Bleak House
much changed—oh, very, very much. At first my face was so strange to
me that I think I should have put my hands before it and started back
but for the encouragement I have mentioned. Very soon it became more
familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better
than I had done at first. It was not like what I had expected, but I
had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything definite would
have surprised me.
I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I had
been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heaven was so
good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter tears and
could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully.
One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before I
went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt’s flowers. When they were
withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of.
Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I had a right
to preserve what he had sent to one so different—whether it was
generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to him, even
in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because
I could have loved him—could have been devoted to him. At last I
came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I treasured them
only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to
be looked back on any more, in any other light. I hope this may not
seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.
I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass
when Charley came in on tiptoe.
“Dear, dear, miss!” cried Charley, starting. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Charley,” said I, quietly putting up my hair. “And I am very
well indeed, and very happy.”
I saw it was a weight off Charley’s mind, but it was a greater weight
off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. I shall not
conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite conquer, but
they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of mind stayed
by me faithfully.
Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good spirits
before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans with
Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to be out
before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again
before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea,
and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and
explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. As to
restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn’s good
housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or
drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the
park but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful
face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent
nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, a chubby
pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who could
canter—when he would—so easily and quietly that he was a treasure.
In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called
him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. We arrived at such
a capital understanding that when he was jogging with me lazily, and
rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his neck and
said, “Stubbs, I am surprised you don’t canter when you know how much
I like it; and I think you might oblige me, for you are only getting
stupid and going to sleep,” he would give his head a comical shake or
two and set off directly, while Charley would stand still and laugh
with such enjoyment that her laughter was like music. I don’t know
who had given Stubbs his name, but it seemed to belong to him as
naturally as his rough coat. Once we put him in a little chaise and
drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but
all at once, as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take
it ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the circle of
tantalizing little gnats that had been hovering round and round his
ears the whole way without appearing to advance an inch, and stopped
to think about it. I suppose he came to the decision that it was not
to be borne, for he steadily refused to move until I gave the reins
to Charley and got out and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy
sort of good humour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his
ear against my sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, “Now, Stubbs, I
feel quite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride
a little while,” for the moment I left him, he stood stock still
again. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in
this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village.
Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages, I
am sure, for in a week’s time the people were so glad to see us go
by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there were
faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the grown
people before and almost all the children, but now the very steeple
began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new friends
was an old old woman who lived in such a little thatched and
whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was turned up on
its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. This old lady had a
grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter to him for her and
drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which she had brought him
up and where his old stool yet occupied its old place. This was
considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement in the
world, but when an answer came back all the way from Plymouth, in
which he mentioned that he was going to take the picture all the way
to America, and from America would write again, I got all the credit
that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested
with the merit of the whole system.
Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many
children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so
many cottages, going on with Charley’s education, and writing long
letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about that
little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If I did think of
it at odd moments now and then, I had only to be busy and forget it.
I felt it more than I had hoped I should once when a child said,
“Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now like she used to be?”
But when I found the child was not less fond of me, and drew its soft
hand over my face with a kind of pitying protection in its touch,
that soon set me up again. There were many little occurrences which
suggested to me, with great consolation, how natural it is to gentle
hearts to be considerate and delicate towards any inferiority. One of
these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little
church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had
to sign the register.
The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude cross
for his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I had
known the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiest girl
in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in the
school, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise. She
came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love and
admiration stood in her bright eyes, “He’s a dear good fellow, miss;
but he can’t write yet—he’s going to learn of me—and I wouldn’t
shame him for the world!” Why, what had I to fear, I thought, when
there was this nobility in the soul of a labouring man’s daughter!
The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever blown,
and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my
old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiant and so
rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole
night.
There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney Wold
where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. The wood had
been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight, and the
bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that I rested there at
least once every day. A picturesque part of the Hall, called the
Ghost’s Walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and the
startling name, and the old legend in the Dedlock family which I had
heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting for it, mingled with the view and
gave it something of a mysterious interest in addition to its real
charms. There was a bank here, too, which was a famous one for
violets; and as it was a daily delight of Charley’s to gather wild
flowers, she took as much to the spot as I did.
It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the house
or never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard on my
arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incurious or
uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat in this
place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a
footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon the
lonely Ghost’s Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Lady Dedlock
had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from the
house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her face and figure
were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot say that they
repelled me from it, though something did. For whatever reason or no
reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the day at which my
story now arrives.
I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, and Charley
was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had been
looking at the Ghost’s Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry afar off
and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to haunt it
when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood. The
perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, and the shadows of
the branches on the ground made it so much more intricate to the eye,
that at first I could not discern what figure it was. By little and
little it revealed itself to be a woman’s—a lady’s—Lady Dedlock’s.
She was alone and coming to where I sat with a much quicker step, I
observed to my surprise, than was usual with her.
I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost
within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to
continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless. Not so
much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick
advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in
her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a
something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I was
a little child, something I had never seen in any face, something I
had never seen in hers before.
A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. Lady
Dedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what I
had known her.
“Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you,” she said, now
advancing slowly. “You can scarcely be strong yet. You have been very
ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it.”
I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than I could
have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me her hand, and
its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforced composure of
her features, deepened the fascination that overpowered me. I cannot
say what was in my whirling thoughts.
“You are recovering again?” she asked kindly.
“I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock.”
“Is this your young attendant?”
“Yes.”
“Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?”
“Charley,” said I, “take your flowers home, and I will follow you
directly.”