Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖

Richard.

 

“By my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing another

volley, “that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather

was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull,

ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station

of life but a walking-stick’s! The whole of that family are the

most solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads! But it’s no

matter; he should not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets

melted into one and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within

another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by

his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me ‘Sir Leicester

Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. Lawrence

Boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green

pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr.

Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester’s right of way, being in fact a

portion of the park of chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester finds

it convenient to close up the same.’ I write to the fellow, ‘Mr.

Lawrence Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir Leicester

Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call HIS attention to the fact that he

totally denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock’s positions on

every possible subject and has to add, in reference to closing up

the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertake

to do it.’ The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye

to construct a gateway. I play upon that execrable scoundrel with

a fire-engine until the breath is nearly driven out of his body.

The fellow erects a gate in the night. I chop it down and burn it

in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to come over the fence and

pass and repass. I catch them in humane man traps, fire split peas

at their legs, play upon them with the engine—resolve to free

mankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of those

lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass; I bring actions

for trespass. He brings actions for assault and battery; I defend

them and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha, ha!”

 

To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have

thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same

time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly

smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought

him the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good nature

of his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in

the world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence

was a summer joke.

 

“No, no,” he said, “no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock!

Though I willingly confess,” here he softened in a moment, “that

Lady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I

would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a

head seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment

at twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and

presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the

breath of life through a tight waist—and got broke for it—is not

the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive,

locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!”

 

“Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?” said my

guardian.

 

“Most assuredly not!” said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him on the

shoulder with an air of protection that had something serious in

it, though he laughed. “He will stand by the low boy, always.

Jarndyce, you may rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass—

with apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at

which I have pursued so dry a subject—is there nothing for me from

your men Kenge and Carboy?”

 

“I think not, Esther?” said Mr. Jarndyce.

 

“Nothing, guardian.”

 

“Much obliged!” said Mr. Boythorn. “Had no need to ask, after even

my slight experience of Miss Summerson’s forethought for every one

about her.” (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do

it.) “I inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course

have not yet been in town, and I thought some letters might have

been sent down here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning.”

 

I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very

pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and a

satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat

at a little distance from the piano listening to the music—and he

had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of

music, for his face showed it—that I asked my guardian as we sat

at the backgammon board whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married.

 

“No,” said he. “No.”

 

“But he meant to be!” said I.

 

“How did you find out that?” he returned with a smile. “Why,

guardian,” I explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding

what was in my thoughts, “there is something so tender in his

manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and

—”

 

Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have

just described him.

 

I said no more.

 

“You are right, little woman,” he answered. “He was all but

married once. Long ago. And once.”

 

“Did the lady die?”

 

“No—but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all

his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart

full of romance yet?”

 

“I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to

say that when you have told me so.”

 

“He has never since been what he might have been,” said Mr.

Jarndyce, “and now you see him in his age with no one near him but

his servant and his little yellow friend. It’s your throw, my

dear!”

 

I felt, from my guardian’s manner, that beyond this point I could

not pursue the subject without changing the wind. I therefore

forbore to ask any further questions. I was interested, but not

curious. I thought a little while about this old love story in the

night, when I was awakened by Mr. Boythorn’s lusty snoring; and I

tried to do that very difficult thing, imagine old people young

again and invested with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep

before I had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when I lived in my

godmother’s house. I am not sufficiently acquainted with such

subjects to know whether it is at all remarkable that I almost

always dreamed of that period of my life.

 

With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Carboy

to Mr. Boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would wait

upon him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid the

bills, and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as

compact as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and

Richard took advantage of a very fine day to make a little

excursion, Mr. Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy’s clerk and

then was to go on foot to meet them on their return.

 

Well! I was full of business, examining tradesmen’s books, adding

up columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making a

great bustle about it when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. I

had had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be

the young gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and I was

glad to see him, because he was associated with my present

happiness.

 

I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had an

entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid

gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hothouse

flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little

finger. Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with

bear’s-grease and other perfumery. He looked at me with an

attention that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat

until the servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and

uncrossing his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a

pleasant ride, and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked at

him, but I found him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and

curious way.

 

When the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs to

Mr. Boythorn’s room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared

for him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would

partake. He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the

door, “Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?” I

replied yes, I should be there; and he went out with a bow and

another look.

 

I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much

embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be

to wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to

leave him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remained

for some time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a

long one, and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his

room was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now

and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides

of denunciation.

 

At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the

conference. “My eye, miss,” he said in a low voice, “he’s a

Tartar!”

 

“Pray take some refreshment, sir,” said I.

 

Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the

carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt

quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The

sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation

on me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under

which he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.

 

He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.

 

“What will you take yourself, miss? You’ll take a morsel of

something?”

 

“No, thank you,” said I.

 

“Shan’t I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?” said Mr.

Guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.

 

“Nothing, thank you,” said I. “I have only waited to see that you

have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?”

 

“No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I’m sure. I’ve everything that

I can require to make me comfortable—at least I—not comfortable—

I’m never that.” He drank off two more glasses of wine, one after

another.

 

I thought I had better go.

 

“I beg your pardon, miss!” said Mr. Guppy, rising when he saw me

rise. “But would you allow me the favour of a minute’s private

conversation?”

 

Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.

 

“What follows is without prejudice, miss?” said Mr. Guppy, anxiously

bringing a chair towards my table.

 

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said I, wondering.

 

“It’s one of our law terms, miss. You won’t make any use of it to

my detriment at Kenge and Carboy’s or elsewhere. If our

conversation shouldn’t lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am

not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In

short,