Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗

he said, tearing the letter he had written into fragments and

moodily casting them away, by driblets, “how could I have gone

abroad? I must have been ordered abroad, but how could I have

gone? How could I, with my experience of that thing, trust even

Vholes unless I was at his back!”

 

I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught

the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to

prevent me from going on.

 

“No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid—must forbid. The first

is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and

I tell you I can’t help it now, and can’t be sane. But it is no

such thing; it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I

ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It

would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and

pains I have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be

very agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will.”

 

He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his

determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I

took out Ada’s letter and put it in his hand.

 

“Am I to read it now?” he asked.

 

As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head

upon his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head

upon his two hands—to hide his face from me. In a little while he

rose as if the light were bad and went to the window. He finished

reading it there, with his back towards me, and after he had

finished and had folded it up, stood there for some minutes with

the letter in his hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw

tears in his eyes.

 

“Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?” He spoke in a

softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.

 

“Yes, Richard.”

 

“Offers me,” he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, “the

little inheritance she is certain of so soon—just as little and as

much as I have wasted—and begs and prays me to take it, set myself

right with it, and remain in the service.”

 

“I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart,” said I.

“And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada’s is a noble heart.”

 

“I am sure it is. I—I wish I was dead!”

 

He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned

his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so,

but I hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent.

My experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his

rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.

 

“And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not

otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from

me,” said he indignantly. “And the dear girl makes me this

generous offer from under the same John Jarndyce’s roof, and with

the same John Jarndyce’s gracious consent and connivance, I dare

say, as a new means of buying me off.”

 

“Richard!” I cried out, rising hastily. “I will not hear you say

such shameful words!” I was very angry with him indeed, for the

first time in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his

worn young face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on

his shoulder and said, “If you please, my dear Richard, do not

speak in such a tone to me. Consider!”

 

He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous

manner that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a

thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for

I was rather fluttered after being so fiery.

 

“To accept this offer, my dear Esther,” said he, sitting down

beside me and resuming our conversation, “—once more, pray, pray

forgive me; I am deeply grieved—to accept my dearest cousin’s

offer is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and

papers that I could show you which would convince you it is all

over here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it is

some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to

know that I am pressing Ada’s interests in pressing my own. Vholes

has his shoulder to the wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as

much for her as for me, thank God!”

 

His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his

features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been

before.

 

“No, no!” cried Richard exultingly. “If every farthing of Ada’s

little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in

retaining me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and

am weary of. It should be devoted to what promises a better

return, and should be used where she has a larger stake. Don’t be

uneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on my mind, and

Vholes and I will work it. I shall not be without means. Free of

my commission, I shall be able to compound with some small usurers

who will hear of nothing but their bond now—Vholes says so. I

should have a balance in my favour anyway, but that would swell it.

Come, come! You shall carry a letter to Ada from me, Esther, and

you must both of you be more hopeful of me and not believe that I

am quite cast away just yet, my dear.”

 

I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome,

and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It

only came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but

I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present

hopeless to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had

experienced in this very interview, the sense of my guardian’s

remark that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with him

than to leave him as he was.

 

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind

convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said,

and that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without

hesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that his

retirement was arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr.

Vholes had copies of these papers and had been in consultation with

him throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the

bearer of Ada’s letter, and being (as I was going to be) Richard’s

companion back to London, I had done no good by coming down.

Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, I said I would

return to the hotel and wait until he joined me there, so he threw

a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gate, and Charley and

I went back along the beach.

 

There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval

officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with

unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great

Indiaman’s boats now, and we stopped to look.

 

The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing

about them as if they were glad to be in England again. “Charley,

Charley,” said I, “come away!” And I hurried on so swiftly that my

little maid was surprised.

 

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had

time to take breath that I began to think why I had made such

haste. In one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan

Woodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been

unwilling that he should see my altered looks. I had been taken by

surprise, and my courage had quite failed me.

 

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, “My dear,

there is no reason—there is and there can be no reason at all—why

it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you

were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no

better. This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it

up!” I was in a great tremble—with running—and at first was

quite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I was very glad

to know it.

 

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the

staircase. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew

their voices again—I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt’s. It would still

have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making

myself known, but I was determined not to do so. “No, my dear, no.

No, no, no!”

 

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up—I think I mean half

down, but it matters very little—and wrote on one of my cards that

I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in

to Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced

to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England.

And I saw that he was very sorry for me.

 

“You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.

Woodcourt,” said I, “but we can hardly call that a misfortune which

enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the

truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old

patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe

illness.”

 

“Ah! Little Miss Flite!” he said. “She lives the same life yet?”

 

“Just the same.”

 

I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to

be able to put it aside.

 

“Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most

affectionate creature, as I have reason to say.”

 

“You—you have found her so?” he returned. “I—I am glad of that.”

He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.

 

“I assure you,” said I, “that I was deeply touched by her sympathy

and pleasure at the time I have referred to.”

 

“I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill.”

 

“I was very ill.”

 

“But you have quite recovered?”

 

“I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness,” said I.

“You know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead,

and I have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world

to desire.”

 

I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever

had for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness

to find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring

him. I spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future

plans, and of his probable return to India. He said that was very

doubtful. He had not found himself more favoured by fortune there

than here. He had gone out a poor ship’s surgeon and had come home