BLEAK HOUSE

Inapoi la sumar

CHAPTER III  

A Progress  

I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion  of these pages, for I know I am not clever.  I always knew that.  I  can remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say  to my doll when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am not  clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a  dear!"  And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair,  with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not  so much at me, I think, as at nothing--while I busily stitched away  and told her every one of my secrets.  My dear old doll!  I was such a shy little thing that I seldom  dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody  else.  

It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be  to me when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my  room and say, "Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be  expecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the  elbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we  parted.  I had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh,  no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking I  should like to understand it better.  I have not by any means a  quick understanding.  When I love a person very tenderly indeed, it  seems to brighten.  But even that may be my vanity. 

I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of the  princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming--by my  godmother.  At least, I only knew her as such.  She was a good,  good woman!  She went to church three times every Sunday, and to  morning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever  there were lectures; and never missed.  She was handsome; and if  she had ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an  angel--but she never smiled.  She was always grave and strict.  She  was so very good herself, I thought, that the badness of other  people made her frown all her life.  I felt so different from her,  even making every allowance for the differences between a child and  a woman; I felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off that I never  could be unrestrained with her--no, could never even love her as I  wished. 

It made me very sorry to consider how good she was and how  unworthy of her I was, and I used ardently to hope that I might  have a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the dear  old doll, but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have loved  her and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a better  girl.  This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally  was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at  ease.  But something happened when I was still quite a little thing  that helped it very much.  I had never heard my mama spoken of.  I had never heard of my papa  either, but I felt more interested about my mama.  I had never worn  a black frock, that I could recollect.  I had never been shown my  mama's grave.  I had never been told where it was.  Yet I had never  been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. 

I had more  than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael,  our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another  very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said,  "Esther, good night!" and gone away and left me.  Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I  was a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther  Summerson, I knew none of them at home.  All of them were older  than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but  there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that,  and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much  more than I did.  One of them in the first week of my going to the  school (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party,  to my great joy.  But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining  for me, and I never went.  I never went out at all.  It was my birthday. 

There were holidays at school on other  birthdays--none on mine.  There were rejoicings at home on other  birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one  another--there were none on mine.  My birthday was the most  melancholy day at home in the whole year.  I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know  it may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeed  I don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is.  My  disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel  such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with  the quickness of that birthday.  Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table  before the fire. 

The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another  sound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't know  how long.  I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across  the table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily  at me, "It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had  had no birthday, that you had never been born!"  I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, "Oh, dear godmother,  tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?"  "No," she returned. 

"Ask me no more, child!"  "Oh, do pray tell me something of her.  Do now, at last, dear  godmother, if you please!  What did I do to her?  How did I lose  her?  Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my  fault, dear godmother?  No, no, no, don't go away.  Oh, speak to  me!"  I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of her  dress and was kneeling to her.  She had been saying all the while,  "Let me go!"  But now she stood still.  Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the  midst of my vehemence.  I put up my trembling little hand to clasp  hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but  withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering  heart.  She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before  her, said slowly in a cold, low voice--I see her knitted brow and  pointed finger--"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you  were hers.  The time will come--and soon enough--when you will  understand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman  can. 

I have forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrong  she did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater than  you will ever know--than any one will ever know but I, the  sufferer.  For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded  from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the  sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is  written.  Forget your mother and leave all other people to forget  her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness.  Now,  go!"  She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her--so  frozen as I was!--and added this, "Submission, self-denial,  diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a  shadow on it.  You are different from other children, Esther,  because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and  wrath.  You are set apart."  I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek  against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon  my bosom, cried myself to sleep.  Imperfect as my understanding of  my sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to  anybody's heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was  to me. 

Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together  afterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my  birthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I  could to repair the fault I had been born with (of which I  confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as I  grew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to do  some good to some one, and win some love to myself if I could.  I  hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it.   I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help  their coming to my eyes.  There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.  I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more  after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her  house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more  difficult of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my  heart, than ever.  I felt in the same way towards my school  companions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was a  widow; and oh, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, who  came to see her once a fortnight! 

