Chapter LXI. A Discovery

by Charles Dickens

　　The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girlbrightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and Inever wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but inmy memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which willshine for ever.Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first Ifound Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playingthe piano and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besidesmy very much mistrusting the probability of his being there withoutmaking Richard poorer, I felt as if there were something in hiscareless gaiety too inconsistent with what I knew of the depths ofAda's life. I clearly perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings.I therefore resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a privatevisit to Mr. Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. Mydear girl was the great consideration that made me bold.I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. AsI approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for Ifelt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signallydefeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go throughwith it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole's door--literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone--and after a longparley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the areawhen I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker tolight the fire with.Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute alittle, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, heasked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would Ihave his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentimentdaughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfectnosegay?I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himselfonly 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 fascinatingsmile, of course it's not business. Then it's pleasure!"I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it wasnot 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 nota pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasantercreature, in every point of view, than I. You are perfectlypleasant; I am imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to anunpleasant matter, how much less should you! So that's disposedof, and we will talk of something else."Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I stillwished to pursue the subject."I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole with his airylaugh, "if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But Idon't!""Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, "I have so oftenheard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs oflife--""Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's thejunior partner? D?" said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. "Not an idea ofthem!""--That perhaps," I went on, "you will excuse my boldness on thataccount. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard ispoorer 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 delightedcountenance."This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as Ithink she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her byvisitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on hismind, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that--ifyou would--not--"I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me byboth hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest wayanticipated it."Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, mostassuredly not. Why should I go there? When I go anywhere, I gofor pleasure. I don't go anywhere for pain, because I was made forpleasure. Pain comes to me when it wants me. Now, I have had verylittle pleasure at our dear Richard's lately, and your practicalsagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthfulpoetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, 'Thisis a man who wants pounds.' So I am; I always want pounds; not formyself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. Next, ouryoung friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, 'This is the manwho had pounds, who borrowed them,' which I did. I always borrowpounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much tobe regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure tome. Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd!"Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasonedthus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolencequite astonishing."Besides," he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of light-hearted conviction, "if I don't go anywhere for pain--which wouldbe a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thingto do--why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I wentto see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state ofmind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would bedisagreeable. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds andwho can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course; nothing could bemore out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn'tgo near them--and I won't."He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothingbut Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this outfor him.I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main pointwere gained, it mattered little how strangely he pervertedeverything leading to it. I had determined to mention somethingelse, 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 Iconclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the bestauthority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poorboy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on thatoccasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear itwould hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was muchsurprised.""No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?" he returnedinquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows."Greatly surprised."He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable andwhimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in hismost engaging manner, "You know what a child I am. Why surprised?"I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as hebegged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him tounderstand in the gentlest words I could use that his conductseemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He wasmuch 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 belowme," said Mr. Skimpole. "I don't even know which; but as Iunderstand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (alwaysremarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts thiscase, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do youknow?"I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this."Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, "I amhopeless of understanding it."I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray myguardian's confidence for a bribe."My dear Miss Summerson," he returned with a candid hilarity thatwas 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 tomoney. I don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't wantit, I don't keep it--it goes away from me directly. How can I bebribed?"I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not thecapacity for arguing the question."On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am exactly the man to beplaced in a superior position in such a case as that. I am abovethe rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act withphilosophy 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. Ifeel myself as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife."Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playfulimpartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossedthe matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen inanybody else!"Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy receivedinto 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 Jackbuilt. Here is the man who demands the boy who is received intothe 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 isreceived into the house and put to bed in a state that I stronglyobject to. Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note producedby the man who demands the boy who is received into the house andput to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Those are thefacts. Very well. Should the Skimpole have refused the note? Whyshould the Skimpole have refused the note? Skimpole protests toBucket, 'What's this for? I don't understand it, it is of no useto 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 activepolice-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarlydirected energy and great subtlety both of conception andexecution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when theyrun away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avengesus comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officerand intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, astrong faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makesit very useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucketbecause I want it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one ofBucket's weapons; shall I positively paralyse Bucket in his nextdetective operation? And again. If it is blameable in Skimpole totake the note, it is blameable in Bucket to offer the note--muchmore blameable in Bucket, because he is the knowing man. Now,Skimpole wishes to think well of Bucket; Skimpole deems itessential, in its little place, to the general cohesion of things,that he should think well of Bucket. The state expressly asks himto trust to Bucket. And he does. And that's all he does!"I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and thereforetook my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellentspirits, would not hear of my returning home attended only by"Little Coavinses," and accompanied me himself. He entertained meon the way with a variety of delightful conversation and assuredme, at parting, that he should never forget the fine tact withwhich I had found that out for him about our young friends.As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may atonce finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose