Bleak House
her little kindnesses, and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied
her from his heart. But he never thought—never, my poor, dear,
sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with such
better things before him—what a fatal link was riveting between his
fresh youth and her faded age, between his free hopes and her caged
birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering mind.
Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or
did, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east
wind and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strict
silence on the subject. So I thought one day when I went to London to
meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard to be in
waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a little talk
together. I found him there when I arrived, and we walked away arm in
arm.
“Well, Richard,” said I as soon as I could begin to be grave with
him, “are you beginning to feel more settled now?”
“Oh, yes, my dear!” returned Richard. “I’m all right enough.”
“But settled?” said I.
“How do you mean, settled?” returned Richard with his gay laugh.
“Settled in the law,” said I.
“Oh, aye,” replied Richard, “I’m all right enough.”
“You said that before, my dear Richard.”
“And you don’t think it’s an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it’s not.
Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?”
“Yes.”
“Why, no, I can’t say I am settling down,” said Richard, strongly
emphasizing “down,” as if that expressed the difficulty, “because one
can’t settle down while this business remains in such an unsettled
state. When I say this business, of course I mean the—forbidden
subject.”
“Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?” said I.
“Not the least doubt of it,” answered Richard.
We walked a little way without speaking, and presently Richard
addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus: “My dear
Esther, I understand you, and I wish to heaven I were a more constant
sort of fellow. I don’t mean constant to Ada, for I love her
dearly—better and better every day—but constant to myself.
(Somehow, I mean something that I can’t very well express, but you’ll
make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of fellow, I should have
held on either to Badger or to Kenge and Carboy like grim death, and
should have begun to be steady and systematic by this time, and
shouldn’t be in debt, and—”
“ARE you in debt, Richard?”
“Yes,” said Richard, “I am a little so, my dear. Also, I have taken
rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. Now the murder’s
out; you despise me, Esther, don’t you?”
“You know I don’t,” said I.
“You are kinder to me than I often am to myself,” he returned. “My
dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled, but
how CAN I be more settled? If you lived in an unfinished house, you
couldn’t settle down in it; if you were condemned to leave everything
you undertook unfinished, you would find it hard to apply yourself to
anything; and yet that’s my unhappy case. I was born into this
unfinished contention with all its chances and changes, and it began
to unsettle me before I quite knew the difference between a suit at
law and a suit of clothes; and it has gone on unsettling me ever
since; and here I am now, conscious sometimes that I am but a
worthless fellow to love my confiding cousin Ada.”
We were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before his eyes and
sobbed as he said the words.
“Oh, Richard!” said I. “Do not be so moved. You have a noble nature,
and Ada’s love may make you worthier every day.”
“I know, my dear,” he replied, pressing my arm, “I know all that. You
mustn’t mind my being a little soft now, for I have had all this upon
my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak to you, and
have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes courage. I know what
the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it doesn’t do it. I am too
unsettled even for that. I love her most devotedly, and yet I do her
wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day and hour. But it can’t last
for ever. We shall come on for a final hearing and get judgment in
our favour, and then you and Ada shall see what I can really be!”
It had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start out
between his fingers, but that was infinitely less affecting to me
than the hopeful animation with which he said these words.
“I have looked well into the papers, Esther. I have been deep in them
for months,” he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in a moment,
“and you may rely upon it that we shall come out triumphant. As to
years of delay, there has been no want of them, heaven knows! And
there is the greater probability of our bringing the matter to a
speedy close; in fact, it’s on the paper now. It will be all right at
last, and then you shall see!”
Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and Carboy in the
same category with Mr. Badger, I asked him when he intended to be
articled in Lincoln’s Inn.
“There again! I think not at all, Esther,” he returned with an
effort. “I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at Jarndyce
and Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirst for the law
and satisfied myself that I shouldn’t like it. Besides, I find it
unsettles me more and more to be so constantly upon the scene of
action. So what,” continued Richard, confident again by this time,
“do I naturally turn my thoughts to?”
“I can’t imagine,” said I.
“Don’t look so serious,” returned Richard, “because it’s the best
thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It’s not as if I wanted
a profession for life. These proceedings will come to a termination,
and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as a pursuit which is
in its nature more or less unsettled, and therefore suited to my
temporary condition—I may say, precisely suited. What is it that I
naturally turn my thoughts to?”
