If the secret I had to keep had been mine, I must have confided itto Ada before we had been long together. But it was not mine, andI did not feel that I had a right to tell it, even to my guardian,unless some great emergency arose. It was a weight to bear alone;still my present duty appeared to be plain, and blest in theattachment of my dear, I did not want an impulse and encouragementto do it. Though often when she was asleep and all was quiet, theremembrance of my mother kept me waking and made the nightsorrowful, I did not yield to it at another time; and Ada found mewhat I used to be--except, of course, in that particular of which Ihave said enough and which I have no intention of mentioning anymore just now, if I can help it.

　　The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that firstevening when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at thehouse, and when I was obliged to answer yes, I believed so, forLady Dedlock had spoken to me in the woods the day beforeyesterday, was great. Greater still when Ada asked me what she hadsaid, and when I replied that she had been kind and interested, andwhen Ada, while admitting her beauty and elegance, remarked uponher proud manner and her imperious chilling air. But Charleyhelped me through, unconsciously, by telling us that Lady Dedlockhad only stayed at the house two nights on her way from London tovisit at some other great house in the next county and that she hadleft early on the morning after we had seen her at our view, as wecalled it. Charley verified the adage about little pitchers, I amsure, for she heard of more sayings and doings in a day than wouldhave come to my ears in a month.

　　We were to stay a month at Mr. Boythorn's. My pet had scarcelybeen there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when one eveningafter we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers,and just as the candles were lighted, Charley, appearing with avery important air behind Ada's chair, beckoned me mysteriously outof the room.

　　"Oh! If you please, miss," said Charley in a whisper, with her eyesat their roundest and largest. "You're wanted at the DedlockArms.""Why, Charley," said I, "who can possibly want me at the public-house?""I don't know, miss," returned Charley, putting her head forwardand folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron,which she always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious orconfidential, "but it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, andwill you please to come without saying anything about it.""Whose compliments, Charley?""His'n, miss," returned Charley, whose grammatical education wasadvancing, but not very rapidly.

　　"And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?""I am not the messenger, if you please, miss," returned my littlemaid. "It was W. Grubble, miss.""And who is W. Grubble, Charley?""Mister Grubble, miss," returned Charley. "Don't you know, miss?

　　The Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble," which Charley delivered as if shewere slowly spelling out the sign.

　　"Aye? The landlord, Charley?""Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman,but she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And her brother'sthe sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he'lldrink himself to death entirely on beer," said Charley.

　　Not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily apprehensivenow, I thought it best to go to this place by myself. I badeCharley be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawl, and havingput them on, went away down the little hilly street, where I was asmuch at home as in Mr. Boythorn's garden.

　　Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of hisvery clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his hatwith both hands when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if itwere an iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along thesanded passage to his best parlour, a neat carpeted room with moreplants in it than were quite convenient, a coloured print of QueenCaroline, several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuffed anddried fish in glass cases, and either a curious egg or a curiouspumpkin (but I don't know which, and I doubt if many people did)hanging from his ceiling. I knew Mr. Grubble very well by sight,from his often standing at his door. A pleasant-looking, stoutish,middle-aged man who never seemed to consider himself cozily dressedfor his own fire-side without his hat and top-boots, but who neverwore a coat except at church.

　　He snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how itlooked, backed out of the room--unexpectedly to me, for I was goingto ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the oppositeparlour being then opened, I heard some voices, familiar in my earsI thought, which stopped. A quick light step approached the roomin which I was, and who should stand before me but Richard!

　　"My dear Esther!" he said. "My best friend!" And he really was sowarm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure ofhis brotherly greeting I could scarcely find breath to tell himthat Ada was well.

　　"Answering my very thoughts--always the same dear girl!" saidRichard, leading me to a chair and seating himself beside me.

　　I put my veil up, but not quite.

　　"Always the same dear girl!" said Richard just as heartily asbefore.

　　I put up my veil altogether, and laying my hand on Richard's sleeveand looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him for hiskind welcome and how greatly I rejoiced to see him, the more sobecause of the determination I had made in my illness, which I nowconveyed to him.

　　"My love," said Richard, "there is no one with whom I have agreater wish to talk than you, for I want you to understand me.""And I want you, Richard," said I, shaking my head, "to understandsome one else.""Since you refer so immediately to John Jarndyce," said Richard, "--I suppose you mean him?""Of course I do.""Then I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is on thatsubject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind--you, mydear! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce or Mr. Anybody."I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it.

　　"Well, well, my dear," said Richard, "we won't go into that now. Iwant to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you undermy arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I suppose yourloyalty to John Jarndyce will allow that?""My dear Richard," I returned, "you know you would be heartilywelcome at his house--your home, if you will but consider it so;and you are as heartily welcome here!""Spoken like the best of little women!" cried Richard gaily.

　　I asked him how he liked his profession.

　　"Oh, I like it well enough!" said Richard. "It's all right. Itdoes as well as anything else, for a time. I don't know that Ishall care about it when I come to be settled, but I can sell outthen and--however, never mind all that botheration at present."So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly theopposite of Miss Flite! And yet, in the clouded, eager, seekinglook that passed over him, so dreadfully like her!

