A Discovery

The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl
brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I
never wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in
my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will
shine for ever.

Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I found
Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano
and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides my very much
mistrusting the probability of his being there without making Richard
poorer, I felt as if there were something in his careless gaiety too
inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada's life. I clearly
perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. I therefore resolved,
after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to Mr. Skimpole
and try delicately to explain myself. My dear girl was the great
consideration that made me bold.

I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. As I
approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I
felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.
Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signally
defeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go through
with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole's
door--literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone--and after a
long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area
when I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to
light the fire with.

Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a
little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he
asked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I
have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment
daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect
nosegay?

I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself
only if he would give me leave.

"My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course," he said, bringing
his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, "of
course it's not business. Then it's pleasure!"

I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was not
quite a pleasant matter.

"Then, my dear Miss Summerson," said he with the frankest gaiety,
"don't allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT a
pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter creature,
in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am
imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an unpleasant
matter, how much less should you! So that's disposed of, and we will
talk of something else."

Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still
wished to pursue the subject.

"I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole with his airy laugh,
"if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I don't!"

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, "I have so often
heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of
life--"

"Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's the junior
partner? D?" said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. "Not an idea of them!"

"--That perhaps," I went on, "you will excuse my boldness on that
account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is
poorer than he was."

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

"And in very embarrassed circumstances."

"Parallel case, exactly!" said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted
countenance.

"This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I
think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by
visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind,
it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that--if you
would--not--"

I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by
both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way
anticipated it.

"Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most assuredly
not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I
don't go anywhere for pain, because I was made for pleasure. Pain
comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very little pleasure at
our dear Richard's lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates
why. Our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which was once so
captivating in them, begin to think, 'This is a man who wants
pounds.' So I am; I always want pounds; not for myself, but because
tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our young friends begin to
think, becoming mercenary, 'This is the man who HAD pounds, who
borrowed them,' which I did. I always borrow pounds. So our young
friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate
in their power of imparting pleasure to me. Why should I go to see
them, therefore? Absurd!"

Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned
thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence quite
astonishing.

"Besides," he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of
light-hearted conviction, "if I don't go anywhere for pain--which
would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous
thing to do--why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I
went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of
mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be
disagreeable. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds and who
can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course; nothing could be more
out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn't go near
them--and I won't."

He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing but
Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this out for
him.

I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point were
gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything
leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however,
and I thought I was not to be put off in that.

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying before I
conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best
authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor
boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that
occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would
hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much
surprised."

"No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?" he returned
inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.

"Greatly surprised."

He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and
whimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his
most engaging manner, "You know what a child I am. Why surprised?"

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he
begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to
understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed
to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was much
amused and interested when he heard this and said, "No, really?" with
ingenuous simplicity.

"You know I don't intend to be responsible. I never could do it.
Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me--or below
me," said Mr. Skimpole. "I don't even know which; but as I understand
the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her
practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should imagine
it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?"

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.

"Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, "I am
hopeless of understanding it."

I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my
guardian's confidence for a bribe.

"My dear Miss Summerson," he returned with a candid hilarity that was
all his own, "I can't be bribed."

"Not by Mr. Bucket?" said I.

"No," said he. "Not by anybody. I don't attach any value to money. I
don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't want it, I don't
keep it--it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?"

I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the
capacity for arguing the question.

"On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am exactly the man to be
placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above the
rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with philosophy in
such a case as that. I am not warped by prejudices, as an Italian
baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. I feel myself as far
above suspicion as Caesar's wife."

Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful
impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed
the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen in
anybody else!

"Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
The boy being in bed, a man arrives--like the house that Jack built.
Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the house
and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is a
bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man
who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in
a state that I strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well.
Should the Skimpole have refused the note? WHY should the Skimpole
have refused the note? Skimpole protests to Bucket, 'What's this for?
I don't understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.' Bucket
still entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why Skimpole,
not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Skimpole
perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is
a tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person
of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception
and execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they
run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us
comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer and
intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong
faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very
useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want
it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket's weapons; shall
I positively paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And
again. If it is blameable in Skimpole to take the note, it is
blameable in Bucket to offer the note--much more blameable in Bucket,
because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think well of
Bucket; Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the
general cohesion of things, that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The
state expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that's
all he does!"

I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took
my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits, would
not hear of my returning home attended only by "Little Coavinses,"
and accompanied me himself. He entertained me on the way with a
variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at parting, that
he should never forget the fine tact with which I had found that out
for him about our young friends.

As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may at once
finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him and
my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds and on his
having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (as we
afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His being
heavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with their
separation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary
behind him, with letters and other materials towards his life, which
was published and which showed him to have been the victim of a
combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. It was
considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of it myself
than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening the book. It
was this: "Jarndyce, in common with most other men I have known, is
the incarnation of selfishness."

And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly
indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance
occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in
my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as
belonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like my infancy or
my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that
subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has
recalled them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the
last words of these pages, which I see now not so very far before me.

The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the
hopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the
miserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court
day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long when he knew
there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, and became
one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether any of the
gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.

So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to avow
in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the fresh
air now "but for Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Woodcourt who could
occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time and rouse
him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body that alarmed
us greatly, and the returns of which became more frequent as the
months went on. My dear girl was right in saying that he only pursued
his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have no doubt that
his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the more intense
by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a
gamester.

I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was there at
night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimes my
guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walk home
together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight o'clock. I
could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually at the time, for
I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches more to do to
finish what I was about; but it was within a few minutes of the hour
when I bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss
for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr. Woodcourt went with me, as
it was dusk.

When we came to the usual place of meeting--it was close by, and Mr.
Woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was not there.
We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there were no signs
of him. We agreed that he was either prevented from coming or that he
had come and gone away, and Mr. Woodcourt proposed to walk home with
me.

It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very
short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and Ada
the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had done--my
appreciation of it had risen above all words then--but I hoped he
might not be without some understanding of what I felt so strongly.

Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian was
out and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very same
room into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthful
lover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her young heart,
the very same room from which my guardian and I had watched them
going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their hope and
promise.

We were standing by the opened window looking down into the street
when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he loved
me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was all unchanged to
him. I learned in a moment that what I had thought was pity and
compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh, too late to know
it now, too late, too late. That was the first ungrateful thought I
had. Too late.

"When I returned," he told me, "when I came back, no richer than when
I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so
inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish
thought--"

"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I do not
deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that time,
many!"

"Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is not a
lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around you
see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens,
what sacred admiration and what love she wins."

"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "it is a great thing to win love, it is
a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and
the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and
sorrow--joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not deserved it
better; but I am not free to think of yours."

I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and when
I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was true,
I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for that.
Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night, I could
be worthier of it all through my life. And it was a comfort to me,
and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise up within me that was
derived from him when I thought so.

He broke the silence.

"I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who will
evermore be as dear to me as now"--and the deep earnestness with
which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep--"if, after
her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, I urged it.
Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which I
took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I have
always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of
good fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should
tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night.
I distress you. I have said enough."

Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he
thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! I
wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when he
showed that first commiseration for me.

"Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part to-night, something is
left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish--I never
shall--but--"

I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his
affliction before I could go on.

"--I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its
remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I
know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a
noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me
could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none
that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall
make me better."

He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How could
I ever be worthy of those tears?

"If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--in tending
Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life--you ever
find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it
used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and
that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr.
Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that while my
heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been
beloved by you."

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

"I am induced by what you said just now," said I, "to hope that you
have succeeded in your endeavour."

"I have," he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who
know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have
succeeded."

"Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand; "and heaven
bless you in all you do!"

"I shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will make me
enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you."

"Ah! Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "What will he do when you
are gone!"

"I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss
Summerson, even if I were."

