CHAPTER III
 
 

          A Progress
 

        I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion

        of these pages, for I know I am not clever.  I always knew that.  I

        can remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say

        to my doll when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am not

        clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a

        dear!"  And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair,

        with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not

        so much at me, I think, as at nothing--while I busily stitched away

        and told her every one of my secrets.
 
 

        My dear old doll!  I was such a shy little thing that I seldom

        dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody

        else.  It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be

        to me when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my

        room and say, "Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be

        expecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the

        elbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we

        parted.  I had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh,

        no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking I

        should like to understand it better.  I have not by any means a

        quick understanding.  When I love a person very tenderly indeed, it

        seems to brighten.  But even that may be my vanity.
 
 

        I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of the

        princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming--by my

        godmother.  At least, I only knew her as such.  She was a good,

        good woman!  She went to church three times every Sunday, and to

        morning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever

        there were lectures; and never missed.  She was handsome; and if

        she had ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an

        angel--but she never smiled.  She was always grave and strict.  She

        was so very good herself, I thought, that the badness of other

        people made her frown all her life.  I felt so different from her,

        even making every allowance for the differences between a child and

        a woman; I felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off that I never

        could be unrestrained with her--no, could never even love her as I

        wished.  It made me very sorry to consider how good she was and how

        unworthy of her I was, and I used ardently to hope that I might

        have a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the dear

        old doll, but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have loved

        her and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a better

        girl.
 
 

        This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally

        was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at

        ease.  But something happened when I was still quite a little thing

        that helped it very much.
 
 

        I had never heard my mama spoken of.  I had never heard of my papa

        either, but I felt more interested about my mama.  I had never worn

        a black frock, that I could recollect.  I had never been shown my

        mama's grave.  I had never been told where it was.  Yet I had never

        been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother.  I had more

        than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael,

        our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another

        very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said,

        "Esther, good night!" and gone away and left me.
 
 

        Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I

        was a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther

        Summerson, I knew none of them at home.  All of them were older

        than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but

        there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that,

        and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much

        more than I did.  One of them in the first week of my going to the

        school (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party,

        to my great joy.  But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining

        for me, and I never went.  I never went out at all.
 
 

        It was my birthday.  There were holidays at school on other

        birthdays--none on mine.  There were rejoicings at home on other

        birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one

        another--there were none on mine.  My birthday was the most

        melancholy day at home in the whole year.
 
 

        I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know

        it may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeed

        I don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is.  My

        disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel

        such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with

        the quickness of that birthday.
 
 

        Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table

        before the fire.  The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another

        sound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't know

        how long.  I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across

        the table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily

        at me, "It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had

        had no birthday, that you had never been born!"
 
 

        I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, "Oh, dear godmother,

        tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?"
 
 

        "No," she returned.  "Ask me no more, child!"
 
 

        "Oh, do pray tell me something of her.  Do now, at last, dear

        godmother, if you please!  What did I do to her?  How did I lose

        her?  Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my

        fault, dear godmother?  No, no, no, don't go away.  Oh, speak to

        me!"
 
 

        I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of her

        dress and was kneeling to her.  She had been saying all the while,

        "Let me go!"  But now she stood still.
 
 

        Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the

        midst of my vehemence.  I put up my trembling little hand to clasp

        hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but

        withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering

        heart.  She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before

        her, said slowly in a cold, low voice--I see her knitted brow and

        pointed finger--"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you

        were hers.  The time will come--and soon enough--when you will

        understand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman

        can.  I have forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrong

        she did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater than

        you will ever know--than any one will ever know but I, the

        sufferer.  For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded

        from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the

        sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is

        written.  Forget your mother and leave all other people to forget

        her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness.  Now,

        go!"
 
 

        She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her--so

        frozen as I was!--and added this, "Submission, self-denial,

        diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a

        shadow on it.  You are different from other children, Esther,

        because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and

        wrath.  You are set apart."
 
 

        I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek

        against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon

        my bosom, cried myself to sleep.  Imperfect as my understanding of

        my sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to

        anybody's heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was

        to me.
 
