with this sickly wife and three daughters, is a dirty, dingy, dilapidated place. Mr. Jarndyce asks Skimpole to refrain from allowing Richard to give him any money or to buy anything for him. Skimpole introduces his daughters, who are much like their father, and he then accompanies Esther, Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce to Bleak House. They are there only a short time before Sir Leicester pays an unexpected visit. He has come to assure both Skimpole and Mr. Jarndyce that they are always welcome at the Dedlock mansion. Sir Leicester has reason to believe that Skimpole, not long ago, while examining some of the Dedlock family portraits, was inadvertently made to feel unwelcome. Esther, afraid that the subject of the family portraits might lead to some remark that might betray her mother, is greatly relieved when Sir Leicester leaves. Afterward, she talks in private with her guardian and tells him what she knows about her mother. In turn, she learns from Mr. Jarndyce that Boythorn was once in love with Lady Dedlock's sister, Miss Barbary, the woman who raised Esther. Miss Barbary broke her engagement in order to raise Esther. For fear of increasing her mother's peril, Esther refrains from writing to her or trying to see her. Worried about Skimpole's influence on Richard, she and Ada discuss that situation with Mr. Jarndyce. Jarndyce says that in order to understand Skimpole better, the three of them should visit the "infant" in his home. This home, where Skimpole lives with this sickly wife and three daughters, is a dirty, dingy, dilapidated place. Mr. Jarndyce asks Skimpole to refrain from allowing Richard to give him any money or to buy anything for him. Skimpole introduces his daughters, who are much like their father, and he then accompanies Esther, Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce to Bleak House. They are there only a short time before Sir Leicester pays an unexpected visit. He has come to assure both Skimpole and Mr. Jarndyce that they are always welcome at the Dedlock mansion. Sir Leicester has reason to believe that Skimpole, not long ago, while examining some of the Dedlock family portraits, was inadvertently made to feel unwelcome. Esther, afraid that the subject of the family portraits might lead to some remark that might betray her mother, is greatly relieved when Sir Leicester leaves. Afterward, she talks in private with her guardian and tells him what she knows about her mother. In turn, she learns from Mr. Jarndyce that Boythorn was once in love with Lady Dedlock's sister, Miss Barbary, the woman who raised Esther. Miss Barbary broke her engagement in order to raise Esther.

Here again is a microcosm of Dickens' serio-comic art. Most of the chapter is devoted to a comic portrait of Skimpole and his daughters, a subject almost completely irrelevant to the novel's main line of action. Yet present also are the important motifs of Lady Dedlock's peril and of Richard's continuing irresponsibility about money and associations.

"Esther's Narrative" Esther studiously avoids mentioning Lady Dedlock, and she does her best not to think about her. She says it doesn't matter how she struggled not to think about her voice or how she obsessively looked for Lady Dedlock's name in public. Esther and Ada talk with Mr. Jarndyce about Richard. Mr. Jarndyce no longer seems to hope that Richard will give up the Jarndyce and Jarndyce lawsuit. Esther reveals that Skimpole has been encouraging Richard, but Mr. Jarndyce can't be angry because Skimpole is such a child. Esther also tells him that Skimpole introduced Richard to Vholes for five pounds, but Mr. Jarndyce is convinced Skimpole didn't mean any harm. They go to London to visit Skimpole, who lives in a dingy apartment. He is happy to see them and seems characteristically childlike, which seems to be a relief to Mr. Jarndyce. He tells Skimpole that he mustn't take money from Richard, but Skimpole says he can't refuse. He says he thought Richard was rich. He also says he is unable to stop encouraging Richard in the lawsuit, since he understands nothing about it. Skimpole introduces them to his three daughters and his wife and prepares to go to Bleak House with the group. Esther observes that she didn't anticipate at this point that something very remarkable was going to happen by the end of the day. Sir Leicester visits Bleak House unexpectedly. He tells Mr. Jarndyce, Esther, and Ada that he hopes that they are not under the impression that, because of his feud with Boythorn, they aren't welcome at Chesney Wold. He says that Mrs. Rouncewell told him that a friend of theirs named Skimpole was prevented from seeing the family art. Mr. Jarndyce introduces him to Skimpole, who is in the room. Skimpole says he will visit again. Sir Leicester says he regrets if there was any confusion about their welcome at Chesney Wold, especially since Lady Dedlock respects Mr. Jarndyce. Esther decides to tell Mr. Jarndyce her secret. She asks if he remembers Lady Dedlock speaking of her sister, and that the two women had parted ways. She asks why they separated, but Mr. Jarndyce claims not to know. But he asks if Esther knows that Boythorn's old lover was Lady Dedlock's sister. Esther responds that she hadn't known this. Mr. Jarndyce tells her that this sister and Boythorn separated because of a quarrel she had with Lady Dedlock. She wrote Boythorn a letter saying she was dead to him, and he never saw her again. Esther is overcome with grief because she believes that she has caused Boythorn's heartbreak. She tells Mr. Jarndyce that the sister was her caretaker, and Lady Dedlock is her mother. Mr. Jarndyce comforts her and Esther is deeply grateful to him for his kindness, feeling that she can never repay him

