Bleak House
well, well! Enough of this, my dear!”
He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness
was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and
loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind in
this little pause, by some means, to see Richard when I grew strong
and try to set him right.
“There are better subjects than these,” said my guardian, “for such a
joyful time as the time of our dear girl’s recovery. And I had a
commission to broach one of them as soon as I should begin to talk.
When shall Ada come to see you, my love?”
I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the
absent mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would be
changed by no change in my looks.
“Dear guardian,” said I, “as I have shut her out so long—though
indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me—”
“I know it well, Dame Durden, well.”
He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and
affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my
heart that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. “Yes,
yes, you are tired,” said he. “Rest a little.”
“As I have kept Ada out so long,” I began afresh after a short while,
“I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian.
It would be best to be away from here before I see her. If Charley
and I were to go to some country lodging as soon as I can move, and
if I had a week there in which to grow stronger and to be revived by
the sweet air and to look forward to the happiness of having Ada with
me again, I think it would be better for us.”
I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more used
to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I longed so
ardently to see, but it is the truth. I did. He understood me, I was
sure; but I was not afraid of that. If it were a poor thing, I knew
he would pass it over.
“Our spoilt little woman,” said my guardian, “shall have her own way
even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of tears
downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart of chivalry,
breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on paper before,
that if you don’t go and occupy his whole house, he having already
turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven and by earth
he’ll pull it down and not leave one brick standing on another!”
And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary
beginning such as “My dear Jarndyce,” but rushing at once into the
words, “I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and take
possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at one
o’clock, P.M.,” and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most
emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had
quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing
heartily over it, and we settled that I should send him a letter of
thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. It was a most agreeable
one to me, for all the places I could have thought of, I should have
liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.
“Now, little housewife,” said my guardian, looking at his watch, “I
was strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not be tired
too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. I have one
other petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumour that you were
ill, made nothing of walking down here—twenty miles, poor soul, in a
pair of dancing shoes—to inquire. It was heaven’s mercy we were at
home, or she would have walked back again.”
The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!
“Now, pet,” said my guardian, “if it would not be irksome to you to
admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save
Boythorn’s otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe you
would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than I—though
my eminent name is Jarndyce—could do in a lifetime.”
I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple image
of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson
on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I could not
tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her. I had always
pitied her, never so much as now. I had always been glad of my little
power to soothe her under her calamity, but never, never, half so
glad before.
We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach and share
my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my face away upon
my couch and prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded by such
blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that I had to
undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had aspired
to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good to some
one and win some love to myself if I could came back into my mind
with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed and
all the affectionate hearts that had been turned towards me. If I
were weak now, what had I profited by those mercies? I repeated the
old childish prayer in its old childish words and found that its old
peace had not departed from it.
My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could walk
about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the
window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet the courage
to look at the dear face, though I could have done so easily without
her seeing me.
On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creature ran
into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying from
her very heart of hearts, “My dear Fitz Jarndyce!” fell upon my neck
and kissed me twenty times.
“Dear me!” said she, putting her hand into her reticule, “I have
nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow a
pocket handkerchief.”
Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of it,
for she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding
tears for the next ten minutes.
“With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce,” she was careful to explain.
“Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at
having the honour of being admitted to see you. I am so much fonder
of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. Though I DO attend court
regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning pocket handkerchiefs—”
Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her at the
place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and looked
unwilling to pursue the suggestion.
“Ve-ry right!” said Miss Flite, “Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highly
indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I am
afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn’t think it) a
little—rambling you know,” said Miss Flite, touching her forehead.
“Nothing more.”
“What were you going to tell me?” said I, smiling, for I saw she
wanted to go on. “You have roused my curiosity, and now you must
gratify it.”
Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis, who
said, “If you please, ma’am, you had better tell then,” and therein
gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.
“So sagacious, our young friend,” said she to me in her mysterious
way. “Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it’s a pretty
anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who should follow
us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very
ungenteel bonnet—”
“Jenny, if you please, miss,” said Charley.
“Just so!” Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity. “Jenny.
Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend but that there has
been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear Fitz
Jarndyce’s health and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little
keepsake merely because it was my amiable Fitz Jarndyce’s! Now, you
know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!”
“If you please, miss,” said Charley, to whom I looked in some
astonishment, “Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a
handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the
baby’s little things. I think, if you please, partly because it was
yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby.”
“Diminutive,” whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of motions about
her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. “But exceedingly
sagacious! And so dear! My love, she’s clearer than any counsel I
ever heard!”
“Yes, Charley,” I returned. “I remember it. Well?”
“Well, miss,” said Charley, “and that’s the handkerchief the lady
took. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn’t have made away
with it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and
left some money instead. Jenny don’t know her at all, if you please,
miss!”
“Why, who can she be?” said I.
“My love,” Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear with
her most mysterious look, “in MY opinion—don’t mention this to our
diminutive friend—she’s the Lord Chancellor’s wife. He’s married,
you know. And I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws his
lordship’s papers into the fire, my dear, if he won’t pay the
jeweller!”
I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an
impression that it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention was diverted
by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and looked hungry and who,
our dinner being brought in, required some little assistance in
arraying herself with great satisfaction in a pitiable old scarf and
a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she had brought
down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, too, over the
entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a
sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant
to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state and ceremony she did
honour to it, that I was soon thinking of nothing else.
When we had finished and had our little dessert before us,
embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the
superintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Flite
was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her
own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began
by saying “You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss
Flite?”
“Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment.
Shortly.”
There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if
I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would say no
more about it.
“My father expected a judgment,” said Miss Flite. “My brother. My
sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect.”
“They are all—”
“Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear,” said she.
As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable
to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.
“Would it not be wiser,” said I, “to expect this judgment no more?”
“Why, my dear,” she answered promptly, “of course it would!”
“And to attend the court no more?”
“Equally of course,” said she. “Very wearing to be always in
expectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce! Wearing, I
assure you, to the bone!”
She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.
“But, my dear,” she went on in her mysterious way, “there’s a
dreadful attraction in the place. Hush! Don’t mention it to our
diminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With
good reason. There’s a cruel attraction in the place. You CAN’T leave
it. And you MUST expect.”
I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently
and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.
“Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve-ry
absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To
the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been there many years,
and I have noticed. It’s the mace and seal upon the table.”