 

        Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together

        afterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my

        birthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I

        could to repair the fault I had been born with (of which I

        confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as I

        grew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to do

        some good to some one, and win some love to myself if I could.  I

        hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it.

        I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help

        their coming to my eyes.
 
 

        There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.
 
 

        I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more

        after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her

        house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more

        difficult of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my

        heart, than ever.  I felt in the same way towards my school

        companions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was a

        widow; and oh, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, who

        came to see her once a fortnight!  I was very retired and quiet,

        and tried to be very diligent.
 
 

        One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my books

        and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was

        gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of

        the parlour-door and called me back.  Sitting with her, I found--

        which was very unusual indeed--a stranger.  A portly, important-

        looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large

        gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring

        upon his little finger.
 
 

        "This," said my godmother in an undertone, "is the child."  Then

        she said in her naturally stern way of speaking, "This is Esther,

        sir."
 
 

        The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, "Come

        here, my dear!"  He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my

        bonnet, looking at me all the while.  When I had complied, he said,

        "Ah!" and afterwards "Yes!"  And then, taking off his eye-glasses

        and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,

        turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a

        nod.  Upon that, my godmother said, "You may go upstairs, Esther!"

        And I made him my curtsy and left him.
 
 

        It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,

        when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside.  I

        was reading aloud, and she was listening.  I had come down at nine

        o'clock as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was reading

        from St. John how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger

        in the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.
 
 

        "'So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said

        unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a

        stone at her!'"
 
 

        I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her

        head, and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of

        the book, "'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you

        sleeping.  And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'"
 
 

        In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she

        fell down on the floor.  I had no need to cry out; her voice had

        sounded through the house and been heard in the street.
 
 

        She was laid upon her bed.  For more than a week she lay there,

        little altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that

        I so well knew carved upon her face.  Many and many a time, in the

        day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my

        whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed

        for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her

        to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me.  No, no, no.

        Her face was immovable.  To the very last, and even afterwards, her

        frown remained unsoftened.
 
 

        On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman

        in black with the white neckcloth reappeared.  I was sent for by

        Mrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never

        gone away.
 
 

        "My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kenge

        and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."
 
 

        I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.
 
 

        "Pray be seated--here near me.  Don't distress yourself; it's of no

        use.  Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted with

        the late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her and

        that this young lady, now her aunt is dead--"
 
 

        "My aunt, sir!"
 
 

        "It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is

        to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge smoothly, "Aunt in fact, though

        not in law.  Don't distress yourself!  Don't weep!  Don't tremble!

        Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a--

        Jarndyce and Jarndyce."
 
 

        "Never," said Mrs. Rachael.
 
 

        "Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses,

        "that our young friend--I BEG you won't distress yourself!--never

        heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!"
 
 

        I shook my head, wondering even what it was.
 
 

        "Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking over his

        glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he

        were petting something.  "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits

        known?  Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument

        of Chancery practice.  In which (I would say) every difficulty,

        every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure

        known in that court, is represented over and over again?  It is a

        cause that could not exist out of this free and great country.  I

        should say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce,

        Mrs. Rachael"--I was afraid he addressed himself to her because I

        appeared inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty

        to SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his

        chair.
 
 

        I felt very ignorant, but what could I do?  I was so entirely

        unacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it

        even then.
 
 

        "And she really never heard of the cause!" said Mr. Kenge.

        "Surprising!"
 
 

        "Miss Barbary, sir," returned Mrs. Rachael, "who is now among the

        Seraphim--"
 
 

        "I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge politely.
 
 

        "--Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her.

        And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more."
 
 

        "Well!" said Mr. Kenge.  "Upon the whole, very proper.  Now to the

        point," addressing me.  "Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact

        that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being

        deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs.

        Rachael--"
 
 

        "Oh, dear no!" said Mrs. Rachael quickly.
 
