By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when I must tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my being brought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to her house, even of Mr. Skimpole’s, however distantly associated with me, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, was so painful that I felt I could no longer guide myself without his assistance.
When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our usual talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again and sought my guardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hour, and as I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage from his reading-lamp.
“May I come in, guardian?”
“Surely, little woman. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiet time of saying a word to you about myself.”
He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned his kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that it wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before—on that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I could readily understand.
“What concerns you, my dear Esther,” said he, “concerns us all. You cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear.”
“I know that, guardian. But I have such need of your advice and support. Oh! You don’t know how much need I have tonight.”
He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a little alarmed.