I lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life
became like an old remembrance. But this was not the effect of time so much as
of the change in all my habits made by the helplessness and inaction of a
sick-room. Before I had been confined to it many days, everything else seemed to
have retired into a remote distance where there was little or no separation
between the various stages of my life which had been really divided by years. In
falling ill, I seemed to have crossed a dark lake and to have left all my
experiences, mingled together by the great distance, on the healthy shore.
My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great anxiety to think
that they were unperformed, were soon as far off as the oldest of the old duties
at Greenleaf or the summer afternoons when I went home from school with my
portfolio under my arm, and my childish shadow at my side, to my godmother's
house. I had never known before how short life really was and into how small a
space the mind could put it.
While I was very ill, the way in which these divisions of time became
confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. At once a child, an
elder girl, and the little woman I had been so happy as, I was not only
oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted to each station, but by the great
perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile them. I suppose that few who have
not been in such a condition can quite understand what I mean or what painful
unrest arose from this source.
For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my
disorder--it seemed one long night, but I believe there were both nights and
days in it--when I laboured up colossal staircases, ever striving to reach the
top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in a garden path, by some
obstruction, and labouring again. I knew perfectly at intervals, and I think
vaguely at most times, that I was in my bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt
her touch, and knew her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, "Oh,
more of these never-ending stairs, Charley--more and more--piled up to the sky',
I think!" and labouring on again.
Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in great black
space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry circle of some kind, of
which I was one of the beads! And when my only prayer was to be taken off from
the rest and when it was such inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the
dreadful thing?
Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious and the
more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make others unhappy or
because I am now the least unhappy in remembering them. It may be that if we
knew more of such strange afflictions we might be the better able to alleviate
their intensity.
The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful rest, when
in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for myself and could have heard
(or so I think now) that I was dying, with no other emotion than with a pitying
love for those I left behind--this state can be perhaps more widely understood.
I was in this state when I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once
more, and knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough that
I should see again.
I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her calling
to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her praying and
imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to leave my bedside no more;
but I had only said, when I could speak, "Never, my sweet girl, never!" and I
had over and over again reminded Charley that she was to keep my darling from
the room whether I lived or died. Charley had been true to me in that time of
need, and with her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.
But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every day more
fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that my dear wrote to me
every morning and evening and could put them to my lips and lay my cheek upon
them with no fear of hurting her. I could see my little maid, so tender and so
careful, going about the two rooms setting everything in order and speaking
cheerfully to Ada from the open window again. I could understand the stillness
in the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who
had always been so good to me. I could weep in the exquisite felicity of my
heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my strength.
By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, with so strange
a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were done for some one else
whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it a little, and so on to a little more
and much more, until I became useful to myself, and interested, and attached to
life again.
How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed with
pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with Charley! The
little creature--sent into the world, surely, to minister to the weak and
sick--was so happy, and so busy, and stopped so often in her preparations to lay
her head upon my bosom, and fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so
glad, she was so glad, that I was obliged to say, "Charley, if you go on in this
way, I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought I was!"
So Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face here and there
across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into the divine sunshine, and
out of the sunshine into the shade, while I watched her peacefully. When all her
preparations were concluded and the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies
to tempt me, and its white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so lovingly
and beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was ready at the bedside, I
felt sure I was steady enough to say something to Charley that was not new to my
thoughts.
First I complimented Charley on the room, and indeed it was so fresh and
airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe I had been lying there
so long. This delighted Charley, and her face was brighter than before.
"Yet, Charley," said I, looking round, "I miss something, surely, that I am
accustomed to?"
Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her head as if
there were nothing absent.
"Are the pictures all as they used to be?" I asked her.
"Every one of them, miss," said Charley.
"And the furniture, Charley?"
"Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss."
"And yet," said I, "I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what it is,
Charley! It's the looking-glass."
Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten something, and
went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.
I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I could thank God
that it was not a shock to me now. I called Charley back, and when she came--at
first pretending to smile, but as she drew nearer to me, looking grieved--I took
her in my arms and said, "It matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do
without my old face very well."