One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me. I
knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take if I
reserved it.

"Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know from my lips
before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright
before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or
desire."

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

"From my childhood I have been," said I, "the object of the untiring
goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound by every
tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in
the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day."

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

"You know his virtues well," said I, "but few can know the greatness
of his character as I know it. All its highest and best qualities
have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping
out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your highest homage
and respect had not been his already--which I know they are--they
would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in the feeling it
would have awakened in you towards him for my sake."

He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I gave
him my hand again.

"Good night," I said, "Good-bye."

"The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this
theme between us for ever."

"Yes."

"Good night; good-bye."

He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street. His
love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly upon
me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way again
and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called me
the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear to
him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the
triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had died
away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not too late to be
animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and contented. How easy
my path, how much easier than his!

In Chapter 61, Esther is visting Ada daily, and is hugely concerned about the young couple. Skimpole is in evidence around the Carstone household, and Esther thinks he is again having a bad influence on Richard. The silly attitude of Skimpole also grates on Esther, considering Ada's poor situation and spirits. Esther confronts Skimpole and says that she knows he accepted a bribe for betraying Jo to Inspector Bucket. Skimpole tries to wiggle out of it, but finally decides, under Esther's influence, that Skimpole does more harm than good. Skimpole is renounced. Richard continues to pursue his Chancery suit, and sinks into an even deeper physical decline. One night, Allan walks with Esther and confesses his love. Esther is still engaged to Jarndyce, so she reproaches herself for any delight or desire in Woodcourt. She tells Allan that she is not free to think of his love. Allan accepts this, and pledges to still attend to Richard

The mystery plot having been resolved, a new plot -- Esther's love -- reaches a boiling point.  The date is set for Esther and Jarndyce's wedding, but the love of Allan Woodcourt for Esther, which he has exposed, complicates her happiness terrifically.  Meanwhile, the situation for Ada is becoming not unlike the brickmaker's wife, Jenny, though her husband is addicted to Chancery rather than alcohol.  Woodcourt remains a good helper, but he is not able to save Richard.  No one is. Skimpole's exposure is particulary satisfying, especially now that he has given over to psychically torturing Ada with his "lightness." Allan's confession of love is no big surprise, but Esther's reaction, even for a Victorian novel, is perhaps a touch too restrained.  She makes her struggle quite clear for the reader, though, recalling her status as an orphan who lacked  a family's care until that was given her by the generosity of Jarndyce.  She feels that, in this light, she is not free to love Woodcourt, but we feel that she must do so.  Her reaction -- hurrying her own wedding to one man because she loves another -- is indicative of her feelings. The stunning discovery of the will in Jarndyce in the confusion of Krook's shop brings the Jarndyce suit finally near to its end.  It underscores the irony of Chancery justice that buried among the worthless piles of documents in Krook's abode there was the key to the case all along.  There is a glimmer of hope for Richard, but all the signs have pointed through the entire novel of the hopelessness of this cause. The episode of Rouncewell going to see his brother ties up the loose ends of this functional, happy family.  They are rewarded with happy endings because of their virtue and loyalty.

Esther goes to talk to Skimpole, hoping to get him to stop hanging out with Richard. He's all smiles, and as always doing his I-don't-understand-this-thing-you-humans-call-money thing. She asks him as nicely as possible to stay the heck away from Richard and Ada because they have no money. To her surprise, Skimpole totally agrees. Why? Because when people run out of money, he's noticed that they suddenly start asking him to pay back his loans. Esther then yells at him for betraying Jarndyce by selling out Jo to Bucket. Skimpole is all, "but money? what is it? I'm so naive!" Esther doesn't know how to argue morality with him, so she leaves. Then we get this awesome bit of news: this is the last time she'll ever see Skimpole in her life. Soon after this chat, Jarndyce found out that he still wouldn't leave Richard alone, so their friendship ended. Then Skimpole wrote a tell-all autobiography where he called Jarndyce "the Incarnation of Selfishness" . Which, obviously, is ridiculous. Then five years later he died. So there. Take that, Skimpole. More interestingly, this other thing happens when Esther walks back from Richard and Ada's house with Woodcourt one day. He tells her that... he loves her! He's always loved her, and her face doesn't matter to him. He just loves, loves, loves her forever. She is psyched! But oh, this is coming a little too late, since she's already engaged to Jarndyce. D'oh! They decide to be friends forever, and after he leaves she cries and cries and cries.