I was very retired and quiet,  and tried to be very diligent.  One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my books  and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was  gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of  the parlour-door and called me back.  Sitting with her, I found-- which was very unusual indeed--a stranger.  A portly, important- looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large  gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring  upon his little finger.  "This," said my godmother in an undertone, "is the child."  Then  she said in her naturally stern way of speaking, "This is Esther,  sir."  The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, "Come  here, my dear!"  He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my  bonnet, looking at me all the while.  When I had complied, he said,  "Ah!" and afterwards "Yes!"  And then, taking off his eye-glasses  and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,  turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a  nod.  Upon that, my godmother said, "You may go upstairs, Esther!"   

And I made him my curtsy and left him.  It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,  when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside.  I  was reading aloud, and she was listening.  I had come down at nine  o'clock as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was reading  from St. John how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger  in the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.  "'So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said  unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a  stone at her!'"  I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her  head, and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of  the book, "'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you  sleeping.  And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'"  In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she  fell down on the floor. 

I had no need to cry out; her voice had  sounded through the house and been heard in the street.  She was laid upon her bed.  For more than a week she lay there,  little altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that  I so well knew carved upon her face.  Many and many a time, in the  day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my  whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed  for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her  to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me.  No, no, no.   Her face was immovable.  To the very last, and even afterwards, her  frown remained unsoftened.  On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman  in black with the white neckcloth reappeared.  I was sent for by  Mrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never  gone away. 

"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kenge  and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."  I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before. 

"Pray be seated--here near me.  Don't distress yourself; it's of no  use.  Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted with  the late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her and  that this young lady, now her aunt is dead--" 

"My aunt, sir!" 

"It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is  to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge smoothly, "Aunt in fact, though  not in law.  Don't distress yourself!  Don't weep!  Don't tremble!   Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a-- Jarndyce and Jarndyce." 

"Never," said Mrs. Rachael.  "Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses,  "that our young friend--I BEG you won't distress yourself!--never  heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!"  I shook my head, wondering even what it was.  "Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking over his  glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he  were petting something.  "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits  known?  Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument  of Chancery practice.  In which (I would say) every difficulty,  every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure  known in that court, is represented over and over again?  It is a  cause that could not exist out of this free and great country.  I  should say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce,  Mrs. Rachael"--I was afraid he addressed himself to her because I  appeared inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty  to SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his  chair.  I felt very ignorant, but what could I do?  I was so entirely  unacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it  even then. 

"And she really never heard of the cause!" said Mr. Kenge.   "Surprising!"  "Miss Barbary, sir," returned Mrs. Rachael, "who is now among the  Seraphim--"  "I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge politely.  "--Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her.   And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more."  "Well!" said Mr. Kenge.  "Upon the whole, very proper.  Now to the  point," addressing me.  "Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact  that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being  deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs.  Rachael--"  "Oh, dear no!" said Mrs. Rachael quickly.  "Quite so," assented Mr. Kenge; "--that Mrs. Rachael should charge  herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress  yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer  which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago  and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable  under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. 

Now,  if I avow that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise,  a highly humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall I  compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" said  Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at us  both.  He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice.   I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave  great importance to every word he uttered.  He listened to himself  with obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own  music with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand.  I was  very much impressed by him--even then, before I knew that he formed  himself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that he  was generally called Conversation Kenge.  "Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--I would say,  desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a  first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,  where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants  shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to  discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has  pleased--shall I say Providence?--to call her."  My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his  affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though  I tried. 

"Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition beyond expressing  his expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove  herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge  and concurrence.  That she will faithfully apply herself to the  acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which  she will be ultimately dependent.  That she will tread in the paths  of virtue and honour, and--the--a--so forth."  I was still less able to speak than before.  "Now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded Mr, Kenge. 

"Take  time, take time!  I pause for her reply.  But take time!"  What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need  not repeat.  What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were  worth the telling.  What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour,  I could never relate.  This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as  I knew) my whole life.  On that day week, amply provided with all  necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.  Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was  not so good, and wept bitterly.  I thought that I ought to have  known her better after so many years and ought to have made myself  enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then.  When she  gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop  from the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--I felt so miserable  and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my  fault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!  "No, Esther!" she returned.  "It is your misfortune!"  The coach was at the little lawn-gate--we had not come out until we  heard the wheels--and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. 

