Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
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should she do without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as for
me, I should have been the worst of the three if I had not severely
said to myself, “Now Esther, if you do, I’ll never speak to you
again!”
“Why, I declare,” said I, “I never saw such a wife. I don’t think
she loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, for
goodness’ sake.” But I held her tight all the while, and could
have wept over her I don’t know how long.
“I give this dear young couple notice,” said I, “that I am only
going away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always coming
backwards and forwards until Symond’s Inn is tired of the sight of
me. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be the
use of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!”
I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but I
lingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to
rive my heart to turn from.
So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave me
some encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could take
that liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smiling
through her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands,
and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.
And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to me
that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blank
without her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hope
of seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little while
as I walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.
I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a
coach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had
reappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death;
indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian had
gone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Being
quite alone, I cried a little again, though on the whole I don’t
think I behaved so very, very ill.
It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the
loss of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long time
after years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene
in which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowed
stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking some
sort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the evening
only to look up at her windows.
It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to
me, and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into my
confidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came to
the new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind
the yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times,
looking up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who came
out of his office while we were there and turned his head to look
up too before going home. The sight of his lank black figure and
the lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to the
state of my mind. I thought of the youth and love and beauty of my
dear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it
were a cruel place.
It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I
might safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up with
a light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil
lanterns on the way. I listened for a few moments, and in the
musty rotting silence of the house believed that I could hear the
murmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like
panel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly down
again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the
visit.
And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I knew
anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the
separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again for
those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to the
change, but all the better for that hovering about my darling.
My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark
window. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat,
but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.
“Little woman,” said he, “You have been crying.”
“Why, yes, guardian,” said I, “I am afraid I have been, a little.
Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian.”
I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance that
my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.
“Is she married, my dear?”
I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred
to his forgiveness.
“She has no need of it,” said he. “Heaven bless her and her
husband!” But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so
was his. “Poor girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!”
Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, “Well,
well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.”
“But its mistress remains, guardian.” Though I was timid about
saying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had
spoken. “She will do all she can to make it happy,” said I.
“She will succeed, my love!”
The letter had made no difference between us except that the seat
by his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned his
old bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in his
old way, and said again, “She will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless,
Bleak House is thinning fast, O little woman!”
I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I was
rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all I
had meant to be since the letter and the answer.
Obstinacy
But one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as we
were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with the
astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which
Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody. When he told
us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for the
murderer’s apprehension, I did not in my first consternation
understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the
murdered person was Sir Leicester’s lawyer, and immediately my
mother’s dread of him rushed into my remembrance.
This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long
watched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her,
one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, always
dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful
that my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of such
a death and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember,
perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away who
was so swiftly hurried out of life!
Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I
always felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that I
could scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable to
follow the conversation until I had had a little time to recover.
But when I came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and
found that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and
recalling every favourable impression we had formed of him out of
the good we had known of him, my interest and my fears were so
strongly aroused in his behalf that I was quite set up again.
“Guardian, you don’t think it possible that he is justly accused?”
“My dear, I CAN’T think so. This man whom we have seen so open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the
gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived
and is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such
a crime? I can’t believe it. It’s not that I don’t or I won’t. I
can’t!”
“And I can’t,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “Still, whatever we believe or
know of him, we had better not forget that some appearances are
against him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman.
He has openly mentioned it in many places. He is said to have
expressed himself violently towards him, and he certainly did about
him, to my knowledge. He admits that he was alone on the scene of
the murder within a few minutes of its commission. I sincerely
believe him to be as innocent of any participation in it as I am,
but these are all reasons for suspicion falling upon him.”
“True,” said my guardian. And he added, turning to me, “It would
be doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to the
truth in any of these respects.”
I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but to
others, the full force of the circumstances against him. Yet I
knew withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would not
induce us to desert him in his need.
“Heaven forbid!” returned my guardian. “We will stand by him, as
he himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone.” He meant
Mr. Gridley and the boy, to both of whom Mr. George had given
shelter.
Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper’s man had been with him
before day, after wandering about the streets all night like a
distracted creature. That one of the trooper’s first anxieties was
that we should not suppose him guilty. That he had charged his
messenger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemn
assurance he could send us. That Mr. Woodcourt had only quieted
the man by undertaking to come to our house very early in the
morning with these representations. He added that he was now upon
his way to see the prisoner himself.
My guardian said directly he would go too. Now, besides that I
liked the retired soldier very much and that he liked me, I had
that secret interest in what had happened which was only known to
my guardian. I felt as if it came close and near to me. It seemed
to become personally important to myself that the truth should be
discovered and that no innocent people should be suspected, for
suspicion, once run wild, might run wilder.
In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go with
them. My guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I went.
It was a large prison with many courts and passages so like one
another and so uniformly paved that I seemed to gain a new
comprehension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitary
prisoners,
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