Esther now visits Ada every day and, "on two or three occasions," she finds Skimpole there. She thinks that it is likely that Skimpole is continuing to help Richard spend money foolishly; she also senses that Skimpole's "careless gaiety" is vexing to Ada in her difficult situation. Esther now visits Ada every day and, "on two or three occasions," she finds Skimpole there. She thinks that it is likely that Skimpole is continuing to help Richard spend money foolishly; she also senses that Skimpole's "careless gaiety" is vexing to Ada in her difficult situation. Esther goes to see Skimpole and reproaches him for accepting a bribe to betray Jo's presence at Bleak House to Bucket. Skimpole defends himself with his usual perverse reasoning. Mr. Jarndyce becomes highly critical of Skimpole's behavior, and five years later, when Skimpole dies, the dilettante leaves a diary in which he says that Mr. Jarndyce, like "most other men I have known," is "the Incarnation of Selfishness." As the months go by, Richard, still haunting the Chancery Court day after day, becomes more haggard and often sinks into an alarming lethargy of mind and body. Allan Woodcourt walks Esther home one night and tells her that he loves her. Esther's first thought is, "Too late," but then she considers that thought to be "ungrateful" to Mr. Jarndyce. She tells Allan she is not free to think of his love. Allan is understanding, and the two part without unhappiness. Allan promises that he will continue to look after Richard.

The story continues to hold the reader's interest because several lines of action remain to be resolved, among them the fate of Richard and Ada and the relationship between Esther and Allan. The fact that Esther has even a moment of regret about her prior commitment to Mr. Jarndyce makes her seem more lifelike. Readers are glad to see Skimpole exposed, at last, as the fraud and parasitic ingrate that he truly is.

"A Discovery" Esther says that she can never forget the days when she visited Ada. She says she visits every day and often finds Skimpole there. She decides to confront him about his perpetual gaiety, which she feels is inappropriate given Ada's dismal situation. When she does, however, he says there's no way he can understand such worldly affairs. With twisted logic, he says he doesn't want to give anyone pain, and so he'll stay away from Ada and Richard. Esther then confronts him about the fact that he took money to show Bucket where Jo was hiding. She tells Skimpole he betrayed Mr. Jarndyce. Skimpole says he can't be bribed and gives Esther a lengthy explanation of what happened. Esther never sees Skimpole again, but she tells us that he died five years after these events and that he had published a book about his life, in which he says that Mr. Jarndyce is selfish. Esther says she will now tell part of her story that she found quite unexpected. Richard is getting worse, distracted only by Woodcourt. Woodcourt walks Esther home one night and confesses that he still loves her. Even though Esther had thought he'd pitied her, he'd actually been looking at her with love. Esther thinks Woodcourt is too late, and she explains that she is to marry Mr. Jarndyce. She says she will always remember his love for her and that it will make feel her better. Esther cries when he leaves, but she feels that she'll be able to go move on more easily than Woodcourt