　　"I am in town on leave just now," said Richard.

　　"Indeed?""Yes. I have run over to look after my--my Chancery interestsbefore the long vacation," said Richard, forcing a careless laugh.

　　"We are beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, Ipromise you."No wonder that I shook my head!

　　"As you say, it's not a pleasant subject." Richard spoke with thesame shade crossing his face as before. "Let it go to the fourwinds for to-night. Puff! Gone! Who do you suppose is with me?""Was it Mr. Skimpole's voice I heard?""That's the man! He does me more good than anybody. What afascinating child it is!"I asked Richard if any one knew of their coming down together. Heanswered, no, nobody. He had been to call upon the dear oldinfant--so he called Mr. Skimpole--and the dear old infant had toldhim where we were, and he had told the dear old infant he was benton coming to see us, and the dear old infant had directly wanted tocome too; and so he had brought him. "And he is worth--not to sayhis sordid expenses--but thrice his weight in gold," said Richard.

　　"He is such a cheery fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh andgreen-hearted!"I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole's worldliness inhis having his expenses paid by Richard, but I made no remark aboutthat. Indeed, he came in and turned our conversation. He wascharmed to see me, said he had been shedding delicious tears of joyand sympathy at intervals for six weeks on my account, had neverbeen so happy as in hearing of my progress, began to understand themixture of good and evil in the world now, felt that he appreciatedhealth the more when somebody else was ill, didn't know but what itmight be in the scheme of things that A should squint to make Bhappier in looking straight or that C should carry a wooden leg tomake D better satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silkstocking.

　　"My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard," said Mr.

　　Skimpole, "full of the brightest visions of the future, which heevokes out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that's delightful,that's inspiriting, that's full of poetry! In old times the woodsand solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginarypiping and dancing of Pan and the nymphs. This present shepherd,our pastoral Richard, brightens the dull Inns of Court by makingFortune and her train sport through them to the melodious notes ofa judgment from the bench. That's very pleasant, you know! Someill-conditioned growling fellow may say to me, 'What's the use ofthese legal and equitable abuses? How do you defend them?' Ireply, 'My growling friend, I DON'T defend them, but they are veryagreeable to me. There is a shepherd--youth, a friend of mine, whotransmutes them into something highly fascinating to my simplicity.

　　I don't say it is for this that they exist--for I am a child amongyou worldly grumblers, and not called upon to account to you ormyself for anything--but it may be so.'"I began seriously to think that Richard could scarcely have found aworse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time whenhe most required some right principle and purpose he should havethis captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this airydispensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. I thoughtI could understand how such a nature as my guardian's, experiencedin the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions andcontentions of the family misfortune, found an immense relief inMr. Skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and display of guilelesscandour; but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless asit seemed or that it did not serve Mr. Skimpole's idle turn quiteas well as any other part, and with less trouble.

　　They both walked back with me, and Mr. Skimpole leaving us at thegate, I walked softly in with Richard and said, "Ada, my love, Ihave brought a gentleman to visit you." It was not difficult toread the blushing, startled face. She loved him dearly, and heknew it, and I knew it. It was a very transparent business, thatmeeting as cousins only.

　　I almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in mysuspicions, but I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly.

　　He admired her very much--any one must have done that--and I daresay would have renewed their youthful engagement with great prideand ardour but that he knew how she would respect her promise to myguardian. Still I had a tormenting idea that the influence uponhim extended even here, that he was postponing his best truth andearnestness in this as in all things until Jarndyce and Jarndyceshould be off his mind. Ah me! What Richard would have beenwithout that blight, I never shall know now!

　　He told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come tomake any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather tooimplicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Jarndyce, that hehad come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself forthe present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As the dearold infant would be with us directly, he begged that I would makean appointment for the morning, when he might set himself rightthrough the means of an unreserved conversation with me. Iproposed to walk with him in the park at seven o'clock, and thiswas arranged. Mr. Skimpole soon afterwards appeared and made usmerry for an hour. He particularly requested to see littleCoavinses (meaning Charley) and told her, with a patriarchal air,that he had given her late father all the business in his power andthat if one of her little brothers would make haste to get set upin the same profession, he hoped he should still be able to put agood deal of employment in his way.

　　"For I am constantly being taken in these nets," said Mr. Skimpole,looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-water, "and amconstantly being bailed out--like a boat. Or paid off--like aship's company. Somebody always does it for me. I can't do it,you know, for I never have any money. But somebody does it. I getout by somebody's means; I am not like the starling; I get out. Ifyou were to ask me who somebody is, upon my word I couldn't tellyou. Let us drink to somebody. God bless him!"Richard was a little late in the morning, but I had not to wait forhim long, and we turned into the park. The air was bright and dewyand the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delightfully; thesparkles in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite to see;the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty-foldsince yesterday, as if, in the still night when they had looked somassively hushed in sleep, Nature, through all the minute detailsof every wonderful leaf, had been more wakeful than usual for theglory of that day.

