Chapter 23

Esther's Narrative

e came home from Mr Boythorn's after six pleasant

weeks. We were often in the park, and in the woods,

and seldom passed the Lodge where we had taken

shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper's wife; but we

saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except at church on Sundays.

There was company at Chesney Wold; and although several

beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the same

influence on me as at first. I do not quite know, even now, whether

it was painful or pleasurable; whether it drew me towards her, or

made me shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind of

fear; and I know that in her presence my thoughts always

wandered back, as they had done at first, to that old time of my

life.

I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what

this lady so curiously was to me, I was to her―I mean that I

disturbed her thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some

different way. But when I stole a glance at her, and saw her so

composed and distant and unapproachable, I felt this to be a

foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt the whole state of my mind in

reference to her to be weak and unreasonable; and I remonstrated

with myself about it as much as I could.

One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr Boythorn's

house, I had better mention in this place.

I was walking in the garden with Ada, when I was told that

some one wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where

this person was waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had

cast off her shoes and walked through the wet grass, on the day

when it thundered and lightened.

"Mademoiselle," she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-

eager eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance,

and speaking neither with boldness nor servility, "I have taken a

great liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being

so amiable, mademoiselle."

"No excuse is necessary," I returned, "if you wish to speak to

me."

"That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the

permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?" she said, in a

quick, natural way.

"Certainly," said I.

"Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. I

have left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high; so very

high. Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right!" Her quickness

anticipated what I might have said presently, but as yet had only

thought. "It is not for me to come here to complain of my Lady.

But I say she is so high, so very high. I will say not a word more.

All the world knows that."

"Go on, if you please," said I.

"Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness.

Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a

young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good,

accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the

honour of being your domestic!"

"I am sorry―" I began.

"Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!" she said, with an

involuntarycontraction of her fine black eyebrows. "Let me hope

a moment! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more

retired than that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know

this service would be less distinguished than that which I have

quitted. Well! I wish that. I know that I should win less, as to

wages here. Good. I am content."

"I assure you," said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of

having such an attendant, "that I keep no maid―"

"Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have

one so devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who

would be so true, so zealous, and so faithful, every day!

Mademoiselle, I wish with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak

of money at present. Take me as I am. For nothing!"

She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid of

her. Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour, she still pressed

herself upon me; speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though

always with a certain grace and propriety.

"Mademoiselle, I come from the South country, where we are

quick, and where we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was too

high for me; I was too high for her. It is done―past―finished!

Receive me as your domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do

more for you, than you figure to yourself now. Chut!

mademoiselle, I will―no matter, I will do my utmost possible, in

all things. If you accept my service, you will not repent it.

Mademoiselle, you will not repent it, and I will serve you well. You

don't know how well!"

There was a lowering energy in her face, as she stood looking at

me while I explained the impossibility of my engaging her (without

thinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so),

which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the

streets of Paris in the reign of terror. She heard me out without

interruption; and then said, with her pretty accent, and in her

mildest voice:―

"Hey, mademoiselle, I have received my answer! I am sorry of

it. But I must go elsewhere, and seek what I have not found here.

Will you graciously let me kiss your hand?"

She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to

take note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. "I fear I

surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?" she said,

with a partingcurtsey.

I confessed that she had surprised us all.

"I took an oath, mademoiselle," she said smiling, "and I wanted

to stamp it on my mind, so that I might keep it faithfully. And I

will! Adieu, mademoiselle!"

So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a

close. I suppose she went away from the village, for I saw her no

more; and nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer

pleasures, until six weeks were out, and we returned home as I

began just now by saying.

At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time,

Richard was constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday

or Sunday, and remaining with us until Monday morning, he

sometimes rode out on horsebackunexpectedly, and passed the

evening with us, and rode back again early next day. He was as

vivacious as ever, and told us he was very industrious; but I was

not easy in my mind about him. It appeared to me that his

industry was all misdirected. I could not find that it led to

anything, but the formation of delusive hopes in connection with

the suit already the pernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin.

He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told us; and nothing

could be plainer than that the will under which he and Ada were

to take, I don't know how many thousands of pounds, must be

finally established, if there were any sense or justice in the Court

of Chancery―but O what a great if that sounded in my ears―and

that this happy conclusion could not be much longer delayed. He

proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that side he

had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the

infatuation. He had even begun to haunt the Court. He told us how

he saw Miss Flite there daily; how they talked together, and he did

her little kindnesses; and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied

her from his heart. But he never thought―never, my poor dear,

sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with

such better things before him!―what a fatal link was riveting

between his fresh youth and her faded age; between his free hopes

and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering

mind.

Ada loved him too well, to mistrust him much in anything he

said or did; and my Guardian, though he frequently complained of

the east wind and read more than usual in the Growlery,

preserved a strict silence on the subject. So, I thought, one day

when I went to London to meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I

would ask Richard to be in waiting for me at the coach-office, that

we might have a little talk together. I found him there when I

arrived, and we walked away arm in arm.

"Well, Richard," said I, as soon as I could begin to be grave with

him, "are you beginning to feel more settled now?"