 

        "Quite so," assented Mr. Kenge; "--that Mrs. Rachael should charge

        herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress

        yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer

        which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago

        and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable

        under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred.  Now,

        if I avow that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise,

        a highly humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall I

        compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" said

        Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at us

        both.
 
 

        He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice.

        I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave

        great importance to every word he uttered.  He listened to himself

        with obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own

        music with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand.  I was

        very much impressed by him--even then, before I knew that he formed

        himself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that he

        was generally called Conversation Kenge.

        "Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--I would say,

        desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a

        first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,

        where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants

        shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to

        discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has

        pleased--shall I say Providence?--to call her."
 
 

        My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his

        affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though

        I tried.
 
 

        "Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition beyond expressing

        his expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove

        herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge

        and concurrence.  That she will faithfully apply herself to the

        acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which

        she will be ultimately dependent.  That she will tread in the paths

        of virtue and honour, and--the--a--so forth."
 
 

        I was still less able to speak than before.
 
 

        "Now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded Mr, Kenge.  "Take

        time, take time!  I pause for her reply.  But take time!"
 
 

        What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need

        not repeat.  What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were

        worth the telling.  What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour,

        I could never relate.
 
 

        This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as

        I knew) my whole life.  On that day week, amply provided with all

        necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.
 
 

        Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was

        not so good, and wept bitterly.  I thought that I ought to have

        known her better after so many years and ought to have made myself

        enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then.  When she

        gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop

        from the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--I felt so miserable

        and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my

        fault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!
 
 

        "No, Esther!" she returned.  "It is your misfortune!"
 
 

        The coach was at the little lawn-gate--we had not come out until we

        heard the wheels--and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart.  She

        went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the

        door.  As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from

        the window through my tears.  My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael

        all the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale;

        and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me

        the first thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside

        in the frost and snow.  A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear

        old doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her--I am half ashamed

        to tell it--in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old

        window.  I had no companion left but my bird, and him I carried

        with me in his cage.
 
 

        When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the

        straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high

        window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces

        of spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night's

        snow, and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice,

        dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow

        away.  There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite

        seat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat

        gazing out of the other window and took no notice of me.
 
 

        I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, of

        her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange

        place I was going to, of the people I should find there, and what

        they would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in

        the coach gave me a terrible start.
 
 

        It said, "What the de-vil are you crying for?"
 
 

        I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a

        whisper, "Me, sir?"  For of course I knew it must have been the

        gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking

        out of his window.
 
 

        "Yes, you," he said, turning round.
 
 

        "I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered.
 
 

        "But you are!" said the gentleman.  "Look here!"  He came quite

        opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of

        his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and

        showed me that it was wet.
 
 

        "There!  Now you know you are," he said.  "Don't you?"
 
 

        "Yes, sir," I said.
 
 

        "And what are you crying for?" said the genfleman, "Don't you want

        to go there?"
 
 

        "Where, sir?"
 
 

        "Where?  Why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman.
 
 

        "I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered.
 
 

        "Well, then!  Look glad!" said the gentleman.
 
 

        I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of

        him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his

        face was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the

        side of his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again,

        and not afraid of him.  So I told him that I thought I must have

        been crying because of my godmother's death and because of Mrs.

        Rachael's not being sorry to part with me.
 
 

        "Confound Mrs. Rachael!" said the gentleman.  "Let her fly away in

        a high wind on a broomstick!"
 
 

        I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the

        greatest astonishment.  But I thought that he had pleasant eyes,

        although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and

        calling Mrs. Rachael names.

        After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to

        me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down

        into a deep pocket in the side.

        "Now, look here!" he said.  "In this paper," which was nicely

        folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for

        money--sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton

        chops.  Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and

        quality), made in France.  And what do you suppose it's made of?

        Livers of fat geese.  There's a pie!  Now let's see you eat 'em."
 
 

        "Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much indeed, but I

        hope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me."
 
 

        "Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all

        understand, and threw them both out of window.

