Bleak House, Charles Dickens [the beginning after the end novel read .txt] 📗

November fog,

how much more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and trusting

heart—even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So I

thought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard that if he were

sometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he never

meant to be careless of Ada, and that it was a part of his

affectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance of

a step that might influence both their lives. This made him almost

grave.

 

“My dear Mother Hubbard,” he said, “that’s the very thing! I have

thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself

for meaning to be so much in earnest and—somehow—not exactly

being so. I don’t know how it is; I seem to want something or

other to stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my

darling cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don’t settle down to

constancy in other things. It’s such uphill work, and it takes

such a time!” said Richard with an air of vexation.

 

“That may be,” I suggested, “because you don’t like what you have

chosen.”

 

“Poor fellow!” said Ada. “I am sure I don’t wonder at it!”

 

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried

again, but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I

could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and

while he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at

him!

 

“You see, my precious girl,” said Richard, passing her golden curls

through and through his hand, “I was a little hasty perhaps; or I

misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don’t seem to lie

in that direction. I couldn’t tell till I tried. Now the question

is whether it’s worth-while to undo all that has been done. It

seems like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.”

 

“My dear Richard,” said I, “how CAN you say about nothing

particular?”

 

“I don’t mean absolutely that,” he returned. “I mean that it MAY

be nothing particular because I may never want it.”

 

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly

worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone.

I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenial

pursuit.

 

“There, my dear Mrs. Shipton,” said Richard, “you touch me home.

Yes, I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me.”

 

“The law!” repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.

 

“If I went into Kenge’s office,” said Richard, “and if I were

placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the—hum!—

the forbidden ground—and should be able to study it, and master

it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being

properly conducted. I should be able to look after Ada’s interests

and my own interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at

Blackstone and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour.”

 

I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hankering

after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes

cast a shade on Ada’s face. But I thought it best to encourage him

in any project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be

quite sure that his mind was made up now.

 

“My dear Minerva,” said Richard, “I am as steady as you are. I

made a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won’t do so any

more, and I’ll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is,

you know,” said Richard, relapsing into doubt, “if it really is

worth-while, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing

particular!”

 

This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all

that we had said already and to our coming to much the same

conclusion afterwards. But we so strongly advised Richard to be

frank and open with Mr. Jarndyce, without a moment’s delay, and his

disposition was naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought

him out at once (taking us with him) and made a full avowal.

“Rick,” said my guardian, after hearing him attentively, “we can

retreat with honour, and we will. But we must be careful—for our

cousin’s sake, Rick, for our cousin’s sake—that we make no more

such mistakes. Therefore, in the matter of the law, we will have a

good trial before we decide. We will look before we leap, and take

plenty of time about it.”

 

Richard’s energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he

would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Kenge’s

office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on

the spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the caution

that we had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself with

sitting down among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his

one unvarying purpose in life from childhood had been that one

which now held possession of him. My guardian was very kind and

cordial with him, but rather grave, enough so to cause Ada, when he

had departed and we were going upstairs to bed, to say, “Cousin

John, I hope you don’t think the worse of Richard?”

 

“No, my love,” said he.

 

“Because it was very natural that Richard should be mistaken in

such a difficult case. It is not uncommon.”

 

“No, no, my love,” said he. “Don’t look unhappy.”

 

“Oh, I am not unhappy, cousin John!” said Ada, smiling cheerfully,

with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bidding

him good night. “But I should be a little so if you thought at all

the worse of Richard.”

 

“My dear,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “I should think the worse of him only

if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should

be more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor

Rick, for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing!

He has time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of

him? Not I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!”

 

“No, indeed, cousin John,” said Ada, “I am sure I could not—I am

sure I would not—think any ill of Richard if the whole world did.

I could, and I would, think better of him then than at any other

time!”

 

So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his

shoulders—both hands now—and looking up into his face, like the

picture of truth!

 

“I think,” said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, “I think

it must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall

occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the

father. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman.

Pleasant slumbers! Happy dreams!”

 

This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes

with something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well

remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richard

when she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little

while since he had watched them passing down the room in which the

sun was shining, and away into the shade; but his glance was

changed, and even the silent look of confidence in me which now

followed it once more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it

had originally been.

 

Ada praised Richard more to me that night than ever she had praised

him yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her

clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I

kissed her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil

and happy she looked.

 

For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I sat

up working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but

I was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don’t know why. At least

I don’t think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don’t

think it matters.

 

At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that

I would leave myself not a moment’s leisure to be low-spirited.

For I naturally said, “Esther! You to be low-spirited. YOU!” And

it really was time to say so, for I—yes, I really did see myself

in the glass, almost crying. “As if you had anything to make you

unhappy, instead of everything to make you happy, you ungrateful

heart!” said I.

 

If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it

directly, but not being able to do that, I took out of my basket

some ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was

busy with at that time and sat down to it with great determination.

It was necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and I

resolved to go on with it until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and

then to go to bed.

 

I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairs

in a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to a

stop for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to get

it. To my great surprise, on going in I found my guardian still

there, and sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought,

his book lay unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was

scattered confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been

wandering among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face

looked worn. Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly,

I stood still for a moment and should have retired without speaking

had he not, in again passing his hand abstractedly through his

hair, seen me and started.

 

“Esther!”

 

I told him what I had come for.

 

“At work so late, my dear?”

 

“I am working late to-night,” said I, “because I couldn’t sleep and

wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and

look weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?”

 

“None, little woman, that YOU would readily understand,” said he.

 

He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that I inwardly repeated,

as if that would help me to his meaning, “That I could readily

understand!”

 

“Remain a moment, Esther,” said he, “You were in my thoughts.”

 

“I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?”

 

He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. The

change was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so

much self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating,

“None that I could understand!”

 

“Little woman,” said my guardian, “I was thinking—that is, I have

been thinking since I have been sitting here—that you ought to

know of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next to

nothing.”

 

“Dear guardian,” I replied, “when you spoke to me before on that

subject—”

 

“But since then,” he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meant

to say, “I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and

my having anything to tell you, are different considerations,

Esther. It is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know.”

 

“If you think so, guardian, it is right.”

 

“I think so,” he returned very