I looked at him and shook my head.
“What,” said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, “but the
army!”
“The army?” said I.
“The army, of course. What I have to do is to get a commission;
and—there I am, you know!” said Richard.
And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his
pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say, two hundred
pounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that he contracted
no debt at all within a corresponding period in the army—as to which
he had quite made up his mind; this step must involve a saving of
four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousand pounds in five years,
which was a considerable sum. And then he spoke so ingenuously and
sincerely of the sacrifice he made in withdrawing himself for a time
from Ada, and of the earnestness with which he aspired—as in thought
he always did, I know full well—to repay her love, and to ensure her
happiness, and to conquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire
the very soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely.
For, I thought, how would this end, how could this end, when so soon
and so surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal
blight that ruined everything it rested on!
I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all the hope
I could not quite feel then, and implored him for Ada’s sake not to
put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Richard readily assented,
riding over the court and everything else in his easy way and drawing
the brightest pictures of the character he was to settle into—alas,
when the grievous suit should loose its hold upon him! We had a long
talk, but it always came back to that, in substance.
At last we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had appointed to
wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of Newman Street.
Caddy was in the garden in the centre and hurried out as soon as I
appeared. After a few cheerful words, Richard left us together.
“Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther,” said Caddy, “and got the
key for us. So if you will walk round and round here with me, we can
lock ourselves in and I can tell you comfortably what I wanted to see
your dear good face about.”
“Very well, my dear,” said I. “Nothing could be better.” So Caddy,
after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she called it,
locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk round the
garden very cosily.
“You see, Esther,” said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a little
confidence, “after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry
without Ma’s knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark
respecting our engagement—though I don’t believe Ma cares much for
me, I must say—I thought it right to mention your opinions to
Prince. In the first place because I want to profit by everything you
tell me, and in the second place because I have no secrets from
Prince.”
“I hope he approved, Caddy?”
“Oh, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you could
say. You have no idea what an opinion he has of you!”
“Indeed!”
“Esther, it’s enough to make anybody but me jealous,” said Caddy,
laughing and shaking her head; “but it only makes me joyful, for you
are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I ever can have,
and nobody can respect and love you too much to please me.”
“Upon my word, Caddy,” said I, “you are in the general conspiracy to
keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?”
“Well! I am going to tell you,” replied Caddy, crossing her hands
confidentially upon my arm. “So we talked a good deal about it, and
so I said to Prince, ‘Prince, as Miss Summerson—’”
“I hope you didn’t say ‘Miss Summerson’?”
“No. I didn’t!” cried Caddy, greatly pleased and with the brightest
of faces. “I said, ‘Esther.’ I said to Prince, ‘As Esther is
decidedly of that opinion, Prince, and has expressed it to me, and
always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so
fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared to disclose the truth
to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think, Prince,’ said I, ‘that
Esther thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more
honourable position altogether if you did the same to your papa.’”
“Yes, my dear,” said I. “Esther certainly does think so.”
“So I was right, you see!” exclaimed Caddy. “Well! This troubled
Prince a good deal, not because he had the least doubt about it, but
because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr. Turveydrop;
and he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Turveydrop might break his
heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting
manner or other if he made such an announcement. He feared old Mr.
Turveydrop might consider it undutiful and might receive too great a
shock. For old Mr. Turveydrop’s deportment is very beautiful, you
know, Esther,” said Caddy, “and his feelings are extremely
sensitive.”
“Are they, my dear?”
“Oh, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused my
darling child—I didn’t mean to use the expression to you, Esther,”
Caddy apologized, her face suffused with blushes, “but I generally
call Prince my darling child.”
I laughed; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on.
“This has caused him, Esther—”
“Caused whom, my dear?”
“Oh, you tiresome thing!” said Caddy, laughing, with her pretty face
on fire. “My darling child, if you insist upon it! This has caused
him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day to day, in a
very anxious manner. At last he said to me, ‘Caddy, if Miss
Summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could be
prevailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think I
could do it.’ So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my mind,
besides,” said Caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly, “that if
you consented, I would ask you afterwards to come with me to Ma. This