        He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a

        little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl

        and to be studious, and shook hands with me.  I must say I was

        relieved by his departure.  We left him at a milestone.  I often

        walked past it afterwards, and never for a long time without

        thinking of him and half expecting to meet him.  But I never did;

        and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind.

        When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window

        and said, "Miss Donny."

        "No, ma'am, Esther Summerson."
 
 

        "That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny."
 
 

        I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and

        begged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes

        at her request.  Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were

        put outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the

        maid, and I got inside and were driven away.
 
 

        "Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny, "and the

        scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with

        the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce."
 
 

        "Of--did you say, ma'am?"
 
 

        "Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny.
 
 

        I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too

        severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.
 
 

        "Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked after a

        good deal of hesitation.
 
 

        "Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely through his

        solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London.  A very superior

        gentleman, Mr. Kenge.  Truly eloquent indeed.  Some of his periods

        quite majestic!"
 
 

        I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it.

        Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover

        myself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget the

        uncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss

        Donny's house) that afternoon!
 
 

        But I soon became used to it.  I was so adapted to the routine of

        Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great

        while and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old

        life at my godmother's.  Nothing could be more precise, exact, and

        orderly than Greenleaf.  There was a time for everything all round

        the dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointed

        moment.
 
 

        We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins.  It

        was understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on my

        qualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed in

        everything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged

        in helping to instruct others.  Although I was treated in every

        other respect like the rest of the school, this single difference

        was made in my case from the first.  As I began to know more, I

        taught more, and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which I

        was very fond of doing because it made the dear girls fond of me.

        At last, whenever a new pupil came who was a little downcast and

        unhappy, she was so sure--indeed I don't know why--to make a friend

        of me that all new-comers were confided to my care.  They said I

        was so gentle, but I am sure THEY were!  I often thought of the

        resolution I had made on my birthday to try to be industrious,

        contented, and true-hearted and to do some good to some one and win

        some love if I could; and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed to

        have done so little and have won so much.
 
 

        I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years.  I never saw in any

        face there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been

        better if I had never been born.  When the day came round, it

        brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room

        was beautiful with them from New Year's Day to Christmas.
 
 

        In those six years I had never been away except on visits at

        holiday time in the neighbourhood.  After the first six months or

        so I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety of

        writing to Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and grateful, and with

        her approval I had written such a letter.  I had received a formal

        answer acknowledging its receipt and saying, "We note the contents

        thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client."  After

        that I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how

        regular my accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured to

        write a similar letter.  I always received by return of post

        exactly the same answer in the same round hand, with the signature

        of Kenge and Carboy in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr.

        Kenge's.
 
 

        It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about

        myself!  As if this narrative were the narrative of MY life!  But

        my little body will soon fall into the background now.
 
 

        Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had

        passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a

        looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,

        one November morning, I received this letter.  I omit the date.
 
 
 
 

        Old Square, Lincoln's Inn
 
 

        Madam,
 
 

        Jarndyce and Jarndyce
 
 

        Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an

        Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this cause, for whom he

        wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he

        will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity.
 
 

        We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eight

        o'clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next, to White Horse

        Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of our clks will be in

        waiting to convey you to our offe as above.
 
 

        We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,
 
 

        Kenge and Carboy
 
 

        Miss Esther Summerson
 
 
 
 

        Oh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter

        caused in the house!  It was so tender in them to care so much for

        me, it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to

        have made my orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so

        many youthful natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it.  Not

        that I would have had them less sorry--I am afraid not; but the

        pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it,

        and the humble regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed

        almost breaking while it was full of rapture.
 
 

        The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal.  When

        every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were

        given me in those five days, and when at last the morning came and

        when they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for

        the last time, and when some cried, "Esther, dear, say good-bye to

        me here at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and

        when others asked me only to write their names, "With Esther's

        love," and when they all surrounded me with their parting presents

        and clung to me weeping and cried, "What shall we do when dear,

        dear Esther's gone!" and when I tried to tell them how forbearing

        and how good they had all been to me and how I blessed and thanked

        them every one, what a heart I had!
 
