Chapter 65

Beginning The World

The term had commenced, and my Guardian found an

intimation from Mr Kenge that the Cause would come on

in two days. As I had sufficient hopes of the will to be in a

flutter about it, Allan and I agreed to go down to the Court that

morning. Richard was extremely agitated, and was so weak and

low, though his illness was still of the mind, that my dear girl

indeed had sore occasion to be supported. But she looked

forward—a very little way now—to the help that was to come to

her, and never drooped.

It was at Westminister that the Cause was to come on. It had

come on there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not

divest myself of an idea that it might lead to some result now. We

left home directly after breakfast, to be at Westminister Hall in

good time; and walked down there through the lively streets—so

happily and strangely it seemed!—together.

As we were going along, planning what we should do for

Richard and Ada, I heard somebody calling “Esther! My dear

Esther! Esther!” And there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out

of the window of a little carriage which she hired now to go about

in to her pupils (she had so many), as if she wanted to embrace me

at a hundred yards’ distance. I had written her a note to tell her of

all that my Guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go

and see her. Of course we turned back; and the affectionate girl

was in that state of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the

night when she brought me the flowers, and was so determined to

squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her hands, and go on in

a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of precious names,

and telling Allan I had done I don’t know what for her, that I was

just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm her down, by

letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Allan, standing at

the window, was as pleased as Caddy; and I was as pleased as

either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I did, rather than

that I came off, laughing, and red, and anything, but tidy, and

looking after Caddy, who looked after us out of the coach-window

as long as she could see us.

This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came

to Westminster Hall we found that the day’s business was begun.

Worse than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of

Chancery that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor

hear what was passing within. It appeared to be something droll,

for occasionally there was a laugh, and a cry of “Silence!” It

appeared to be something interesting, for every one was pushing

and striving to get nearer. It appeared to be something that made

the professional gentlemen very merry, for there were several

young counsellors in wigs and whiskers on the outside of the

crowd, and when one of them told the others about it, they put

their hands in their pockets, and quite doubled themselves up

with laughter, and went stamping about the pavement of the hall.

We asked a gentleman by us, if he knew what cause was on? He

told us Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was

doing in it? He said, really no he did not, nobody ever did; but as

well as he could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked

him. No he said; over for good.Over for good!

When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one

another quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the Will

had set things right at last, and that Richard and Ada were going

to be rich? It seemed too good to be true. Alas, it was!

Our suspense was short; for a break up soon took place in the

crowd, and the people came streaming out looking flushed and

hot, and bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were

all exceedingly amused, and were more like people coming out

from a Farce or a Juggler than from a court of Justice. We stood

aside, watching for any countenance we knew; and presently great

bundles of paper began to be carried out—bundles in bags,

bundles too large to be got into any bags, immense masses of

papers of all shapes and no shapes, which the bearers staggered

under, and threw down for the time being, anyhow, on the Hall

pavement, while they went back to bring out more. Even these

clerks were laughing. We glanced at these papers, and seeing

Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere, asked an official-looking

person who was standing in the midst of them, whether the cause

was over. “Yes,” he said; “it was all up with it at last!” and burst

out laughing too.

At this juncture, we perceived Mr Kenge coming out of court

with an affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr Vholes, who was

deferential, and carried his own bag. Mr Vholes was the first to see

us. “Here is Miss Summerson, sir,” he said. “And Mr Woodcourt.”

“O, indeed! Yes. Truly!” said Mr Kenge, raising his hat to me

with polished politeness. “How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr

Jarndyce is not here?”

No. He never came there, I reminded him.“Really,” returned Mr Kenge, “it is as well that he is not here

today, for his—shall I say, in my good friend’s absence, his

indomitable singularity of opinion?—might have been

strengthened, perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been

strengthened.”

“Pray what has been done today?” asked Allan.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr Kenge, with excessive urbanity.

“What has been done today?”

“What has been done,” repeated Mr Kenge. “Quite so. Yes.

Why, not much has been done; not much. We have been

checked—brought up suddenly, I would say—upon the—shall I

term it threshold?”

“Is this Will considered a genuine document, sir?” said Allan;

“will you tell us that?”

“Most certainly, if I could,” said Mr Kenge; “but we have not

gone into that, we have not gone into that.”

“We have not gone into that,” repeated Mr Vholes, as if his low

inward voice were an echo.

“You are to reflect, Mr Woodcourt,” observed Mr Kenge, using

his silver trowel, persuasively and smoothingly, “that this has been

a great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has

been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed,

not inaptly, a Monument of Chancery practice.”

“And Patience has sat upon it a long time,” said Allan.

“Very well indeed, sir,” returned Mr Kenge, with a certain

condescending laugh he had. “Very well! You are further to

reflect, Mr Woodcourt,” becoming dignified to severity, “that on

the numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and

forms of procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study, ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr Woodcourt, high

intellect. For many years, the—a—I would say the flower of the

Bar, and the—a—I would presume to add, the matured autumnal

fruits of the Woolsack—have been lavished upon Jarndyce and

Jarndyce. If the public have the benefit, and if the country have

the adornment, of this great Grasp, it must be paid for, in money

or money’s worth, sir.”

“Mr Kenge,” said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment.

“Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole

estate is found to have been absorbed in costs?”

“Hem! I believe so,” returned Mr Kenge. “Mr Vholes, what do

you say?”

“I believe so,” said Mr Vholes.

“And that thus the suit lapses and melts away?”

“Probably,” returned Mr Kenge. “Mr Vholes?”

“Probably,” said Mr Vholes.