I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great chair and
even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on Charley. The mirror was
gone from its usual place in that room too, but what I had to bear was none the
harder to bear for that.
My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was now no
good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He came one morning, and
when he first came in, could only hold me in his embrace and say, "My dear, dear
girl!" I had long known--who could know better?--what a deep fountain of
affection and generosity his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial
suffering and change to fill such a place in it? "Oh, yes!" I thought. "He has
seen me, and he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder
of me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!"
He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. For a little while
he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed it, fell into his usual
manner. There never can have been, there never can be, a pleasanter manner.
"My little woman," said he, "what a sad time this has been. Such an
inflexible little woman, too, through all!"
"Only for the best, guardian," said I.
"For the best?" he repeated tenderly. "Of course, for the best. But here have
Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has your friend Caddy been
coming and going late and early; here has every one about the house been utterly
lost and dejected; here has even poor Rick been writing--to ME too--in his
anxiety for you!"
I had read of Caddy in Ada's letters, but not of Richard. I told him so.
"Why, no, my dear," he replied. "I have thought it better not to mention it
to her."
"And you speak of his writing to YOU," said I, repeating his emphasis. "As if
it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as if he could write to a better
friend!"
"He thinks he could, my love," returned my guardian, "and to many a better.
The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while unable to write to
you with any hope of an answer--wrote coldly, haughtily, distantly, resentfully.
Well, dearest little woman, we must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame.
Jarndyce and Jarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his
eyes. I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two angels
could be concerned in it, I believe it would change their nature."
"It has not changed yours, guardian."
"Oh, yes, it has, my dear," he said laughingly. "It has made the south wind
easterly, I don't know how often. Rick mistrusts and suspects me--goes to
lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect me. Hears I have conflicting
interests, claims clashing against his and what not. Whereas, heaven knows that
if I could get out of the mountains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate
name has been so long bestowed (which I can't) or could level them by the
extinction of my own original right (which I can't either, and no human power
ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have we got), I would do it this
hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature than be endowed with
all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart and soul, upon the wheel of
Chancery, have left unclaimed with the Accountant-General--and that's money
enough, my dear, to be cast into a pyramid, in memory of Chancery's transcendent
wickedness."
"IS it possible, guardian," I asked, amazed, "that Richard can be suspicious
of you?"
"Ah, my love, my love," he said, "it is in the subtle poison of such abuses
to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and objects lose their natural
aspects in his sight. It is not HIS fault."
"But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian."
"It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within the
influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. By little and little
he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed, and it communicates some
portion of its rottenness to everything around him. But again I say with all my
soul, we must be patient with poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine
fresh hearts like his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!"
I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that his
benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.
"We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully rephed; "Ada is the happier,
I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both these young creatures
might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that we might so far
counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it. But it was too much to expect.
Jarndyce and Jarndyce was the curtain of Rick's cradle."
"But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach him what
a false and wretched thing it is?"
"We WILL hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and that it may not teach
him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him. There are not many
grown and matured men living while we speak, good men too, who if they were
thrown into this same court as suitors would not be vitally changed and
depreciated within three years--within two--within one. How can we stand amazed
at poor Rick? A young man so unfortunate," here he fell into a lower tone, as if
he were thinking aloud, "cannot at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is
what it is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his
interests and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates, disappoints,
tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine hopes and patience, thread by
thread; but he still looks to it, and hankers after it, and finds his whole
world treacherous and hollow. Well, well, well! Enough of this, my dear!"
He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness was so
precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and loved him as if he
had been my father. I resolved in my own mind in this little pause, by some
means, to see Richard when I grew strong and try to set him right.
"There are better subjects than these," said my guardian, "for such a joyful
time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. And I had a commission to broach
one of them as soon as I should begin to talk. When shall Ada come to see you,
my love?"
I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the absent
mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would be changed by no change
in my looks.
