Bleak House. Charles Dickens

'there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change should never wither it. The base word money should never be breathed near it!'

      Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been really a child; and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment, glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, but had a benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) saw again: which has long been engraven on my heart. The room in which they were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood beside her, bending down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motionless objects. Ada touched the notes so softly, and sang so low, that the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music. The mystery of the future, and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present, seemed expressed in the whole picture.

      But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I recall the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast in respect of meaning and intention, between the silent look directed that way, and the flow of words that had preceded it. Secondly, though Mr. Jarndyce's glance, as he withdrew it, rested for but a moment on me, I felt as if, in that moment, he confided to me – and knew that he confided to me, and that I received the confidence – his hope that Ada and Richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship.

      Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello; and he was a composer – had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it – and played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quite a little concert, in which Richard– who was enthralled by Ada's singing, and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were written – and Mr. Jarndyce, and I, were the audience. After a little while I missed, first Mr. Skimpole, and afterwards Richard; and while I was thinking how could Richard stay away so long, and lose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, ' If you please, miss, could you spare a minute?'

      When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her hands, 'Oh if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come up-stairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss!'

      'Took?' said I.

      'Took, miss. Sudden,' said the maid.

      I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind; but of course, I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one; and collected myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove to be a fit. She threw open a door, and I went into a chamber; where, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon the bed, or prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa, in a white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, which he was wiping smoother, and making less of, with a pocket-handkerchief.

      'Miss Summerson,' said Richard, hurriedly, 'I am glad you are come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend, Mr. Skimpole – don't be alarmed! – is arrested for debt.'

      'And, really, my dear Miss Summerson,' said Mr. Skimpole, with his agreeable candour, 'I never was in a situation, in which that excellent sense, and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed.'

      The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, gave such a very loud snort, that he startled me.

      'Are you arrested for much, sir?' I inquired of Mr. Skimpole.

      'My dear Miss Summerson,' said he, shaking his head pleasantly, 'I don't know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and half-pence, I think, were mentioned.'

      'It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and seven-pence ha'penny,' observed the stranger. 'That's wot it is.'

      'And it sounds – somehow it sounds,' said Mr. Skimpole, 'like a small sum?'

      The strange man said nothing, but made another snort. It was such a powerful one, that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.

      'Mr. Skimpole,' said Richard to me, 'has a delicacy in applying to my cousin Jarndyce, because he has lately – I think, sir, I understood you that you had lately—'

      'Oh, yes!' returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. 'Though I forgot how much it was, and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again; but I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty in help; that I would rather,' and he looked at Richard and me, 'develop generosity in a new soil, and in a new form of flower.'

      'What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?' said Richard, aside.

      I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would happen if the money were not produced.

      'Jail,' said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. 'Or Coavinses.'

      'May I ask, sir, what is—'

      'Coavinses?' said the strange man. 'A 'ouse.'

      Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular thing that the arrest was our embarrassment, and not Mr. Skimpole's. He observed us with a genial interest; but there seemed, if I may venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He had entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours.

      'I thought,' he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, 'that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don't know what the business name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their power that would settle this?'

      'Not a bit on it,' said the strange man.

      'Really?' returned Mr. Skimpole. 'That seems odd, now, to one who is no judge of these things!'

      'Odd or even,' said the stranger, gruffly, 'I tell you, not a bit on it!'

      'Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!' Mr. Skimpole gently reasoned with him, as he made a little drawing of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. 'Don't be ruffled by your occupation. We can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious.'

      The stranger only answered with another violent snort; whether in acceptance of the poetry-tribute, or in disdainful rejection of it, he did not express to me.

      'Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard,' said Mr. Skimpole, gaily, innocently, and confidingly, as he looked at his drawing with his head on one side; 'here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!'

      'My dear Miss Summerson,' said Richard, in a whisper, 'I have ten pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that will do.'

      I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved from my quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thought that some accident might happen which would throw me, suddenly, without any relation, or any property, on the world; and had always tried to keep some little money by me, that I might not be quite penniless. I told Richard of my having this little store, and having no present need of it; and I asked him delicately to inform Mr. Skimpole, while I should be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his debt.

      When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand, and seemed quite touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours; as if personal considerations were impossible with him, and the contemplation of our happiness alone affected him. Richard, begging me, for the greater grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with Goavinses (as Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called him), I counted out