Bleak House, Charles Dickens [the beginning after the end novel read .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
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change and be disfigured, even if she recovered—she was such a
child with her dimpled face—but that thought was, for the greater
part, lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, and
her mind rambled again to the cares of her father’s sick bed and
the little children, she still knew me so far as that she would be
quiet in my arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur
out the wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I
used to think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies that
the baby who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to
them in their need was dead!
There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to me,
telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she was
sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charley
would speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she
could to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buried
who was the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of the
ruler’s daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of
death. And Charley told me that when her father died she had
kneeled down and prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might
be raised up and given back to his poor children, and that if she
should never get better and should die too, she thought it likely
that it might come into Tom’s mind to offer the same prayer for
her. Then would I show Tom how these people of old days had been
brought back to life on earth, only that we might know our hope to
be restored to heaven!
But of all the various times there were in Charley’s illness, there
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of.
And there were many, many when I thought in the night of the last
high belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in
God, on the part of her poor despised father.
And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slowly turned the
dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to
mend. The hope that never had been given, from the first, of
Charley being in outward appearance Charley any more soon began to
be encouraged; and even that prospered, and I saw her growing into
her old childish likeness again.
It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening,
I felt that I was stricken cold.
Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of
her illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I
felt at tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that
I was rapidly following in Charley’s steps.
I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to
return my darling’s cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk
with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression
that I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little
beside myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at
times—with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too
large altogether.
In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Charley, with which view I said, “You’re getting quite strong,
Charley, are you not?”
“Oh, quite!” said Charley.
“Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?”
“Quite strong enough for that, miss!” cried Charley. But Charley’s
face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in
MY face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my
bosom, and said “Oh, miss, it’s my doing! It’s my doing!” and a
great deal more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.
“Now, Charley,” said I after letting her go on for a little while,
“if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you.
And unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were
for yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.”
“If you’ll let me cry a little longer, miss,” said Charley. “Oh,
my dear, my dear! If you’ll only let me cry a little longer. Oh,
my dear!”—how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as
she clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears—“I’ll be
good.”
So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.
“Trust in me now, if you please, miss,” said Charley quietly. “I
am listening to everything you say.”
“It’s very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don’t think I am well and that you are going to
nurse me.”
For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. “And in
the morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not
be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go,
Charley, and say I am asleep—that I have rather tired myself, and
am asleep. At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley,
and let no one come.”
Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet.
I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into
day, and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on
the first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.
On the second morning I heard her dear voice—Oh, how dear now!—
outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech being
painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softly, “Don’t disturb her, Charley, for the world!”
“How does my own Pride look, Charley?” I inquired.
“Disappointed, miss,” said Charley, peeping through the curtain.
“But I know she is very beautiful this morning.”
“She is indeed, miss,” answered Charley, peeping. “Still looking
up at the window.”
With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when
raised like that!
I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.
“Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her
way into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to
the last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon
me for one moment as I lie here, I shall die.”
“I never will! I never will!” she promised me.
“I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me for
a little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,
Charley; I am blind.”
The Appointed Time
It is night in Lincoln’s Inn—perplexed and troublous valley of the
shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day—and
fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled
down the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings at
nine o’clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; the
gates are shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mighty
power of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircase
windows clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with a
fathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink at
the stars. In dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy little
patches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman and
conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshes
of sheepskin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an
acre of land. Over which bee-like industry these benefactors of
their species linger yet, though office-hours be past, that they
may give, for every day, some good account at last.
In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the rag and
bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer and
supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective sons,
engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek,
have been lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane for
some hours and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the
confusion of passengers—Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but now
exchanged congratulations on the children being abed, and they
still linger on a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Krook
and his lodger, and the fact of Mr. Krook’s being “continually in
liquor,” and the testamentary prospects of the young man are, as
usual, the staple of their conversation. But they have something
to say, likewise, of the Harmonic Meeting at the Sol’s Arms, where
the sound of the piano through the partly opened windows jingles
out into the court, and where Little Swills, after keeping the
lovers of harmony in a roar like a very Yorick, may now be heard
taking the gruff line in a concerted piece and sentimentally
adjuring his friends and patrons to “Listen, listen, listen, tew
the wa-ter fall!” Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper compare opinions on
the subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who assists
at the Harmonic Meetings and who has a space to herself in the
manuscript announcement in the window, Mrs. Perkins possessing
information that she has been married a year and a half, though
announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren, and that her
baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol’s Arms every night to
receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. “Sooner
than which, myself,” says Mrs. Perkins, “I would get my living by
selling lucifers.” Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the same
opinion, holding that a private station is better than public
applause, and thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication,
Mrs. Perkins’) respectability. By this time the pot-boy of the
Sol’s Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piper
accepts that tankard and retires indoors, first giving a fair good
night to Mrs. Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand ever
since it was fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins before
he was sent to bed. Now there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; and
shooting stars are seen in upper windows, further indicating
retirement to rest. Now, too, the policeman begins to push at
doors; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles; and to
administer his beat, on the hypothesis that every one is either
robbing or being robbed.
It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, and
there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine
steaming night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome
trades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, and
give the registrar of deaths some extra business. It may be
something in the air—there is plenty in it—or it may be something
in himself that is in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, is
very ill at
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