Bleak House
I consider possible. I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your
own way always without help, and you are not familiar with your
friends; and all who admire you—and all do—as a beautiful and
elegant lady, know you to be one far away from themselves who can’t
be approached close. My Lady, you may have some proud or angry
reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know; if so, pray,
oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has been
passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent, and help to
clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady,” the old housekeeper pleads with
genuine simplicity, “I am so humble in my place and you are by nature
so high and distant that you may not think what I feel for my child,
but I feel so much that I have come here to make so bold as to beg
and pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any right or
justice at this fearful time!”
Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the letter
from her hand.
“Am I to read this?”
“When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering the
most that I consider possible.”
“I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can
affect your son. I have never accused him.”
“My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after
reading the letter.”
The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth
she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the
sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong
earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so long
accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so long
schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which shuts
up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and spreads
one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, the feeling and
the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she had subdued even
her wonder until now.
She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printed account
of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the floor,
shot through the heart; and underneath is written her own name, with
the word “murderess” attached.
It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the ground
she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servant stands before
her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy. The words have
probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her
head before she begins to understand them.
“Let him come in!”
He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from
the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of Mr.
Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared, proud,
chilling state.
“Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from
one who has never been welcome to your ladyship”—which he don’t
complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has been any
particular reason on the face of things why he should be—“but I hope
when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will not find fault
with me,” says Mr. Guppy.
“Do so.”
“Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship,” Mr.
Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at
his feet, “that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I formerly mentioned
to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my ’eart
until erased by circumstances over which I had no control,
communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your
ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps
whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Summerson’s
wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over
which I have no control), I consequently never expected to have the
distinguished honour of waiting on your ladyship again.”
And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him.
“And yet I am here now,” Mr. Guppy admits. “My object being to
communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am
here.”
He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. “Nor can
I,” Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, “too
particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that
it’s no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no
interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for
my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred—I, in point
of fact, shouldn’t have darkened these doors again, but 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