She  went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the  door.  As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from  the window through my tears.  My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael  all the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale;  and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me  the first thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside  in the frost and snow.  A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear  old doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her--I am half ashamed  to tell it--in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old  window.  I had no companion left but my bird, and him I carried  with me in his cage.  When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the  straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high  window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces  of spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night's  snow, and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice,  dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow  away.  There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite  seat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat  gazing out of the other window and took no notice of me.  I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, of  her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange  place I was going to, of the people I should find there, and what  they would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in  the coach gave me a terrible start. 

It said, "What the de-vil are you crying for?"  I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a  whisper, "Me, sir?"  For of course I knew it must have been the  gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking  out of his window.  "Yes, you," he said, turning round.  "I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered.  "But you are!" said the gentleman.  "Look here!"  He came quite  opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of  his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and  showed me that it was wet.  "There!  Now you know you are," he said.  "Don't you?"  "Yes, sir," I said.  "And what are you crying for?" said the genfleman, "Don't you want  to go there?"  "Where, sir?"  "Where?  Why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman.  "I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered.  "Well, then!  Look glad!" said the gentleman.  I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of  him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his  face was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the  side of his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again,  and not afraid of him.  So I told him that I thought I must have  been crying because of my godmother's death and because of Mrs.  Rachael's not being sorry to part with me.  "Confound Mrs. Rachael!" said the gentleman.  "Let her fly away in  a high wind on a broomstick!"  I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the  greatest astonishment.  But I thought that he had pleasant eyes,  although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and  calling Mrs. Rachael names.  After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to  me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down  into a deep pocket in the side.  "Now, look here!" he said.  "In this paper," which was nicely  folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for  money--sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton  chops.  Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and  quality), made in France.  And what do you suppose it's made of?   Livers of fat geese.  There's a pie!  Now let's see you eat 'em."  "Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much indeed, but I  hope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me."  "Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all  understand, and threw them both out of window.  He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a  little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl  and to be studious, and shook hands with me.  I must say I was  relieved by his departure.  We left him at a milestone.  I often  walked past it afterwards, and never for a long time without  thinking of him and half expecting to meet him. 

But I never did;  and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind.  When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window  and said, "Miss Donny."  "No, ma'am, Esther Summerson."  "That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny."  I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and  begged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes  at her request.  Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were  put outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the  maid, and I got inside and were driven away.  "Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny, "and the  scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with  the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce."  "Of--did you say, ma'am?"  "Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny.  I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too  severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.  "Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked after a  good deal of hesitation.  "Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely through his  solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London.  A very superior  gentleman, Mr. Kenge.  Truly eloquent indeed.  Some of his periods  quite majestic!"  I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it.   Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover  myself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget the  uncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss  Donny's house) that afternoon!  But I soon became used to it. 

I was so adapted to the routine of  Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great  while and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old  life at my godmother's.  Nothing could be more precise, exact, and  orderly than Greenleaf.  There was a time for everything all round  the dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointed  moment.  We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins.  It  was understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on my  qualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed in  everything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged  in helping to instruct others.  Although I was treated in every  other respect like the rest of the school, this single difference  was made in my case from the first.  As I began to know more, I  taught more, and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which I  was very fond of doing because it made the dear girls fond of me.   At last, whenever a new pupil came who was a little downcast and  unhappy, she was so sure--indeed I don't know why--to make a friend  of me that all new-comers were confided to my care.  They said I  was so gentle, but I am sure THEY were!  I often thought of the  resolution I had made on my birthday to try to be industrious,  contented, and true-hearted and to do some good to some one and win  some love if I could; and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed to  have done so little and have won so much.  I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years.  I never saw in any  face there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been  better if I had never been born.  When the day came round, it  brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room  was beautiful with them from New Year's Day to Christmas.  In those six years I had never been away except on visits at  holiday time in the neighbourhood. 

