Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Charles Dickens
- Performer: 0141439726
Book online «Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖». Author Charles Dickens
I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and
when I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was
true, I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for
that. Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night,
I could be worthier of it all through my life. And it was a
comfort to me, and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise up
within me that was derived from him when I thought so.
He broke the silence.
“I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who
will evermore be as dear to me as now”—and the deep earnestness
with which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep—
“if, after her assurance that she is not free to think of my love,
I urged it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea
of you which I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came
home. I have always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to
stand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you this. I have always
feared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are
both fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have said enough.”
Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he
thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained!
I wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when he
showed that first commiseration for me.
“Dear Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “before we part to-night, something
is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish—I never
shall—but—”
I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his
affliction before I could go on.
“—I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure
its remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I
am, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know
what a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said
to me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there
are none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be
lost. It shall make me better.”
He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How
could I ever be worthy of those tears?
“If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together—in
tending Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life
—you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think is
better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from
to-night and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear
dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that
while my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of
having been beloved by you.”
He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I
felt still more encouraged.
“I am induced by what you said just now,” said I, “to hope that you
have succeeded in your endeavour.”
“I have,” he answered. “With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you
who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have
succeeded.”
“Heaven bless him for it,” said I, giving him my hand; “and heaven
bless you in all you do!”
“I shall do it better for the wish,” he answered; “it will make me
enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.”
“Ah! Richard!” I exclaimed involuntarily, “What will he do when
you are gone!”
“I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss
Summerson, even if I were.”
One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me.
I knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take
if I reserved it.
“Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “you will be glad to know from my lips
before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and
bright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to
regret or desire.”
It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.
“From my childhood I have been,” said I, “the object of the
untiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so
bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing
I could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of a
single day.”
“I share those feelings,” he returned. “You speak of Mr.
Jarndyce.”
“You know his virtues well,” said I, “but few can know the
greatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and best
qualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in
the shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your
highest homage and respect had not been his already—which I know
they are—they would have been his, I think, on this assurance and
in the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for my
sake.”
He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I
gave him my hand again.
“Good night,” I said, “Good-bye.”
“The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to
this theme between us for ever.”
“Yes.”
“Good night; good-bye.”
He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street.
His love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly
upon me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way
again and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.
But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called
me the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear
to him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the
triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had
died away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not too
late to be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and
contented. How easy my path, how much easier than his!
Another Discovery
I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even
the courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a
little reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed
in the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of
any light to read my guardian’s letter by, for I knew it by heart.
I took it from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents
by its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep
with it on my pillow.
I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a
walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and
arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early that
I had a good time still for Charley’s lesson before breakfast;
Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defective
article of grammar) came through it with great applause; and we
were altogether very notable. When my guardian appeared he
said, “Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!”
And Mrs. Woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the
Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my being like a mountain with
the sun upon it.
This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my
opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in
his own room—the room of last night—by himself. Then I made an
excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after
me.
“Well, Dame Durden?” said my guardian; the post had brought him
several letters, and he was writing. “You want money?”
“No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.”
“There never was such a Dame Durden,” said my guardian, “for making
money last.”
He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at
me. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had
never seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness
upon it which made me think, “He has been doing some great kindness
this morning.”
“There never was,” said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me,
“such a Dame Durden for making money last.”
He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so
much that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which
was always put at his side—for sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him—
I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But
I found I did not disturb it at all.
“Dear guardian,” said I, “I want to speak to you. Have I been
remiss in anything?”
“Remiss in anything, my dear!”
“Have I not been what I have meant to be since—I brought the
answer to your letter, guardian?”
“You have been everything I could desire, my love.”
“I am very glad indeed to hear that,” I returned. “You know, you
said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said,
yes.”
“Yes,” said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm
about me as if there were something to protect me from and looked
in my face, smiling.
“Since then,” said I, “we have never spoken on the subject except
once.”
“And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear.”
“And I said,” I timidly reminded him, “but its mistress remained.”
He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.
“Dear guardian,” said I, “I know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has
passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well
again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought
to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please.”
“See,” he returned gaily, “what a sympathy there must be between
us! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted—it’s a large
exception—in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When
shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?”
“When you please.”
“Next month?”
“Next month, dear guardian.”
“The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life—the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world—the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress—shall be next month then,” said my guardian.
I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on
the day when I brought my answer.
A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite
unnecessary, for Mr.
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