The insidious, endlessly droning Chancery suit comes to a somewhat abrupt ending in chapter 65, rendering even more absurd the generations of people who have sacrificed their lives for it. Just like that, Jarndyce and Jarndyce ends in its ridiculous, anticlimactic way, but it claims one final victim before dissolving. Strangely, Richard dies immediately after the suit ends, as though the suit had been his lifeblood or as if he and the lawsuit had been one and the same. Indeed, the abundance of cannibalistic images of Mr. Vholes suggests that the suit and Richard existed in a kind of reciprocal life-giving relationship. Once the final will is discovered, both the suit and Richard dissolve. Dickens concludes the novel shortly after the suit ends, suggesting that the Jarndyce and Jarndyce suit serves as a kind of structural backbone to the story. Esther's happy conclusion stands in stark contrast to the dismal conclusion of the narrator's portion of the novel, in which he describes hollow, creepy Chesney Wold and the eclectic collection of people who populate it. Whereas the two Bleak Houses are lively, full of children, friends, and love, Chesney Wold is so desolate that people are afraid to walk through its rooms alone. While the two Bleak Houses restore happiness to the grieving Ada, Chesney Wold drives a maid to depression and, eventually, sudden departure. Even the people themselves in each world fall on vastly different sides of the divide between life and death. The Bleak Houses shelter those who are young and robust, while Chesney Wold contains more than its share of the infirm. There is Sir Leicester, who never fully recovered from his ailments; Phil, the crippled former soldier; Boythorn, nearby, with his eternally broken heart; Volumnia, fading from her coquettish glory; and, occasionally, a collection of dispirited cousins. Only Mrs. Rouncewell and George seem to hold much peace or vibrant energy. A true path of victims concludes the novel, a result of the narrative drive to reach the conclusion of Bleak House. Even though Richard's death darkens the final portions of Bleak House, Esther's narrative ends rather happily with a wedding and a birth among Esther's close, nurturing circle. A series of surprises brings Esther and Woodcourt together and reveals that people have been conspiring behind Esther's back to ensure her happiness. While the transition of Mr. Jarndyce from guardian/father to intended husband and back to guardian/father may make modern readers a bit queasy, the notions of loyalty, steadfastness, and devotion are the only issues at play here. Ada gives birth to a son, who revives his mother in the way Ada hoped he would revive Richard. Along with Esther's two daughters, the baby boy, named Richard, form a trio that mirrors the trio of Esther, Ada, and Richard, who arrived at Bleak House so long ago. The new Bleak House is, in a sense, an offspring as well. The "birth" of this new Bleak House and the births of children who inhabit both houses provide a sense of renewal and new beginnings after hundreds of pages filled with so much despair.

A Discovery Esther goes to see Rick and Ada every day and often sees Skimpole there. She feels uncomfortable about this, knowing Skimpole is spending money the young couple needs. Esther visits Skimpole at home to ask him not to visit the Carstones at this delicate time. She expresses displeasure at his taking money from Bucket and delivering Jo to him behind Mr. Jarndyce's back. Skimpole gives out some ludicrous and amusing logic for his behavior, but Esther is strong in insisting that he leave the Carstones alone. He agrees, and a coolness arises between Jarndyce and Skimpole. They never see him again, but in his memoirs published after his death five years later, he describes Jarndyce as "the Incarnation of Selfishness" . One evening when Esther leaves the Carstones, Mr. Jarndyce is not there to walk her home as usual, so Woodcourt walks her home. They are alone, and he confesses his love to her. She thinks "Too late" . She explains she is not free to think of it but that she is honored by his love, and that it will change her: "it shall not be lost. It shall make me better" . She expresses her great attachment to Mr. Jarndyce and praises his character. They leave as friends, and she feels a great happiness despite her regret.

Commentary on Chapter LXI At last the moment comes that has been building for several chapters. Woodcourt has only increased love for Esther despite her scarred face. He tells her, "You do not know what all around you see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens" . She replies, "it is a great thing to win love!" . This has been her dream since her loveless childhood, and now she has indeed won love from every good person in her world. She does not feel she will be unhappy marrying Mr. Jarndyce because Allan's love means so much to her: "I felt a dignity rise up within me that was derived from him" .


Another Discovery

I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even the
courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little
reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the
dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light
to read my guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it
from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own
clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my
pillow.

