Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
- Performer: 0141439726
Book online «Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗». Author Charles Dickens
serious and affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, his
gallant shielding of her, his generous conquest of his own wrong
and his own pride for her sake, are simply honourable, manly, and
true. Nothing less worthy can be seen through the lustre of such
qualities in the commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can be
seen in the best-born gentleman. In such a light both aspire
alike, both rise alike, both children of the dust shine equally.
Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pillows
and closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he again
resumes his watching of the weather and his attention to the
muffled sounds. In the rendering of those little services, and in
the manner of their acceptance, the trooper has become installed as
necessary to him. Nothing has been said, but it is quite
understood. He falls a step or two backward to be out of sight and
mounts guard a little behind his mother’s chair.
The day is now beginning to decline. The mist and the sleet into
which the snow has all resolved itself are darker, and the blaze
begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. The
gloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and the
pertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, with
their source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly
like fiery fish out of water—as they are. The world, which has
been rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bell, “to inquire,”
begins to go home, begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dear
friend with all the last new modes, as already mentioned.
Now does Sir Leicester become worse, restless, uneasy, and in great
pain. Volumnia, lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude for
doing something objectionable), is bidden to put it out again, for
it is not yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark too, as dark as it
will be all night. By and by she tries again. No! Put it out.
It is not dark enough yet.
His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving
to uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.
“Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master,” she softly whispers, “I
must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging
and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness
watching and waiting and dragging through the time. Let me draw
the curtains, and light the candles, and make things more
comfortable about you. The church-clocks will strike the hours
just the same, Sir Leicester, and the night will pass away just the
same. My Lady will come back, just the same.”
“I know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am weak—and he has been so long
gone.”
“Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet.”
“But that is a long time. Oh, it is a long time!”
He says it with a groan that wrings her heart.
She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light
upon him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her.
Therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a word, then
gently begins to move about, now stirring the fire, now standing at
the dark window looking out. Finally he tells her, with recovered
self-command, “As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse for
being confessed. It is getting late, and they are not come. Light
the room!” When it is lighted and the weather shut out, it is only
left to him to listen.
But they find that however dejected and ill he is, he brightens
when a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms
and being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poor
pretence as it is, these allusions to her being expected keep up
hope within him.
Midnight comes, and with it the same blank. The carriages in the
streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood there
are none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray into
the frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement.
Upon this wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense
silence is like looking at intense darkness. If any distant sound
be audible in this case, it departs through the gloom like a feeble
light in that, and all is heavier than before.
The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling to
go, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Rouncewell and
George keep watch in Sir Leicester’s room. As the night lags
tardily on—or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at between
two and three o’clock—they find a restless craving on him to know
more about the weather, now he cannot see it. Hence George,
patrolling regularly every half-hour to the rooms so carefully
looked after, extends his march to the hall-door, looks about him,
and brings back the best report he can make of the worst of nights,
the sleet still falling and even the stone footways lying ankle-deep in icy sludge.
Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the staircase—the
second turning past the end of the carving and gilding, a cousinly
room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir Leicester
banished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a solemn yard
planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black
tea—is a prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last nor least among
them, possibly, is a horror of what may befall her little income in
the event, as she expresses it, “of anything happening” to Sir
Leicester. Anything, in this sense, meaning one thing only; and
that the last thing that can happen to the consciousness of any
baronet in the known world.
An effect of these horrors is that Volumnia finds she cannot go to
bed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own room, but must
come forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl, and
her fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like a
ghost, particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious,
prepared for one who still does not return. Solitude under such
circumstances being not to be thought of, Volumnia is attended by
her maid, who, impressed from her own bed for that purpose,
extremely cold, very sleepy, and generally an injured maid as
condemned by circumstances to take office with a cousin, when she
had resolved to be maid to nothing less than ten thousand a year,
has not a sweet expression of countenance.
The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in
the course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection and
company both to mistress and maid, which renders them very
acceptable in the small hours of the night. Whenever he is heard
advancing, they both make some little decorative preparation to
receive him; at other times they divide their watches into short
scraps of oblivion and dialogues not wholly free from acerbity, as
to whether Miss Dedlock, sitting with her feet upon the fender, was
or was not falling into the fire when rescued (to her great
displeasure) by her guardian genius the maid.
“How is Sir Leicester now, Mr. George?” inquires Volumnia,
adjusting her cowl over her head.
“Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low and
ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes.”
“Has he asked for me?” inquires Volumnia tenderly.
“Why, no, I can’t say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is
to say.”
“This is a truly sad time, Mr. George.”
“It is indeed, miss. Hadn’t you better go to bed?”
“You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock,” quoth the maid
sharply.
But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked for, she may be
wanted at a moment’s notice. She never should forgive herself “if
anything was to happen” and she was not on the spot. She declines
to enter on the question, mooted by the maid, how the spot comes to
be there, and not in her room (which is nearer to Sir Leicester’s),
but staunchly declares that on the spot she will remain. Volumnia
further makes a merit of not having “closed an eye”—as if she had
twenty or thirty—though it is hard to reconcile this statement
with her having most indisputably opened two within five minutes.
But when it comes to four o’clock, and still the same blank,
Volumnia’s constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to
strengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready
for the morrow, when much may be expected of her, that, in fact,
howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of
her, as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. So when the
trooper reappears with his, “Hadn’t you better go to bed, miss?”
and when the maid protests, more sharply than before, “You had a
deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock!” she meekly rises and says,
“Do with me what you think best!”
Mr. George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm to
the door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly
thinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony.
Accordingly, these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in his
rounds, has the house to himself.
There is no improvement in the weather. From the portico, from the
eaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post and pillar,
drips the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter, into the
lintels of the great door—under it, into the corners of the
windows, into every chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastes
and dies. It is falling still; upon the roof, upon the skylight,
even through the skylight, and drip, drip, drip, with the
regularity of the Ghost’s Walk, on the stone floor below.
The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitary
grandeur of a great house—no novelty to him once at Chesney Wold—
goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms, holding up his
light at arm’s length. Thinking of his varied fortunes within the
last few weeks, and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two periods
of his life so strangely brought together across the wide
intermediate space; thinking of the murdered man whose image is
fresh in his mind; thinking of the lady who has disappeared from
these very rooms and the tokens of whose recent presence are all
here; thinking of the master of the house upstairs and of the
foreboding, “Who will tell him!” he looks here and looks there, and
reflects how he MIGHT see something now, which it would tax his
boldness to walk up to, lay his hand upon, and prove to be a fancy.
But it is all blank, blank as the darkness above and below, while
he goes up the great staircase again, blank as the oppressive
silence.
“All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell?”
“Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester.”
“No word of any kind?”
The trooper shakes his head.
“No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?”
But he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down
without looking for an answer.
Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, George
Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long
remainder of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with his
unexpressed wish, extinguishes the light and undraws
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