Esther's Narrative Esther, Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce visit Skimpole at home to ask him to not take money from Richard, and to help him drop the Jarndyce suit. As usual, Skimpole jokes and charms everyone, claiming he is a child in such matters. He introduces them to his daughters who have been brought up to be equally scatter-brained and irresponsible. Then Jarndyce suggests he will give Skimpole his spending money when he goes out with Rick. Skimpole claims Richard is his best friend. Esther is charmed because he "seemed quite candid, and really to mean what he said" . Esther is constantly concerned for her mother's safety and afraid to do anything that would betray her. When Sir Leicester Dedlock calls at Bleak House to invite them to come to Chesney Wold at any time, Esther realizes she must impart her secret to her guardian to prevent such an event. Esther tells Mr. Jarndyce she is Lady Dedlock's daughter, brought up by her sister, Miss Barbary. In exchange, he tells her that Miss Barbary was once engaged to Boythorn, but threw him over to raise Esther in secret. Esther feels that she destroyed so many lives by being born, but her guardian comforts her and kisses her tenderly. She vows to show him how much he means to her.

Commentary on Chapter XLIII The visit to Skimpole's house, the Polygon, is memorable, with his eating his "frugal breakfast" of peaches, grapes, coffee, and claret. The house is a dingy wreck because no one is competent in this family: "We can't cook anything whatever . . . We are capable of looking on and of being interested" . Sir Leicester tries to fulfill his role as country gentleman and does not want the feud with Boythorn to interfere with his manners in the neighborhood. He feels he has slighted Jarndyce, whom his wife respects. He also seems interested in having Skimpole look at the family treasures since he is an art critic.


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 zig-zag way about the
old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that
night--and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and
up the stairs, and brought the letter. "Lay it on the table,
Charley," said I. So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed,
and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many
things.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When it's ready, my dear," he replied.

"I think it is ready," said I.

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

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

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

The next morning Esther tells Jarndyce the rest of the story, which is, Oh, yeah, please don't tell anyone. He's obviously fine with that, and everything is hunky dory. Esther is worried about anyone else finding out, though. There's Tulkinghorn, who might know; Guppy, who she's pretty sure will stop poking around about her background, like she asked; and Hortense, who was so weird when she came to ask for a job. Jarndyce says they can't really do anything about any of that, so not to worry. He also says he has something to ask her, but he can't ask outright, so he'll write a letter. She's all gratitude and feeling like she owes him big-time. A week later she receives the letter. It's a...proposal of marriage! Yes, yes, we all saw that coming, obviously. But still - isn't a tiny bit creepy, considering how she thinks of him as a dad, and how indebted she feels to him? It's a bit too much of a power imbalance to be OK. The letter is nice and sweet and loving, and Jarndyce makes sure to say that no matter what her answer, it won't change how he feels about her. Esther also reads between the lines to see that he's asking her now that she's no longer pretty, because she's unlikely to get another offer. She starts to cry. Then she feels guilty for not being instantly happy about this and for still thinking about Woodcourt. Finally Esther makes up her mind to say yes and burns the dried bouquet that Woodcourt gave her before he left for China. A week goes by. Jarndyce doesn't say anything about the letter and acts totally normal. Two weeks go by. Esther comes to see him and says she has an answer. She hugs and kisses him. It's kind of an odd moment - instead of calling her his wife or his love or whatever, Jarndyce is psyched and calls her "the mistress of Bleak House," like she's marrying the house and not him . She doesn't tell Ada. Whatever. We told you it was kind of weird.

Mr. Jarndyce promises to assist Esther and her mother in every way possible. He agrees that Tulkinghorn is a dangerous person. In the same conversation, Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther that one week later she should send Charley to his room for a letter, which he will have written by then. Mr. Jarndyce promises to assist Esther and her mother in every way possible. He agrees that Tulkinghorn is a dangerous person. In the same conversation, Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther that one week later she should send Charley to his room for a letter, which he will have written by then. The letter turns out to be a marriage proposal. Esther feels blessed to be chosen as the mistress of Bleak House. During the next several days, she expects Mr. Jarndyce to bring up the subject of the letter, but as he does not, she takes the initiative and gives him the answer he has hoped for.

Dickens and his readers seemed never to tire of doting upon the virtues of "good" characters like Esther and Mr. Jarndyce. Of romance or physical attraction, nothing is said here.

"The Letter and the Answer" Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther that she must keep her secret and not tell anyone. Esther says that besides Tulkinghorn, she worries that Mr. Guppy and Mademoiselle Hortense may have suspicions. Before Esther leaves his room, Mr. Jarndyce says he has something to say to her, but that he would rather write it down in a letter. He also says that no matter what happens, he will never be changed from as he is right now. On the agreed-upon day, Esther sends Charley to get the letter. Esther isn't surprised that it's a marriage proposal. She believes that this is a way for her to thank him and make him happy, and the letter makes her happy, but still she cries, feeling as though she has lost something. She tells herself that she must be cheerful from here on out, because she will be happy for the rest of her life. She then remembers Mr. Woodcourt's flowers, which she burns in the candle. A few days later, she tells Mr. Jarndyce she has decided to accept the proposal

The Letter and the Answer Esther and Jarndyce speak of the Dedlock secret, realizing her mother's difficult position with both Tulkinghorn and the French maid trying to harm her. Esther says her guardian has lightened her secret. Jarndyce says he will be ever watchful to help Lady Dedlock if he can. He then says he has something particular to tell her, but he will not tell it to her unless she understands he will never change and that she can trust him. If so, he will write her a letter. He waits a week and then gives her the letter. She seems to know what it is and before she opens it, she reviews her life. She reads the letter three times. He asks her to be the mistress of Bleak House. She mentions that it was not a love letter but full of the most tender love and consideration. She had been wanting to devote her life to his happiness, but still she cries, "as if something . . . were indefinitely lost to me" . She knows that his love is strong enough to overlook her disfigurement and birth, and she takes out the dried flowers from Woodcourt and burns them. She makes Mr. Jarndyce wait two weeks for an answer, and he never pressures her, nor acts any differently towards her. Finally she puts her arms around his neck, kisses him and says, yes.

Commentary on Chapter XLIV This is an unusual courtship and perhaps why Esther hesitates. She cries for her lost youth and dreams of romance. She takes some time to adjust her ideas of love and marriage, and then, like her mother before her, she must leave the handsome lover behind, and take as husband a man old enough to be her father. Lady Dedlock was not happy in such a marriage, though Sir Leicester loved his wife and was good to her. There is more hope for Esther's marriage since there are no secrets and already a great deal of love on both sides. In reviewing her life, Esther realizes that when she was ill and became changed, no one around her changed towards her, "and all this happiness shone like a light from one central figure," Mr. Jarndyce . Woodcourt is the dashing hero, written up in the papers, devoting a life to noble causes. Mr. Jarndyce is quietly a good, loving, and just man, trying to help those around him. Esther is a woman of good sense and knows she has a good thing.