“My dearest life,” whispered Allan, “this will break Richard’s

heart!”

There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he

knew Richard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his

gradual decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the fulness

of her foreboding love, sounded like a knell in my ears.

“In case you should be wanting Mr C, sir,” said Mr Vholes,

coming after us, “you’ll find him in court. I left him there resting

himself a little. Good day, sir; good day, Miss Summerson.” As he

gave me that slowly devouring look of his, while twisting up the

strings of his bag, before he hastened with it, after Mr Kenge, the

benignant shadow of whose conversational presence he seemed

afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the last morsel of this client, and his black buttoned-up unwholesome

figure glided away to the low door at the end of the hall.

“My dear love,” said Allan, “leave to me for a little while, the

charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence, and come to

Ada’s by-and-by.”

I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go

to Richard without a moment’s delay, and leave me to do as he

wished. Hurrying home, I found my Guardian, and told him

gradually with what news I had returned. “Little woman,” said he,

quite unmoved for himself, “to have done with the suit on any

terms, is a greater blessing than I had looked for. But my poor

young cousins!”

We talked about them all the morning, and discussed what it

was possible to do. In the afternoon, my Guardian walked with me

to Symond’s Inn, and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When

my darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small

passage and threw her arms round my neck; but she composed

herself directly, and said that Richard had asked for me several

times. Allan had found him sitting in a corner of the court, she told

me, like a stone figure. On being roused, he had broken away, and

made as if he would have spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He

was stopped by his mouth being full of blood, and Allan had

brought him home.

He was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, when I went in.

There were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as

possible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Allan

stood behind him, watching him gravely. His face appeared to me

to be quite destitute of colour, and, now that I saw him without his

seeing me, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was.But he looked handsomer than I had seen him look for many a

day.

I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by-and-by, he

said, in a weak voice, but with his old smile, “Dame Durden, kiss

me, my dear!”

It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low

state cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in our

intended marriage, than he could find words to tell me. My

husband had been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he

blessed us both, and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I

almost felt as if my own heart would have broken, when I saw him

take my husband’s hand, and hold it to his breast.

We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several

times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand

upon his feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said.

“Yes, surely, dearest Richard!” But as my darling answered him

thus hopefully, so serene and beautiful, with the help that was to

come to her so near,—I knew—I knew!

It was not good for him to talk too much; and when he was

silent, we were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence of

working for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about my

being busy. Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her

arm. He dozed often; and whenever he awoke without seeing him,

said, first of all, “Where is Woodcourt?”

Evening had come on, when I lifted up my eyes, and saw my

Guardian standing in the little hall. “Who is that, Dame Durden?”

Richard asked me. The door was behind him, but he had observed

in my face that some one was there.

I looked to Allen for advice, and as he nodded “Yes,” bent over Richard and told him. My Guardian saw what passed, came softly

by me in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard’s. “O sir,” said

Richard, “you are a good man, you are a good man!” and burst

into tears for the first time.

My Guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place,

keeping his hand on Richard’s.

“My dear Rick,” said he, “the clouds have cleared away, and it

is bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more

or less. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?”

“I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to

begin the world.”

“Ay, truly; well said!” cried my Guardian.

“I will not begin it in the old way now,” said Richard with a sad

smile. “I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one; but you

shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it.”

“Well, well,” said my Guardian, comforting him; “well, well,

well, dear boy!”

“I was thinking, sir,” resumed Richard, “that there is nothing

on earth I should so much like to see as their house—Dame

Durden’s and Woodcourt’s house. If I could be moved there when

I begin to recover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there,

sooner than anywhere.”

“Why, so have I been thinking, too, Rick,” said my Guardian,

“and our little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it,

this very day. I dare say her husband won’t object. What do you

think?”

Richard smiled; and lifted up his arm to touch him, as he stood

behind the head of his couch.

“I say nothing of Ada,” said Richard, “but I think of her, and have thought of her very much. Look at her! see her here, sir,

bending over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon

it herself, my dear love, my poor girl!”

He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually

released her; and she looked upon us, and looked up to Heaven,

and moved her lips.

“When I get down to Bleak House,” said Richard, “I shall have

much to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You will

go, won’t you?”

“Undoubtedly, dear Rick.”

“Thank you; like you like you,” said Richard. “But it’s all like

you. They have been telling me how you planned it, and how you

remembered all Esther’s familiar tastes and ways. It will be like

coming to the old Bleak House again.”

“And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man

now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity to

come to me, my love!” he repeated to Ada, as he gently passed his

hand over her golden hair, and put a lock of it to his lips. (I think

he vowed within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.)

“It was all a troubled dream?” said Richard, clasping both my

Guardian’s hands eagerly.

“Nothing more, Rick; nothing more.”

“And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive

and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he

wakes?”

“Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?”

“I will begin the world!” said Richard, with a light in his eyes.

My husband drew a little nearer towards Ada, and I saw him

solemnly lift up his hand to warn my Guardian.“When shall I go from this place, to that pleasant country where

the old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has

been to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and

blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my

unborn child?” said Richard. “When shall I go?”

“Dear Rick, when you are strong enough,” returned my

Guardian.

“Ada, my darling!”

He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that she

could hold him on her bosom: which was what he wanted.

“I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a

poor stray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and

trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You will forgive

me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?”

A smile irradiated his face, as she bent to kiss him. He slowly

laid his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round

her neck, and with one parting sob began the world. Not this

world, O not this! The world that sets this right.

When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite came

weeping to me, and told me she had given her birds their liberty.

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