 After the first six months or  so I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety of  writing to Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and grateful, and with  her approval I had written such a letter.  I had received a formal  answer acknowledging its receipt and saying, "We note the contents  thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client."  After  that I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how  regular my accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured to  write a similar letter.  I always received by return of post  exactly the same answer in the same round hand, with the signature  of Kenge and Carboy in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr.  Kenge's.  It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about  myself!  As if this narrative were the narrative of MY life!  But  my little body will soon fall into the background now.  Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had  passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a  looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,  one November morning, I received this letter.  I omit the date.   Old Square, Lincoln's Inn  Madam,  Jarndyce and Jarndyce  Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an  Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this cause, for whom he  wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he  will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity.  We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eight  o'clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next, to White Horse  Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of our clks will be in  waiting to convey you to our offe as above. 

We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,  Kenge and Carboy  Miss Esther Summerson   Oh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter  caused in the house!  It was so tender in them to care so much for  me, it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to  have made my orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so  many youthful natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it.  Not  that I would have had them less sorry--I am afraid not; but the  pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it,  and the humble regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed  almost breaking while it was full of rapture.  The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal.  When  every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were  given me in those five days, and when at last the morning came and  when they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for  the last time, and when some cried, "Esther, dear, say good-bye to  me here at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and  when others asked me only to write their names, "With Esther's  love," and when they all surrounded me with their parting presents  and clung to me weeping and cried, "What shall we do when dear,  dear Esther's gone!" and when I tried to tell them how forbearing  and how good they had all been to me and how I blessed and thanked  them every one, what a heart I had!  And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the  least among them, and when the maids said, "Bless you, miss,  wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I  thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting  after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums and told  me I had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!-- what a heart I had then!  And could I help it if with all this, and the coming to the little  school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside  waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentleman  and lady whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I  had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all that  country), caring for nothing but calling out, "Good-bye, Esther.   May you be very happy!"--could I help it if I was quite bowed down  in the coach by myself and said "Oh, I am so thankful, I am so  thankful!" many times over!  But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I  was going after all that had been done for me.  Therefore, of  course, I made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by  saying very often, "Esther, now you really must!  This WILL NOT  do!" I cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid I  was longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I had  cooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for  London.  I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles  off, and when we really were there, that we should never get there.   However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and  particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into  us, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, I  began to believe that we really were approaching the end of our  journey.  Very soon afterwards we stopped. 

A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed me  from the pavement and said, "I am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, of  Lincoln's Inn."  "If you please, sir," said I.  He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly after  superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether there  was a great fire anywhere?  For the streets were so full of dense  brown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen.  "Oh, dear no, miss," he said.  "This is a London particular."  I had never heard of such a thing.  "A fog, miss," said the young gentleman.  "Oh, indeed!" said I.  We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever  were seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting state  of confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses,  until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove  on through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a  corner, where there was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of  stairs, like an entrance to a church.  And there really was a  churchyard outside under some cloisters, for I saw the gravestones  from the staircase window.  This was Kenge and Carboy's.  The young gentleman showed me through  an outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--and  politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire.  He then called my  attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side  of the chimney-piece.  "In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the  journey, as you're going before the Chancellor.  Not that it's  requisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly.  "Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for a moment.  "Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman.  "Mr.  Kenge is in court now.  He left his compliments, and would you  partake of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter of  wine on a small table--"and look over the paper," which the young  gentleman gave me as he spoke. 

He then stirred the fire and left  me.  Everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in the  day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw  and cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing  what they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly.   As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down,  took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and  looked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby,  dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full  of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to  say for themselves.  Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking;  and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles  went on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until  the young gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for two  hours.  At last Mr. Kenge came.  HE was not altered, but he was surprised  to see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased.  "As you are  going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the  Chancellor's private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought it  well that you should be in attendance also.  You will not be  discomposed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?"  "No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall," really not seeing on  consideration why I should be.  So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under a  colonnade, and in at a side door.  And so we came, along a passage,  into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young  gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire.  A screen  was interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the  screen, talking.  They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady,  with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl!  With such  rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent,  trusting face!  "Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson."  She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended,  but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me.  In short,  she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in a few  minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the  fire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.  What a load off my mind!  It was so delightful to know that she  could confide in me and like me!  It was so good of her, and so  encouraging to me!  The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his  name Richard Carstone.  He was a handsome youth with an ingenuous  face and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to  where we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talking  gaily, like a light-hearted boy.  He was very young, not more than  nineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older than  she was. 

They were both orphans and (what was very unexpected and  curious to me) had never met before that day.  Our all three coming  together for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing to  talk about, and we talked about it; and the fire, which had left  off roaring, winked its red eyes at us--as Richard said--like a  drowsy old Chancery lion.  We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a  bag wig frequenfly came in and out, and when he did so, we could  hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the  counsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor.  He told Mr.  Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and  presently we heard a bustle and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge said  that the Court had risen and his lordship was in the next room.  The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly and  requested Mr. Kenge to come in.  Upon that, we all went into the  next room, Mr. Kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to me  now that I can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in  black and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his  lordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown  upon another chair.  He gave us a searching look as we entered, but  his manner was both courtly and kind.  The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his  lordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one and turned  over the leaves.  "Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor.  "Miss Ada Clare?"  Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down  near him.  That he admired her and was interested by her even I  could see in a moment.  It touched me that the home of such a  beautiful young creature should be represented by that dry,  official place.  The Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so  poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents.  "The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still turning  over leaves, "is Jarndyce of Bleak House."  "Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.  "A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor.  "But not a dreary place at present, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.  "And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in--"  "Hertfordshire, my lord."  "Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" said his lordship.  "He is not, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.  A pause.  "Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chancellor,  glancing towards him.  Richard bowed and stepped forward.  "Hum!" said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.  "Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed in a low  voice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a  suitable companion for--"  "For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I am not quite sure) I  heard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.  "For Miss Ada Clare.  This is the young lady.  Miss Summerson." 

His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsy  very graciously.  "Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?"  "No, my lord."  Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered.  His  lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or  thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again  until we were going away.  Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, near  the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can't  help it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lordship  spoke a little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whether  she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she  thought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak  House, and why she thought so?  Presently he rose courteously and  released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with Richard  Carstone, not seated, but standing, and altogether with more ease  and less ceremony, as if he still knew, though he WAS Lord  Chancellor, how to go straight to the candour of a boy.  "Very well!" said his lordship aloud.  "I shall make the order.   Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge," and  this was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the young  lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the  circumstances admit."  He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged  to him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainly  lost no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.  When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that he must  go back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, with  the Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come  out. 

"Well!" said Richard Carstone. 

"THAT'S over!  And where do we go  next, Miss Summerson?"  "Don't you know?" I said.  "Not in the least," said he.  "And don't YOU know, my love?" I asked Ada.  "No!" said she.  "Don't you?"  "Not at all!" said I.  We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the  children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed  bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us  with an air of great ceremony.  "Oh!" said she.  "The wards in Jarndyce!  Ve-ry happy, I am sure,  to have the honour!  It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and  beauty when they find themselves in this place, and don't know  what's to come of it."  "Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.  "Right!  Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he was  quite abashed.  "I was a ward myself.  I was not mad at that time,"  curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence.  "I had  youth and hope.  I believe, beauty.  It matters very little now.   Neither of the three served or saved me.  I have the honour to  attend court regularly.  With my documents.  I expect a judgment.   Shortly.  On the Day of Judgment. 

I have discovered that the sixth  seal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal.  It has been  open a long time!  Pray accept my blessing."  As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor old  lady, that we were much obliged to her.  "Ye-es!" she said mincingly.  "I imagine so.  And here is  Conversation Kenge.  With HIS documents!  How does your honourable  worship do?"  "Quite well, quite well!  Now don't be troublesome, that's a good  soul!" said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.  "By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me.   "Anything but troublesome.  I shall confer estates on both--which  is not being troublesome, I trust?  I expect a judgment.  Shortly.   

On the Day of Judgment.  This is a good omen for you.  Accept my  blessing!"  She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but  we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying,  still with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence,  "Youth.  And hope.  And beauty.  And Chancery.  And Conversation  Kenge!  Ha!  Pray accept my blessing!"

<Pagina anterioara                                                                                                                            Pagina urmatoare>