"Dear guardian," said I, "as I have shut her out so long--though indeed,
indeed, she is like the light to me--"
"I know it well, Dame Durden, well."
He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and affection,
and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my heart that I stopped for
a little while, quite unable to go on. "Yes, yes, you are tired," said he, "Rest
a little."
"As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a short while, "I
think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian. It would be
best to be away from here before I see her. If Charley and I were to go to some
country lodging as soon as I can move, and if I had a week there in which to
grow stronger and to be revived by the sweet air and to look forward to the
happiness of having Ada with me again, I think it would be better for us."
I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more used to my
altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I longed so ardently to see,
but it is the truth. I did. He understood me, I was sure; but I was not afraid
of that. If it were a poor thing, I knew he would pass it over.
"Our spoilt little woman," said my guardian, "shall have her own way even in
her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of tears downstairs. And see
here! Here is Boythorn, heart of chivalry, breathing such ferocious vows as
never were breathed on paper before, that if you don't go and occupy his whole
house, he having already turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven
and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave one brick standing on another!"
And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary beginning such
as "My dear Jarndyce," but rushing at once into the words, "I swear if Miss
Summerson do not come down and take possession of my house, which I vacate for
her this day at one o'clock, P.M.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in
the most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had
quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing heartily over it,
and we settled that I should send him a letter of thanks on the morrow and
accept his offer. It was a most agreeable one to me, for all the places I could
have thought of, I should have liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.
"Now, little housewife," said my guardian, looking at his watch, "I was
strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not be tired too soon; and
my time has waned away to the last minute. I have one other petition. Little
Miss Flite, hearing a rumour that you were ill, made nothing of walking down
here--twenty miles, poor soul, in a pair of dancing shoes--to inquire. It was
heaven's mercy we were at home, or she would have walked back again."
The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!
"Now, pet," said my guardian, "if it would not be irksome to you to admit the
harmless little creature one afternoon before you save Boythorn's otherwise
devoted house from demolition, I believe you would make her prouder and better
pleased with herself than I-- though my eminent name is Jarndyce--could do in a
lifetime."
I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple image of the
poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson on my mind at that
time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I could not tell him heartily enough how
ready I was to receive her. I had always pitied her, never so much as now. I had
always been glad of my little power to soothe her under her calamity, but never,
never, half so glad before.
We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach and share my early
dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my face away upon my couch and prayed
to be forgiven if I, surrounded by such blessings, had magnified to myself the
little trial that I had to undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday
when I had aspired to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good
to some one and win some love to myself if I could came back into my mind with a
reproachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed and all the
affectionate hearts that had been turned towards me. If I were weak now, what
had I profited by those mercies? I repeated the old childish prayer in its old
childish words and found that its old peace had not departed from it.
My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could walk about our
rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the window-curtain. Yet I never
saw her, for I had not as yet the courage to look at the dear face, though I
could have done so easily without her seeing me.
On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creature ran into my
room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying from her very heart of
hearts, "My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" fell upon my neck and kissed me twenty times.
"Dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, "I have nothing here
but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow a pocket handkerchief."
Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of it, for she
held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding tears for the next ten
minutes.
"With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce," she was careful to explain. "Not the
least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at having the honour of
being admitted to see you. I am so much fonder of you, my love, than of the
Chancellor. Though I DO attend court regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning
pocket handkerchiefs--"
Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her at the place
where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and looked unwilling to pursue
the suggestion.
"Ve-ry right!" said Miss Flite, "Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highly indiscreet of
me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I am afraid I am at times
(between ourselves, you wouldn't think it) a little--rambling you know," said
Miss Flite, touching her forehead. "Nothing more,"
"What were you going to tell me?" said I, smiling, for I saw she wanted to go
on. "You have roused my curiosity, and now you must gratify it."
Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis, who said,
"If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," and therein gratified Miss
Flite beyond measure.
"So sagacious, our young friend," said she to me in her mysterious way.
"Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it's a pretty anecdote. Nothing
more. Still I think it charming. Who should follow us down the road from the
coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very ungenteel bonnet--"
"Jenny, if you please, miss," said Charley.
"Just so!" Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity. "Jenny. Ye-es!
And what does she tell our young friend but that there has been a lady with a
veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear Fitz Jarndyce's health and taking a
handkerchief away with her as a little keepsake merely because it was my amiable
Fitz Jarndyce's! Now, you know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the
veil!"
"If you please, miss," said Charley, to whom I looked in some astonishment,
"Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a handkerchief there, and that she
put it away and kept it with the baby's little things. I think, if you please,
partly because it was yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby."
"Diminutive," whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of motions about her own
forehead to express intellect in Charley. "But ex- ceedingly sagacious! And so
dear! My love, she's clearer than any counsel I ever heard!"
"Yes, Charley," I returned. "I remember it. Well?"
"Well, miss," said Charley, "and that's the handkerchief the lady took. And
Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have made away with it herself for a
heap of money but that the lady took it and left some money instead. Jenny don't
know her at all, if you please, miss!"
"Why, who can she be?" said I.
"My love," Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear with her most
mysterious look, "in MY opinion--don't mention this to our diminutive
friend--she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. He's married, you know. And I
understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws his lordship's papers into the
fire, my dear, if he won't pay the jeweller!"
I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an impression that
it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention was diverted by my visitor, who was
cold after her ride and looked hungry and who, our dinner being brought in,
required some little assistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in a
pitiable old scarf and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she
had brought down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, too, over the
entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a sweetbread,
vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant to see how she enjoyed
it, and with what state and ceremony she did honour to it, that I was soon
thinking of nothing else.
When we had finished and had our little dessert before us, embellished by the
hands of my dear, who would yield the superintendence of everything prepared for
me to no one, Miss Flite was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would
lead her to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I
began by saying "You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss
Flite?"
"Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment. Shortly."
There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if I had
done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would say no more about it.
"My father expected a judgment," said Miss Flite. "My brother. My sister.
They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect."
"They are all--"
"Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear," said she.
As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable to her
by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.
"Would it not be wiser," said I, "to expect this judgment no more?"
"Why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it would!"
"And to attend the court no more?"
"Equally of course," said she. "Very wearing to be always in expectation of
what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce! Wearing, I assure you, to the bone!"
She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.
"But, my dear," she went on in her mysterious way, "there's a dreadful
attraction in the place. Hush! Don't mention it to our diminutive friend when
she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With good reason. There's a cruel
attraction in the place. You CAN'T leave it. And you MUST expect."
I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently and
smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.
"Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve- ry absurd,
to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To the head. I find it
so. But, my dear, I have been there many years, and I have noticed. It's the
mace and seal upon the table."
What could they do, did she think? I mildly asked her.
"Draw," returned Miss Flite. "Draw people on, my dear. Draw peace out of
them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Good qualities out of them. I
have felt them even drawing my rest away in the night. Cold and glittering
devils!"
She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly as if she
were anxious I should understand that I had no cause to fear her, though she
spoke so gloomily, and confided these awful secrets to me.
"Let me see," said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before they ever drew
me--before I had ever seen them--what was it I used to do? Tambourine playing?
No. Tambour work. I and my sister worked at tambour work. Our father and our
brother had a builder's business. We all lived together. Ve-ry respectably, my
dear! First, our father was drawn--slowly. Home was drawn with him. In a few
years he was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kind word or a kind look
for any one. He had been so different, Fitz Jarndyce. He was drawn to a debtors'
prison. There he died. Then our brother was drawn--swiftly--to drunkenness. And
rags. And death. Then my sister was drawn. Hush! Never ask to what! Then I was
ill and in misery, and heard, as I had often heard before, that this was all the
work of Chancery. When I got better, I went to look at the monster. And then I
found out how it was, and I was drawn to stay there."
Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of which she had
spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were fresh upon her, she
gradually resumed her usual air of amiable importance.