betweenhim and my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds andon his having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (aswe afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His beingheavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with theirseparation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diarybehind him, with letters and other materials towards his life,which was published and which showed him to have been the victim ofa combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. Itwas considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of itmyself than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening thebook. It was this: "Jarndyce, in common with most other men I haveknown, is the incarnation of selfishness."And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearlyindeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstanceoccurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revivedin my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived asbelonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like my infancyor my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses onthat subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory hasrecalled them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down tothe last words of these pages, which I see now not so very farbefore me.The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by thehopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in themiserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted thecourt day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long whenhe knew there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, andbecame one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether anyof the gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used toavow in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed thefresh air now "but for Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Woodcourt whocould occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a timeand rouse him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and bodythat alarmed us greatly, and the returns of which became morefrequent as the months went on. My dear girl was right in sayingthat he only pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake.I have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost wasrendered the more intense by his grief for his young wife, andbecame like the madness of a gamester.I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was thereat night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimesmy guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walkhome together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eighto'clock. I could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually atthe time, for I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitchesmore to do to finish what I was about; but it was within a fewminutes of the hour when I bundled up my little work-basket, gavemy 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, andMr. Woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was notthere. We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there wereno signs of him. We agreed that he was either prevented fromcoming or that he had come and gone away, and Mr. Woodcourtproposed to walk home with me.It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that veryshort one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard andAda the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he haddone--my appreciation of it had risen above all words then--but Ihoped he might not be without some understanding of what I felt sostrongly.Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian wasout and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very sameroom into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthfullover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her youngheart, the very same room from which my guardian and I had watchedthem going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of theirhope and promise.We were standing by the opened window looking down into the streetwhen Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that heloved me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was allunchanged to him. I learned in a moment that what I had thoughtwas pity and compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh,too late to know it now, too late, too late. That was the firstungrateful thought I had. Too late."When I returned," he told me, "when I came back, no richer thanwhen I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet soinspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from aselfish thought--""Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I do notdeserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at thattime, many!""Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is nota lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know what all aroundyou see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches andawakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins.""Oh, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "it is a great thing to win love, itis a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured byit; and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingledjoy and sorrow--joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have notdeserved it better; but I am not free to think of yours."I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus andwhen I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said wastrue, I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late forthat. Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night,I could be worthier of it all through my life. And it was acomfort to me, and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise upwithin 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 whowill evermore be as dear to me as now"--and the deep earnestnesswith 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 ideaof you which I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I camehome. I have always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed tostand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you this. I have alwaysfeared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears areboth fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have said enough."Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel hethought 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 heshowed that first commiseration for me."Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part to-night, somethingis left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish--I nevershall--but--"I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and hisaffliction before I could go on."--I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasureits remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed Iam, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I knowwhat a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have saidto me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for thereare none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not belost. It shall make me better."He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. Howcould I ever be worthy of those tears?"If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--intending Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life--you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think isbetter than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up fromto-night and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, deardear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or thatwhile my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy ofhaving been beloved by you."He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and Ifelt still more encouraged."I am induced by what you said just now," said I, "to hope that youhave succeeded in your endeavour.""I have," he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as youwho know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I havesucceeded.""Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand; "and heavenbless you in all you do!""I shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will make meenter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.""Ah! Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "What will he do whenyou are gone!""I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear MissSummerson, 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 takeif I reserved it."Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know from my lipsbefore I say good night that in the future, which is clear andbright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing toregret or desire."It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied."From my childhood I have been," said I, "the object of theuntiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am sobound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothingI could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of asingle day.""I share those feelings," he returned. "You speak of Mr.Jarndyce.""You know his virtues well," said I, "but few can know thegreatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and bestqualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than inthe shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if yourhighest homage and respect had not been his already--which I knowthey are--they would have been his, I think, on this assurance andin the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for mysake."He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. Igave him my hand again."Good night," I said, "Good-bye.""The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell tothis 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 suddenlyupon me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave wayagain and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had calledme the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dearto him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold thetriumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought haddied away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not toolate to be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, andcontented. How easy my path, how much easier than his!