　　"This is a lovely place," said Richard, looking round. "None ofthe jar and discord of law-suits here!"But there was other trouble.

　　"I tell you what, my dear girl," said Richard, "when I get affairsin general settled, I shall come down here, I think, and rest.""Would it not be better to rest now?" I asked.

　　"Oh, as to resting NOW," said Richard, "or as to doing anythingvery definite NOW, that's not easy. In short, it can't be done; Ican't do it at least.""Why not?" said I.

　　"You know why not, Esther. If you were living in an unfinishedhouse, liable to have the roof put on or taken off--to be from topto bottom pulled down or built up--to-morrow, next day, next week,next month, next year--you would find it hard to rest or settle.

　　So do I. Now? There's no now for us suitors."I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poorlittle wandering friend had expatiated when I saw again thedarkened look of last night. Terrible to think it bad in it also ashade of that unfortunate man who had died.

　　"My dear Richard," said I, "this is a bad beginning of ourconversation.""I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden.""And not I alone, dear Richard. It was not I who cautioned youonce never to found a hope or expectation on the family curse.""There you come back to John Jarndyce!" said Richard impatiently.

　　"Well! We must approach him sooner or later, for he is the stapleof what I have to say, and it's as well at once. My dear Esther,how can you be so blind? Don't you see that he is an interestedparty and that it may be very well for him to wish me to knownothing of the suit, and care nothing about it, but that it may notbe quite so well for me?""Oh, Richard," I remonstrated, "is it possible that you can everhave seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under hisroof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in thissolitary place where there is no one to hear us, such unworthysuspicions?"He reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang ofreproach. He was silent for a little while before he replied in asubdued voice, "Esther, I am sure you know that I am not a meanfellow and that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust beingpoor qualities in one of my years.""I know it very well," said I. "I am not more sure of anything.""That's a dear girl," retorted Richard, "and like you, because itgives me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out ofall this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as I have nooccasion to tell you.""I know perfectly," said I. "I know as well, Richard--what shall Isay? as well as you do--that such misconstructions are foreign toyour nature. And I know, as well as you know, what so changes it.""Come, sister, come," said Richard a little more gaily, "you willbe fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to beunder that influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, itmay have a little twisted him too. I don't say that he is not anhonourable man, out of all this complication and uncertainty; I amsure he is. But it taints everybody. You know it taintseverybody. You have heard him say so fifty times. Then why shouldHE escape?""Because," said I, "his is an uncommon character, and he hasresolutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard.""Oh, because and because!" replied Richard in his vivacious way.

　　"I am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and speciousto preserve that outward indifference. It may cause other partiesinterested to become lax about their interests; and people may dieoff, and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many thingsmay smoothly happen that are convenient enough."I was so touched with pity for Richard that I could not reproachhim any more, even by a look. I remembered my guardian'sgentleness towards his errors and with what perfect freedom fromresentment he had spoken of them.

　　"Esther," Richard resumed, "you are not to suppose that I have comehere to make underhanded charges against John Jarndyce. I haveonly come to justify myself. What I say is, it was all very welland we got on very well while I was a boy, utterly regardless ofthis same suit; but as soon as I began to take an interest in itand to look into it, then it was quite another thing. Then JohnJarndyce discovers that Ada and I must break off and that if Idon't amend that very objectionable course, I am not fit for her.

　　Now, Esther, I don't mean to amend that very objectionable course:

　　I will not hold John Jarndyce's favour on those unfair terms ofcompromise, which he has no right to dictate. Whether it pleaseshim or displeases him, I must maintain my rights and Ada's. I havebeen thinking about it a good deal, and this is the conclusion Ihave come to."Poor dear Richard! He had indeed been thinking about it a gooddeal. His face, his voice, his manner, all showed that tooplainly.

　　"So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to himabout all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be atissue openly than covertly. I thank him for his goodwill and hisprotection, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact is, ourroads are not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, Ishould take much more than he. I don't mean to say that it is theone to be established, but there it is, and it has its chance.""I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard," said I, "of yourletter. I had heard of it already without an offended or angryword.""Indeed?" replied Richard, softening. "I am glad I said he was anhonourable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I always saythat and have never doubted it. Now, my dear Esther, I know theseviews of mine appear extremely harsh to you, and will to Ada whenyou tell her what has passed between us. But if you had gone intothe case as I have, if you had only applied yourself to the papersas I did when I was at Kenge's, if you only knew what anaccumulation of charges and counter-charges, and suspicions andcross-suspicions, they involve, you would think me moderate incomparison.""Perhaps so," said I. "But do you think that, among those manypapers, there is much truth and justice, Richard?""There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther--""Or was once, long ago," said I.

　　"Is--is--must be somewhere," pursued Richard impetuously, "and mustbe brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and hush-money ofis not the way to bring it out. You say the suit is changing me;John Jarndyce says it changes, has changed, and will changeeverybody who has any share in it. Then the greater right ............