 

        And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the

        least among them, and when the maids said, "Bless you, miss,

        wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I

        thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting

        after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums and told

        me I had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!--

        what a heart I had then!
 
 

        And could I help it if with all this, and the coming to the little

        school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside

        waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentleman

        and lady whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I

        had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all that

        country), caring for nothing but calling out, "Good-bye, Esther.

        May you be very happy!"--could I help it if I was quite bowed down

        in the coach by myself and said "Oh, I am so thankful, I am so

        thankful!" many times over!
 
 

        But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I

        was going after all that had been done for me.  Therefore, of

        course, I made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by

        saying very often, "Esther, now you really must!  This WILL NOT

        do!" I cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid I

        was longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I had

        cooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for

        London.
 
 

        I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles

        off, and when we really were there, that we should never get there.

        However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and

        particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into

        us, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, I

        began to believe that we really were approaching the end of our

        journey.  Very soon afterwards we stopped.
 
 

        A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed me

        from the pavement and said, "I am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, of

        Lincoln's Inn."
 
 

        "If you please, sir," said I.
 

 
        He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly after

        superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether there

        was a great fire anywhere?  For the streets were so full of dense

        brown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen.
 
 

        "Oh, dear no, miss," he said.  "This is a London particular."
 
 

        I had never heard of such a thing.
 
 

        "A fog, miss," said the young gentleman.
 
 

        "Oh, indeed!" said I.
 
 

        We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever

        were seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting state

        of confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses,

        until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove

        on through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a

        corner, where there was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of

        stairs, like an entrance to a church.  And there really was a

        churchyard outside under some cloisters, for I saw the gravestones

        from the staircase window.
 
 

        This was Kenge and Carboy's.  The young gentleman showed me through

        an outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--and

        politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire.  He then called my

        attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side

        of the chimney-piece.
 
 

        "In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the

        journey, as you're going before the Chancellor.  Not that it's

        requisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly.
 
 

        "Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for a moment.
 
 

        "Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman.  "Mr.

        Kenge is in court now.  He left his compliments, and would you

        partake of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter of

        wine on a small table--"and look over the paper," which the young

        gentleman gave me as he spoke.  He then stirred the fire and left

        me.
 
 

        Everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in the

        day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw

        and cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing

        what they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly.
 
        As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down,

        took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and

        looked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby,

        dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full

        of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to

        say for themselves.  Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking;

        and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles

        went on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until

        the young gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for two

        hours.
 
 

        At last Mr. Kenge came.  HE was not altered, but he was surprised

        to see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased.  "As you are

        going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the

        Chancellor's private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought it

        well that you should be in attendance also.  You will not be

        discomposed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?"
 
 

        "No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall," really not seeing on

        consideration why I should be.
 
 

        So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under a

        colonnade, and in at a side door.  And so we came, along a passage,

        into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young

        gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire.  A screen

        was interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the

        screen, talking.
 
 

        They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady,

        with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl!  With such

        rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent,

        trusting face!
 
 

        "Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson."
 
 

        She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended,

        but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me.  In short,

        she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in a few

        minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the

        fire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.
 
 

        What a load off my mind!  It was so delightful to know that she

        could confide in me and like me!  It was so good of her, and so

        encouraging to me!
 
 

        The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his

        name Richard Carstone.  He was a handsome youth with an ingenuous

        face and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to

        where we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talking

        gaily, like a light-hearted boy.  He was very young, not more than

        nineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older than

        she was.  They were both orphans and (what was very unexpected and

        curious to me) had never met before that day.  Our all three coming

        together for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing to

        talk about, and we talked about it; and the fire, which had left

        off roaring, winked its red eyes at us--as Richard said--like a

        drowsy old Chancery lion.
 
 

        We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a

        bag wig frequenfly came in and out, and when he did so, we could

        hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the

        counsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor.  He told Mr.

        Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and

        presently we heard a bustle and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge said

        that the Court had risen and his lordship was in the next room.
 
