Bleak House
and flowers at home.
“You see, my dear,” observed my guardian, standing still with a
delighted face to watch my looks, “knowing there could be no better
plan, I borrowed yours.”
We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were
nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees
were sporting on the grass, to the house itself—a cottage, quite a
rustic cottage of doll’s rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil
and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around
it; with water sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung
with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; at its nearest
point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town, where
cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag was
flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind. And
still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic
verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded
with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw in the papering on
the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the arrangement of all
the pretty objects, MY little tastes and fancies, MY little methods
and inventions which they used to laugh at while they praised them,
my odd ways everywhere.
I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful,
but one secret doubt arose in my mind when I saw this, I thought, oh,
would he be the happier for it! Would it not have been better for his
peace that I should not have been so brought before him? Because
although I was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly,
and it might remind him mournfully of what be believed he had lost. I
did not wish him to forget me—perhaps he might not have done so,
without these aids to his memory—but my way was easier than his, and
I could have reconciled myself even to that so that he had been the
happier for it.
“And now, little woman,” said my guardian, whom I had never seen so
proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching my
appreciation of them, “now, last of all, for the name of this house.”
“What is it called, dear guardian?”
“My child,” said he, “come and see,”
He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and said,
pausing before we went out, “My dear child, don’t you guess the
name?”
“No!” said I.
We went out of the porch and he showed me written over it, Bleak
House.
He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting down
beside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, “My darling
girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been really
solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which
you brought the answer,” smiling as he referred to it, “I had my own
too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under different
circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes
dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one day, I
need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my letter, and you
brought your answer. You are following what I say, my child?”
I was cold, and I trembled violently, but not a word he uttered was
lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun’s rays descended,
softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, I felt as if
the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels.
“Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now. When
it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would really
make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I soon had no
doubt at all.”
I clasped him round the neck and hung my head upon his breast and
wept. “Lie lightly, confidently here, my child,” said he, pressing me
gently to him. “I am your guardian and your father now. Rest
confidently here.”
Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially,
like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like the
sunshine, he went on.
“Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being contented
and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw with
whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret when Dame
Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good that could
never change in her better far than she did. Well! I have long been
in Allan Woodcourt’s confidence, although he was not, until
yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine. But I would not
have my Esther’s bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my
dear girl’s virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her
admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for
the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales!”
He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept afresh.
For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his praise.
“Hush, little woman! Don’t cry; this is to be a day of joy. I have
looked forward to it,” he said exultingly, “for months on months! A
few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say. Determined not to
throw away one atom of my Esther’s worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into
a separate confidence. ‘Now, madam,’ said I, ‘I clearly perceive—and
indeed I know, to boot—that your son loves my ward. I am further
very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to
a sense of duty and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely,
so entirely, so religiously, that you should never suspect it though
you watched her night and day.’ Then I told her all our
story—ours—yours and mine. ‘Now, madam,’ said I, ‘come you, knowing
this, and live with us. Come you, and see my child from hour to hour;
set what you see against her pedigree, which is this, and this’—for
I scorned to mince it—‘and tell me what is the true legitimacy when
you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.’ Why, honour
to her old Welsh blood, my dear,” cried my guardian with enthusiasm,
“I believe the heart it animates beats no less warmly, no less
admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!”
He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in his
old fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on the
protecting manner I had thought about!
“One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he
spoke with my knowledge and consent—but I gave him no encouragement,
not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too
miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me all
that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Allan
Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead—stood beside
your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its
little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my
life!”
He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My
husband—I have called him by that name full seven happy years
now—stood at my side.
“Allan,” said my guardian, “take from me a willing gift, the best
wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I know
you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you. You
know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has made its
namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do I
sacrifice? Nothing, nothing.”
He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he
said more softly, “Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is
a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you
some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old
place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. Allan, take
my dear.”
He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in
the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, “I
shall be found about here somewhere. It’s a west wind, little woman,
due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to
my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I’ll run
away and never come back!”
What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope,
what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the month
was out, but when we were to come and take possession of our own
house was to depend on Richard and Ada.
We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in
town, Allan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyful news
to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to her for a few
minutes before lying down to sleep, but I went home with my guardian
first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his
side, for I did not like to think of its being empty so soon.
When we came home we found that a young man had called three times in
the course of that one day to see me and that having been told on the
occasion of his third call that I was not expected to return before
ten o’clock at night, he had left word that he would call about then.
He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.
As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as I
always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell out
that in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my guardian of his old
proposal and his subsequent retraction. “After that,” said my
guardian, “we will certainly receive this hero.” So instructions were
given that Mr. Guppy should be shown in when he came again, and they
were scarcely given when he did come again.
He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but recovered
himself and said, “How de do, sir?”
“How do you do, sir?” returned my guardian.
“Thank you, sir, I am tolerable,” returned Mr. Guppy. “Will you allow
me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old Street Road, and my
particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friend has gone by
the name of Weevle, but his name is really and truly Jobling.”
My guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.
“Tony,” said Mr. Guppy to his friend after an awkward silence. “Will
you open the case?”
“Do it yourself,” returned the friend rather tartly.
“Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir,” Mr. Guppy, after a moment’s consideration,
began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she displayed by
nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking at me in a most
remarkable manner, “I had an idea that I should see Miss Summerson by
herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence. But
Miss Summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has
passed between us on former occasions?”
“Miss Summerson,” returned my guardian, smiling, “has made a
communication to that effect to me.”
“That,” said Mr. Guppy, “makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out
of my articles at Kenge and Carboy’s, and I believe with satisfaction
to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination
that’s enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that
he don’t want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my
certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guppy,” returned my guardian. “I am quite willing—I
believe I use a legal phrase—to admit the certificate.”
Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his pocket
and proceeded without it.
“I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which
takes the form of an annuity”—here Mr. Guppy’s mother rolled her
head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and
put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me—“and a few
pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never
be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know,” said
Mr. Guppy feelingly.
“Certainly an advantage,” returned my guardian.
“I HAVE some connexion,” pursued Mr. Guppy, “and it lays in the
direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a ’ouse