Bleak House - The Original Classic Edition. Dickens Charles

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       "But night is coming on," says he, "and my Lady will take cold. My dear, let us go in."

       As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr. Tulkinghorn for the first time.

       "You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can't imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely had some."

       "You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.

       "Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?"

       "Yes."

       "How very odd!"

       They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where, through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller besides the waste of clouds.

       My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands

       before the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. He looks across his arm at my Lady. "Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what is very strange, I found him--" "Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!" Lady Dedlock languidly anticipates.

       "I found him dead."

       "Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. "I was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken place--and I found him dead."

       "You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "I think the less said--"

       "Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my Lady speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking! Dead?" Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. "Whether by his own hand--"

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       "Upon my honour!" cries Sir Leicester. "Really!" "Do let me hear the story!" says my Lady. "Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say--" "No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."

       Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really--

       really--

       "I was about to say," resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was be-yond my power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally."

       "And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorable creature?"

       "Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "He had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition."

       "What did they call the wretched being?"

       "They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name." "Not even any one who had attended on him?"

       "No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found him." "Without any clue to anything more?"

       "Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old portmanteau, but--No, there were no papers."

       During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (un-less he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.

       "Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."

       Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own

       shrine. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home. They appear to take as little note of one another as any two people enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts.

       CHAPTER XIII

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       Esther's Narrative

       We held many consultations about what Richard was to be, first without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him, but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether he might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he had thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked him what he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try and decide within himself whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary boyish inclination or a strong impulse, Richard answered, Well he really HAD tried very often, and he couldn't make out.

       "How much of this indecision of character," Mr. Jarndyce said to me, "is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or confirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that, and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissing everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of much older and steadier people may be even changed by the circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect

       that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences and escape them."

       I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what I thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard's education had not counteracted those influences or directed his character. He had been eight years at a public school and had learnt, I understood, to make Latin verses of several sorts in the most admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to HIM. HE had been

       adapted to the verses and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection СКАЧАТЬ