 

        The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly and

        requested Mr. Kenge to come in.  Upon that, we all went into the

        next room, Mr. Kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to me

        now that I can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in

        black and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his

        lordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown

        upon another chair.  He gave us a searching look as we entered, but

        his manner was both courtly and kind.
 
 

        The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his

        lordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one and turned

        over the leaves.
 
 

        "Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor.  "Miss Ada Clare?"
 
 

        Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down

        near him.  That he admired her and was interested by her even I

        could see in a moment.  It touched me that the home of such a

        beautiful young creature should be represented by that dry,

        official place.  The Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so

        poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents.
 
 

        "The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still turning

        over leaves, "is Jarndyce of Bleak House."
 
 

        "Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.
 
 

        "A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor.
 
 

        "But not a dreary place at present, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.
 
 

        "And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in--"
 
 

        "Hertfordshire, my lord."
 
 

        "Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" said his lordship.
 
 

        "He is not, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.
 
 

        A pause.
 
 

        "Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chancellor,

        glancing towards him.
 
 

        Richard bowed and stepped forward.
 
 

        "Hum!" said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.
 
 

        "Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed in a low

        voice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a

        suitable companion for--"
 
 

        "For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I am not quite sure) I

        heard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.
 
 

        "For Miss Ada Clare.  This is the young lady.  Miss Summerson."
 
 

        His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsy

        very graciously.
 
 

        "Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?"
 
 

        "No, my lord."
 
 

        Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered.  His

        lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or

        thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again

        until we were going away.
 
 

        Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, near

        the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can't

        help it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lordship

        spoke a little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whether

        she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she

        thought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak

        House, and why she thought so?  Presently he rose courteously and

        released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with Richard

        Carstone, not seated, but standing, and altogether with more ease

        and less ceremony, as if he still knew, though he WAS Lord

        Chancellor, how to go straight to the candour of a boy.
 
 

        "Very well!" said his lordship aloud.  "I shall make the order.

        Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge," and

        this was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the young

        lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the

        circumstances admit."
 
 

        He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged

        to him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainly

        lost no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.
 
 

        When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that he must

        go back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, with

        the Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come

        out.
 
 

        "Well!" said Richard Carstone.  "THAT'S over!  And where do we go

        next, Miss Summerson?"
 
 

        "Don't you know?" I said.
 

 
        "Not in the least," said he.
 
 

        "And don't YOU know, my love?" I asked Ada.
 
 

        "No!" said she.  "Don't you?"
 
 

        "Not at all!" said I.
 
 

        We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the

        children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed
 
        bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us

        with an air of great ceremony.
 
 

        "Oh!" said she.  "The wards in Jarndyce!  Ve-ry happy, I am sure,

        to have the honour!  It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and

        beauty when they find themselves in this place, and don't know

        what's to come of it."
 
 

        "Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.
 
 

        "Right!  Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he was

        quite abashed.  "I was a ward myself.  I was not mad at that time,"

        curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence.  "I had

        youth and hope.  I believe, beauty.  It matters very little now.

        Neither of the three served or saved me.  I have the honour to

        attend court regularly.  With my documents.  I expect a judgment.

        Shortly.  On the Day of Judgment.  I have discovered that the sixth

        seal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal.  It has been

        open a long time!  Pray accept my blessing."
 
 

        As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor old

        lady, that we were much obliged to her.
 
 

        "Ye-es!" she said mincingly.  "I imagine so.  And here is

        Conversation Kenge.  With HIS documents!  How does your honourable

        worship do?"
 
 

        "Quite well, quite well!  Now don't be troublesome, that's a good

        soul!" said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.
 
 

        "By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me.

        "Anything but troublesome.  I shall confer estates on both--which

        is not being troublesome, I trust?  I expect a judgment.  Shortly.

        On the Day of Judgment.  This is a good omen for you.  Accept my

        blessing!"
 
 

        She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but

        we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying,

        still with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence,

        "Youth.  And hope.  And beauty.  And Chancery.  And Conversation

        Kenge!  Ha!  Pray accept my blessing!"