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

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

daytime, 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 frequently 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