"You don't quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, some day. I am a
little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seen many new faces come,
unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace and seal in these many years. As
my father's came there. As my brother's. As my sister's. As my own. I hear
Conversation Kenge and the rest of them say to the new faces, 'Here's little
Miss Flite. Oh, you are new here; and you must come and be presented to little
Miss Flite!' Ve-ry good. Proud I am sure to have the honour! And we all laugh.
But, Fitz Jarndyce, I know what will happen. I know, far better than they do,
when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them begin in
Gridley. And I saw them end. Fitz Jarndyce, my love," speaking low again, "I saw
them beginning in our friend the ward in Jarndyce. Let some one hold him back.
Or he'll be drawn to ruin.
She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradually
softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had been too gloomy, and
seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said politely as she sipped
her glass of wine, "Yes, my dear, as I was saying, I expect a judgment shortly.
Then I shall release my birds, you know, and confer estates."
I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard and by the sad meaning, so
sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that made its way through all her
incoherence. But happily for her, she was quite complacent again now and beamed
with nods and smiles.
"But, my dear," she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it upon mine.
"You have not congratulated me on my physician. Positively not once, yet!"
I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.
"My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly attentive to
me. Though his services were rendered quite gratuitously. Until the Day of
Judgment. I mean THE judgment that will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace
and seal."
"Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, "that I thought the time for
such congratulation was past, Miss Flite."
"But, my child," she returned, "is it possible that you don't know what has
happened?"
"No," said I.
"Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Jarndyce!"
"No," said I. "You forget how long I have been here."
"True! My dear, for the moment--true. I blame myself. But my memory has been
drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I mentioned. Ve-ry strong
influence, is it not? Well, my dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in
those East Indian seas."
"Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!"
"Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death in all shapes.
Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and darkness. Numbers of the drowning
thrown upon a rock. There, and through it all, my dear physician was a hero.
Calm and brave through everything. Saved many lives, never complained in hunger
and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed
them what to do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought
the poor survivors safely off at last! My dear, the poor emaciated creatures all
but worshipped him. They fell down at his feet when they got to the land and
blessed him. The whole country rings with it. Stay! Where's my bag of documents?
I have got it there, and you shall read it, you shall read it!"
And I DID read all the noble history, though very slowly and imperfectly
then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the words, and I cried so
much that I was many times obliged to lay down the long account she had cut out
of the newspaper. I felt so triumphant ever to have known the man who had done
such generous and gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, I
so admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-worn people who
had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their preserver. I could myself have
kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed him in my rapture that he should be
so truly good and brave. I felt that no one--mother, sister, wife--could honour
him more than I. I did, indeed!
My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when as the
evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she should miss the
coach by which she was to return, she was still full of the shipwreck, which I
had not yet sufflciently composed myself to understand in all its details.
"My dear," said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and gloves, "my
brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. And no doubt he will.
You are of that opinlon?"
That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.
"Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?" she asked rather sharply.
I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men distinguished
by peaceful services, however good and great, unless occasionally when they
consisted of the accumulation of some very large amount of money.
"Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say that? Surely you
know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of England in knowledge,
imagination, active humanity, and improvement of every sort are added to its
nobility! Look round you, my dear, and consider. YOU must be rambling a little
now, I think, if you don't know that this is the great reason why titles will
always last in the land!"
I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments when she was
very mad indeed.
And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to keep. I
had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved me and that if he had been
richer he would perhaps have told me that he loved me before he went away. I had
thought, sometimes, that if he had done so, I should have been glad of it. But
how much better it was now that this had never happened! What should I have
suffered if I had had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had
known as mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released him from his
bondage to one whom he had never seen!
Oh, it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully spared me,
I could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be all he had so brightly
shown himself; and there was nothing to be undone: no chain for me to break or
for him to drag; and I could go, please God, my lowly way along the path of
duty, and he could go his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were
apart upon the journey, I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, innocently,
better far than he had thought me when I found some favour in his eyes, at the
journey's end.
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