I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a
walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and
arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early that I
had a good time still for Charley's lesson before breakfast; Charley
(who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of
grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether
very notable. When my guardian appeared he said, "Why, little woman,
you look fresher than your flowers!" And Mrs. Woodcourt repeated and
translated a passage from the Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my
being like a mountain with the sun upon it.

This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my
opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in his
own room--the room of last night--by himself. Then I made an excuse
to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.

"Well, Dame Durden?" said my guardian; the post had brought him
several letters, and he was writing. "You want money?"

"No, indeed, I have plenty in hand."

"There never was such a Dame Durden," said my guardian, "for making
money last."

He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me.
I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never
seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it
which made me think, "He has been doing some great kindness this
morning."

"There never was," said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me,
"such a Dame Durden for making money last."

He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so much
that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was
always put at his side--for sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I
talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him--I hardly liked
to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I found I did not
disturb it at all.

"Dear guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss
in anything?"

"Remiss in anything, my dear!"

"Have I not been what I have meant to be since--I brought the answer
to your letter, guardian?"

"You have been everything I could desire, my love."

"I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, you said
to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes."

"Yes," said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm about
me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my
face, smiling.

"Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject except
once."

"And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear."

"And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."

He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.

"Dear guardian," said I, "I know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has
passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again,
perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought to do so.
I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please."

"See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be between us!
I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted--it's a large
exception--in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall
we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?"

"When you please."

"Next month?"

"Next month, dear guardian."

"The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life--the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world--the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress--shall be next month then," said my guardian.

I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on the
day when I brought my answer.

A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite
unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the servant's
shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he, rather out of
breath, "with all apologies for intruding, WILL you allow me to order
up a person that's on the stairs and that objects to being left there
in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? Thank
you. Be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will
you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.

This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap,
unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid
of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.

"Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down his hat and
opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger,
"you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentleman likewise
knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting line is his line
principally, and he's what you may call a dealer in bills. That's
about what YOU are, you know, ain't you?" said Mr. Bucket, stopping a
little to address the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly
suspicious of him.

He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was
seized with a violent fit of coughing.

"Now, moral, you know!" said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident.
"Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won't be
took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you. I've
been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been in and out and
about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises formerly
occupied by Krook, marine store dealer--a relation of this
gentleman's that you saw in his lifetime if I don't mistake?"

My guardian replied, "Yes."

"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this gentleman
he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpie property
there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord bless you,
of no use to nobody!"

The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which he
contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful
auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case
according to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr.
Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in
quite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr.
Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face
with the closest attention.

"Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes
into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?" said
Mr. Bucket.

"To which? Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharp
voice.

"To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man and
accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage
among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"

"Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.

"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket conversationally, "and much to
blame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to find, you
know," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheerful
raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated, "and so you
chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce to
it. Don't you?"

Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded
assent.

"And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and
convenience--all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and
why should you be?--what do you find it to be but a will, you see.
That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air
of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, who still had
the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; "what do
you find it to be but a will?"

"I don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else," snarled
Mr. Smallweed.

Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment--he had slipped and shrunk
down in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposed to
pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the
same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us.

"Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a little doubtful
and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of
your own."

"Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?" asked Mr. Smallweed with
his hand to his ear.

"A very tender mind."

"Ho! Well, go on," said Mr. Smallweed.

"And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated
Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card
Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books,
and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with 'em, and
always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think--and you
never was more correct in your born days--'Ecod, if I don't look
about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'"

"Now, mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man anxiously with
his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick
me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!"

Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soon as
he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and his vicious
ejaculations of "Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I've no breath in my body!
I'm worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!"
Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.

"So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises,
you take me into your confidence, don't you?"

I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill
will and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he admitted
this, rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was the very
last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he
could by any possibility have kept him out of it.

"And I go into the business with you--very pleasant we are over it;
and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get
yourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with that
there will," said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you
arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr.
Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you
trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is,
ain't it?"

"That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented with the same bad
grace.

"In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his agreeable
manner all at once and becoming strictly business-like, "you've got
that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing
that remains for you to do is just to out with it!"

Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye, and
having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger, Mr.
Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend and
his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to my
guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and many
declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor
industrious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce's honour not to
let him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took
from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much
singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had
long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. Mr.
Bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of
a conjuror, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce. As he gave it to my
guardian, he whispered behind his fingers, "Hadn't settled how to
make their market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out
twenty pound upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon
him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably
long, and then they split on one another. Lord! There ain't one of
the family that wouldn't sell the other for a pound or two, except
the old lady--and she's only out of it because she's too weak in her
mind to drive a bargain."

"Mr Bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of this
paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it
be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed remunerated
accordingly."

"Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket in friendly
explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid of that. According
to its value."

"That is what I mean," said my guardian. "You may observe, Mr.
Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain
truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many
years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will
immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the
cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all
other parties interested."

"Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observed
Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And it being now made clear to you
that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a great relief to
YOUR mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home
again."

He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning,
and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at parting
went his way.

We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly as
possible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his table in
his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles of
papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Guppy, Mr. Kenge
expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight
of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over his double eye-glass as
he spoke and was more Conversation Kenge than ever.

"I hope," said Mr. Kenge, "that the genial influence of Miss
Summerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," he bowed
to him, "to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and
towards a court which are--shall I say, which take their place in the
stately vista of the pillars of our profession?"

"I am inclined to think," returned my guardian, "that Miss Summerson
has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert
any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a part of the
occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I lay this paper on your
desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my
hands."

He did so shortly and distinctly.

"It could not, sir," said Mr. Kenge, "have been stated more plainly
and to the purpose if it had been a case at law."

"Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the
purpose?" said my guardian.

"Oh, fie!" said Mr. Kenge.

At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper,
but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had
opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became
amazed. "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perused
this?"

"Not I!" returned my guardian.

"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later date than
any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator's handwriting.
It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be
cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks
of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!"

"Well!" said my guardian. "What is that to me?"

"Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. "I beg your pardon,
Mr. Jarndyce."

"Sir."

"Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
Glad to speak with him."

Mr. Guppy disappeared.

"You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused
this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest
considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still
leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his hand
persuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen that the
interests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs.
Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it."

"Kenge," said my guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that the
suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two
young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to
believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"

"Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is
a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a
very great system, a very great system. Really, really!"

My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was modestly
impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.

"How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take a chair
here by me and look over this paper?"

Mr. Vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word. He
was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When he
had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window, and
shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some length.
I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute what
he said before he had said much, for I knew that no two people ever
did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed
to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversation that sounded
as if it were almost composed of the words "Receiver-General,"
"Accountant-General," "report," "estate," and "costs." When they had
finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table and spoke aloud.

"Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr.
Kenge.

Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."

"And a very important document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.

Again Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."

"And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next
term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in
it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.

Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep
respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an
authority.

"And when," asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which Mr.
Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked his pimples,
"when is next term?"

"Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr. Kenge. "Of
course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this
document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of
course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in
the paper."

"To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention."

"Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through the
outer office to the door, "still bent, even with your enlarged mind,
on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community, Mr.
Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a great country, Mr.
Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr.
Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system?
Now, really, really!"

He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it
were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on
the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages.

The next morning, prompted by Allan's confession and her own fear of her feelings, Esther tells Jarndyce that she will be the mistress of Bleak House "when he pleases. The date is set for the next month. Bucket and Grandfather Smallweed arrive, and Smallweed has made a shocking discovery. He has a signed will date later than the wills alrady examined in the Jarndyce and Jarndyce suit. The new will reduces Mr. Jarndyce's interests considerably but advances the interests of the young Mr. and Mrs. Carstone. Mr. Kenge is brought in for his opinion, and he thinks that it will do much to end the suit, but we have to wait until next month when court is again in session

Esther, Jarndyce, Bucket, Smallweed, Kenge, Vholes The next morning Esther feels guilty about the whole Woodcourt-love business and makes extra nice with Jarndyce. They even set a date for the wedding - next month. Except they never call it a wedding - they only ever call it Esther becoming mistress of Bleak House. It's pretty bizarre, actually. Then Bucket suddenly barges in the door, with Smallweed behind him. Bucket explains that he couldn't keep Smallweed from coming. It turns out that while rummaging through Krook's things, Smallweed has found yet another Jarndyce will. It's a good thing Bucket's been hanging around that shop, because otherwise the will would have gone to the highest bidder. As it is, Bucket got the whole Smallweed family to turn on each other and bought it for twenty pounds. Jarndyce tells Smallweed that he'll reward him for the find. They take the thing to Kenge to check it out and it turns out to be dated after all the other wills in the case! Kenge gets excited and calls over Vholes, who also agrees that this is quite a remarkable find. They explain that next month, when Court is back in session, this new will is going to be very important. Jarndyce isn't buying any of this.

The next morning, Esther tells Mr. Jarndyce, "I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please." Mr. Jarndyce says, "Next month, then." The next morning, Esther tells Mr. Jarndyce, "I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please." Mr. Jarndyce says, "Next month, then." At that moment, Bucket and Grandfather Smallweed appear. Smallweed has discovered a signed will dated later than the wills already examined in the Jarndyce and Jarndyce suit. The new will reduces Mr. Jarndyce's interests considerably but advances those of Richard and Ada. Mr. Kenge, to whom the new document is given, is sure that it will carry much weight when, in a month's time, it is introduced in court.

Even though Esther and Mr. Jarndyce have agreed to be married the following month, Dickens has made such a strong "case" for Allan Woodcourt that we suspect that some development yet to come will make it possible for Allan to triumph. The newly discovered Jarndyce will intensifies our interest in the court case.

"Another Discovery" Esther says she avoids everyone that night. The next day she asks Mr. Jarndyce if she has neglected any of her duties since she finds it strange that they haven't spoken of their marriage. Mr. Jarndyce suggests they marry in a month, and Esther agrees. Bucket arrives with Smallweed. He tells Mr. Jarndyce and Esther that Smallweed inherited Krook's property and found a Jarndyce will. Bucket says he convinced Smallweed to come forward with the will and assured him that he'd be rewarded. Smallweed gives the will to Bucket, who gives it to Mr. Jarndyce. Mr. Jarndyce assures Smallweed he'll reward him for it if it proves to have any worth. Smallweed and Bucket leave, and Mr. Jarndyce and Esther go to Lincoln's Inn to see Mr. Kenge. Kenge studies the will and says it's dated later than any other will under consideration in the suit. Kenge says that it decreases Mr. Jarndyce's share but that it raises Ada's and Richard's shares. Vholes appears, reads the will, and agrees it's important. Kenge says the case will be up again next month

Another Discovery Esther reads over her guardian's old letter of proposal, and the next morning approaches him about becoming the mistress of Bleak House. She is ready. He answers, next month the marriage will take place. Mr. Bucket comes to their door with Grandfather Smallweed, who has found, in Krook's shop, a will made by the original Jarndyce, dated later than other wills. This will favors Ada and Richard over Mr. Jarndyce. Smallweed wants to get some reward, according to the value of the will. Jarndyce agrees but refuses to read the will or get involved. He takes the will to Kenge. Kenge says it is genuine and would solve the case. It will come to court next Term, in a month.

Commentary on Chapter LXII It seems appropriate the will solving the case is in Krook's junk shop, and that Bucket, the solver of problems, would be the one to negotiate it from Smallweed. This find would fulfill all of Richard's hopes, though Mr. Jarndyce is as skeptical as ever. Vholes, however, is disappointed, for there will be no more fees. Esther's reading the letter of proposal and bringing up the marriage to Mr. Jarndyce has to do with her love for Woodcourt. The sooner she gets on with her life, the better she will feel. She wants to give a clear signal of her loyalty to Mr. Jarndyce.