"O yes, my dear!" returned Richard. "I am all right enough."

"But settled?" said I.

"How do you mean, settled?" returned Richard, with his gay

laugh.

"Settled in the law," said I.

"O aye," replied Richard, "I'm all right enough."

"You said that before, my dear Richard."

"And you don't think it's an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it's not.

Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?"

"Yes."

"Why, no, I can't say I'm settling down," said Richard, strongly

emphasising 'down,' as if that expressed the difficulty; "because

one can't settle down while this business remains in such an

unsettled state. When I say this business, of course I mean the―

forbidden subject."

"Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?" said I.

"Not the least doubt of it," answered Richard.

We walked a little way without speaking; and presently Richard

addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus:

"My dear Esther, I understand you, and I wish to Heaven I

were a more constant sort of fellow. I don't mean constant to Ada,

for I love her dearly―better and better every day―but constant to

myself. (Somehow, I mean something that I can't very well

express, but you'll make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of

fellow, I should have held on, either to Badger, or to Kenge and

Carboy, like grim death; and should have begun to be steady and

systematic by this time, and shouldn't be in debt―"

"Are you in debt, Richard?"

"Yes," said Richard, "I am a little so, my dear. Also I have taken

too rather much to billiards, and that sort of thing. Now the

murder's out; you despise me, Esther, don't you?"

"You know I don't," said I.

"You are kinder to me than I often am to myself," he returned.

"My dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more

settled, but how can I be more settled? If you live in an unfinished

house, you couldn't settle down in it; if you were condemned to

leave everything you undertook, unfinished, you would find it

hard to apply yourself to anything; and yet that's my unhappy

case. I was born into this unfinishedcontention with all its

chances and changes, and it began to unsettle me before I quite

knew the difference between a suit at law and a suit of clothes; and

it has gone on unsettling me ever since; and here I am now,

conscious sometimes that I am but a worthless fellow to love my

confiding cousin Ada."

We were in a solitary place, and he put his hand before his eyes

and sobbed as he said the words.

"O Richard!" said I, "do not be so moved. You have a noble

nature, and Ada's love may make you worthier every day."

"I know, my dear," he replied pressing my arm, "I know all

that. You musn't mind my being a little soft now, for I have had all

this upon my mind for a long time; and have often meant to speak

to you, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes

courage. I know what the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it

doesn't do it. I am too unsettled even for that. I love her most

devotedly; and yet I do her wrong, in doing myself wrong, every

day and hour. But it can't last for ever. We shall come on for a final

hearing, and get judgment in our favour; and then you and Ada

shall see what I can really be!"

It had given me a pang to hear him sob, and see the tears start

out between his fingers; but that was infinitely less affecting to me,

than the hopeful animation with which he said these words.

"I have looked well into the papers, Esther―I have been deep

in them for months," he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in

a moment, "and you may rely upon it that we shall come out

triumphant. As to years of delay, there has been no want of them,

Heaven knows! and there is the greater probability of our bringing

the matter to a speedy close; in fact, it's on the paper now. It will

be all right at last, and then you shall see!"

Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and

Carboy in the same category with Mr Badger, I asked him when

he intended to be articled in Lincoln's Inn?

"There again! I think not at all, Esther," he returned with an

effort. "I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at Jarndyce

and Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirst for the

law, and satisfied myself that I shouldn't like it. Besides, I find it

unsettles me more and more to be so constantly upon the scene of

action. So what," continued Richard, confident again by this time,

"do I naturally turn my thoughts to?"

"I can't imagine," said I.

"Don't look so serious ," returned Richard, "because it's the best

thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It's not as if I wanted

a profession for life. These proceedings will come to a termination,

and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as a pursuit which is

in its nature more or less unsettled, and therefore suited to my

temporary condition―I may say, precisely suited. What is it that I

naturally turn my thoughts to?"

I looked at him, and shook my head.

"What," said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, "but the

army!"

"The army?" said I.

"The army, of course. What I have to do, is, to get a commission;

and―there I am, you know!" said Richard.

And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his

pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say two hundred

pounds of debt in six months, out of the army; and that he

contracted no debt at all within a corresponding period, in the

army―as to which he had quite made up his mind; this step must

involve a saving of four hundred pounds in a year, or two

thousand pounds in five years―which was a considerable sum.

And then he spoke so ingenuously and sincerely, of the sacrifice

he made in withdrawing himself for a time from Ada, and of the

earnestness with which he aspired―as in thought he always did, I

know full well―to repay her love, and to ensure her happiness,

and to conquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire the very

soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely. For, I

thought how would this end, how could this end, when so soon

and so surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal

blight that ruined everything it rested on!

I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all the

hope I could not quite feel then; and implored him, for Ada's sake,

not to put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Richard readily

assented; riding over the Court and everything else in his easy

way, and drawing the brightest pictures of the character he was to

settle into―alas, when the grievous suit should loose its hold upon

him! We had a long talk, but it always came back to that, in

substance.

At last, we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had

appointed to wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of

Newman-street. Caddy was in the garden in the centre and

hurried out as soon as I appeared. After a few cheerful words,

Richard left us together.

"Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther," said Caddy, "and got

the key for us. So, if you will walk round and round here with me,

we can lock ourselves in, and I can tell you comfortably what I

wanted to see your dear good face about."

"Very well, my dear," said I. "Nothing could be better." So

Caddy, after affectionately" title="ad.热情地；体贴地">affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she

called it, locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk

round the garden very cosily.

"You see, Esther," said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a little

confidence, "after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry

without Ma's knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark

respecting our engagement―though I don't believe Ma cares

much for me, I must say―I thought it right to mention your

opinions to Prince. In the first place, because I want to profit by

everything you tell me; and in the second place, because I have no

secrets from Prince."

"I hope he approved, Caddy?"

"O, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you

could say. You have no idea what an opinion he has of you!"

"Indeed?"

"Esther, it's enough to make anybody but me jealous," said

Caddy, laughing and shaking her head; "but it only makes me

joyful, for you are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I

ever can have, and nobody can respect and love you too much to

please me."

"Upon my word, Caddy," said I, "you are in the general

conspiracy to keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?"

"Well! I am going to tell you," replied Caddy, crossing her

hands confidentially upon my arm. "So we talked a good deal

about it, and so I said to Prince, 'Prince, as Miss Summerson―'"

"I hope you didn't say 'Miss Summerson?'"

"No. I didn't!" cried Caddy, greatly pleased, and with the

brightest of faces. "I said, 'Esther.' I said to Prince, 'As Esther is

decidedly of that opinion, Prince, and has expressed it to me, and

always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so

fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared to disclose the truth

to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think, Prince,' said I, 'that

Esther thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more

honourable position altogether, if you did the same to your Papa.'"

"Yes, my dear," said I. "Esther certainly does think so."

"So I was right, you see!" exclaimed Caddy. "Well! this troubled

Prince a good deal; not because he had the least doubt about it,

but he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr Turveydrop; and

he had his apprehensions that old Mr Turveydrop might break his

heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting

manner or other, if he made such an announcement. He feared old

Mr Turveydrop might consider it undutiful, and might receive too

great a shock. For, old Mr Turveydrop's deportment is very

beautiful you know, Esther," added Caddy; "and his feelings are

extremely sensitive."

"Are they, my dear?"

"O, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused

my darling child―I didn't mean to use the expression to you,

Esther," Caddy apologised, her face suffused with blushes, "but I

generally call Prince my darling child."

I laughed; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on.

"This has caused him, Esther―"

"Caused whom, my dear?"

"O you tiresome thing!" said Caddy, laughing, with her pretty

face on fire. "My darling child, if you insist upon it!―This has,

caused him weeks of uneasiness, and has made him delay, from

day to day, in a very anxious manner. At last he said to me, 'Caddy,

if Miss Summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could

be prevailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think I

could do it.' So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my

mind, besides," said Caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly,

"that if you consented, I would ask you afterwards to come with

me to Ma. This is what I meant, when I said in my note that I had a

great favour and a great assistance to beg of you. And if you

thought you could grant it, Esther, we should both be very

grateful."

"Let me see, Caddy," said I, pretending to consider. "Really I

think I could do a greater thing than that, if the need were

pressing. I am at your service and the darling child's, my dear,

whenever you like."

Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine; being, I

believe, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as

any tender heart that ever beat in this world; and after another

turn or two round the garden, during which she put on an entirely

new pair of gloves, and made herself as resplendent as possible

that she might do no avoidable discredit to the Master of

Deportment, we went to Newman Street direct.

Prince was teaching, of course. We found him engaged with a

not very hopeful pupil―a stubborn little girl with a sulky

forehead, a deep voice, and an inanimate dissatisfied mamma―

whose case was certainly not rendered more hopeful by the

confusion into which we threw her preceptor. The lesson at last

came to an end, after proceeding as discordantly as possible; and

when the little girl had changed her shoes, and had had her white

muslin extinguished in shawls, she was taken away. After a few

words of preparation, we then went in search of Mr Turveydrop;

whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as a model of

Deportment, on the sofa in his private apartment―the only

comfortable room in the house. He appeared to have dressed at his

leisure, in the intervals of a light collation; and his dressing-case,

brushes, and so forth, all of quiet and elegant kind, lay about.

"Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby."

"Charmed! Enchanted!" said Mr Turveydrop, rising with his

high-shouldered bow. "Permit me!" handing chairs. "Be seated!"

kissing the tips of his left fingers. "Overjoyed!" shutting his eyes

and rolling. "My little retreat is made a Paradise." Recomposing

himself on the sofa, like the second gentleman in Europe.

"Again you find us, Miss Summerson," said he, "using our little

arts to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us, and rewards us,

by the condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in these

times (and we have made an awfully degenerating business of it

since the days of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent―my

patron, if I may presume to say so) to experience that Deportment

is not wholly trodden under foot by mechanics. That it can yet

bask in the smile of Beauty, my dear madam."

I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he took a

pinch of snuff.

"My dear son," said Mr Turveydrop, "you have four schools this

afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich."