Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
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should have seen ‘em further first.”
Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his
hair with both hands.
“Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I
was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and
whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time
apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call
sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely
difficult for me to be sure that I hadn’t inadvertently led up to
something contrary to Miss Summerson’s wishes. Self-praise is no
recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man
of business neither.”
Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediately
withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.
“Indeed, it has been made so hard,” he goes on, “to have any idea
what that party was up to in combination with others that until the
loss which we all deplore I was gravelled—an expression which your
ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to
consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise—a name by
which I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship
is not acquainted with—got to be so close and double-faced that at
times it wasn’t easy to keep one’s hands off his ‘ead. However,
what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the
help of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a
high aristocratic turn and has your ladyship’s portrait always
hanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension as
to which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, will
your ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strange
visitors this morning? I don’t mean fashionable visitors, but such
visitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary’s old servant, or as a
person without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairs
similarly to a guy?”
“No!”
“Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and
have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and
waited at the corner of the square till they came out, and took
half an hour’s turn afterwards to avoid them.”
“What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not
understand you. What do you mean?”
“Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no
occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep
my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small
has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that
those letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not
destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to
be blown upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded
to have been here this morning to make money of it. And that the
money is made, or making.”
Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises.
“Your ladyship, you know best whether there’s anything in what I
say or whether there’s nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted
up to Miss Summerson’s wishes in letting things alone and in
undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that’s
sufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in putting
your ladyship on your guard when there’s no necessity for it, you
will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and I
shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take my
farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there’s no danger of
your ever being waited on by me again.”
She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but when
he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell.
“Where is Sir Leicester?”
Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone.
“Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?”
Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them,
which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he may go.
So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, her
husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published—may be
spreading while she thinks about it—and in addition to the
thunderbolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is
denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.
Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead.
Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation comes
upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when she
recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how she
may be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon
before merely to release herself from observation, she shudders as
if the hangman’s hands were at her neck.
She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all
wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch.
She rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and
rocks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If
she really were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment,
more intense.
For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed,
however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been
closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure,
preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those
consequences would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the
moment the figure was laid low—which always happens when a murder
is done; so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watch
before her, and she used to think, “if some mortal stroke would but
fall on this old man and take him from my way!” it was but wishing
that all he held against her in his hand might be flung to the
winds and chance-sown in many places. So, too, with the wicked
relief she has felt in his death. What was his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall in
a thousand fragments, each crushing and mangling piecemeal!
Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that
from this pursuer, living or dead—obdurate and imperturbable
before her in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate and
imperturbable in his coffin-bed—there is no escape but in death.
Hunted, she flies. The complication of her shame, her dread,
remorse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height; and even her
strength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like a
leaf before a mighty wind.
She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and
leaves them on her table:
If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I am
wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent of
nothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge.
He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt
to you. After he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking in
the garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him and
make one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful
suspense on which I have been racked by him, you do not know how
long, but would mercifully strike next morning.
I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, but
there was no reply, and I came home.
I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, in
your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whom
you have wasted a most generous devotion—who avoids you only with
a deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself—and
who writes this last adieu.
She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money,
listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens
and shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.
Pursuit
Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town house
stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and
gives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriages
rattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancient
charmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather
ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these
fascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together,
dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easily
swinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs,
deep sunk into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount luscious
Mercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats
broadwise, a spectacle for the angels.
The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours pass
before its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the
fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and
finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence,
ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene.
Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it
and peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.
The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the
ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which
impels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle
about with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every
description. Certain it is that she avails herself of the present
opportunity of hovering over her kinsman’s letters and papers like
a bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink with her
head on one side at that document, and hopping about from table to
table with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restless
manner. In the course of these researches she stumbles over
something, and turning her glass in that direction, sees her
kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.
Volumnia’s pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation
of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in
commotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently
rung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in all
directions, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since she
last rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on
her table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received
another missive from another world requiring to be personally
answered, and all the living languages, and all the dead, are as
one to him.
They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, and
put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit,
the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before his
stertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness
of the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But when
this change begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his
eyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.
He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhat
infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. He
lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit
shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had so
long been
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