He went on to tell me that it was impossible to remain a soldier; that, apart from debts and duns, he took no interest in his employment and was not fit for it. He showed me papers to prove that his retirement was arranged. Knowing I had done no good by coming down, I prepared to return to London on the morrow.
There was some excitement in the town by reason of the arrival of a big Indiaman, and, as it happened, amongst those who came on sh.o.r.e from the ship was Mr. Allan Woodcourt. I met him in the hotel where I was staying, and he seemed quite pleased to see me. He was glad to meet Richard again, too, and promised, on my asking him, to befriend Richard in London.
_IV.--End of Jarndyce and Jarndyce_
Richard always declared that it was Ada he meant to see righted, no less than himself, and his anxiety on that point so impressed Mr. Woodcourt that he told me about it. It revived a fear I had had before, that my dear girl"s little property might be absorbed by Mr. Vholes, and that Richard"s justification to himself would be this.
So I went up to London to see Richard, who now lived in Symond"s Inn, and my darling Ada went with me. He was poring over a table covered with dusty papers, but he received us very affectionately.
I noticed, as he pa.s.sed his two hands over his head, how sunken and how large his eyes appeared, and how dry his lips were. He spoke of the case half-hopefully, half-despondently, "Either the suit must be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit--the suit." Then he took a few turns up and down, and sank upon the sofa. "I get so tired," he said gloomily. "It is such weary, weary work."
"Esther, dear," Ada said, very quietly, "I am not going home again.
Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We have been married above two months. Go home without me, my own Esther; I shall never go home any more."
I often came to Richard and his wife, and I often met Mr. Woodcourt there. Richard still suspected my guardian, and refused to see him, and when I said this was so unreasonable, my guardian only said, "What shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce? Unreason and injustice from beginning to end, if it ever has an end. How should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it?"
It was some months after this when Mr. Woodcourt asked me to be his wife, and I had to tell him I was not free. But I had to tell him that I could never forget how proud and glad I was at having been beloved by him.
He took my hand and kissed it, and was like himself again.
All this time my guardian had never referred to his letter or my answer, so I said to him next morning I would be the mistress of Bleak House whenever he pleased.
"Next month?" my guardian said gaily.
"Next month, dear guardian."
At the end of the month my guardian went away to Yorkshire, and asked me to follow him. I was very much surprised, and when the journey was over my guardian explained that he had asked me to come down to see a house he had bought for Mr. Woodcourt, with whom he was always very pleased.
It was a beautiful summer morning when we went out to look at the house, and there over the porch was written. "Bleak House." He led me to a seat, and sitting down beside me, said:
"When I wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer"--my guardian smiled as he referred to it--"I had my own happiness too much in view; but I had yours, too. Hear me, my love, but do not speak. When Woodcourt came home, I saw that there was other happiness for you; I saw with whom you would be happier. Well, I have long been in Allan Woodcourt"s confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, in mine.
One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent. But I gave him no encouragement; not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too miserly to part with a sc.r.a.p of it. He was to come and tell me all that pa.s.sed, and he did. I have no more to say. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its little mistress, and before G.o.d it is the brightest day in all my life."
He rose, and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My husband--I have called him by that name full seven happy years now--stood at my side.
"Allan," said my guardian, "take from me the best wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I know you deserve her?"
He kissed me once again. And now the tears were in his eyes as he said, more softly, "Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you some distress. Forgive your old guardian in restoring him to his old place in your affections. Allan, take my dear."
We all three went home together next day. We had an intimation from Mr.
Kenge that the case would come on at Westminster in two days, and that a certain will had been found which might end the suit in Richard"s favour.
Allan took me down to Westminster, and when we came to Westminster Hall we found that the Court of Chancery was full, and that something unusual had occurred. We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what case was on. He told us Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and that, as well as he could make out, it was over. Over for the day? "No," he said; "over for good."
In a few minutes a crowd came streaming out, and we saw Mr. Kenge. He told us that Jarndyce and Jarndyce was a monument of Chancery practice, and--in a good many words--that the case was over because the whole estate was found to have been absorbed in costs.
We hurried away, first to my guardian, and then to Ada and Richard.
Richard was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. When he opened them, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn he was. But he spoke cheerfully, and said how glad he was to think of our intended marriage.
In the evening my guardian came in and laid his hand softly on Richard"s.
"Oh, sir," said Richard, "you are a good man, a good man!" and burst into tears.
My guardian sat down beside him, keeping his hand on Richard"s.
"My dear Rick," he said, "the clouds have cleared away, and it is bright now. We can see now. 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."
He sought to raise himself a little.
"Ada, my darling!" Allan raised him, so that she could hold him on her bosom. "I have done you many wrongs, my own. 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 lit up his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid his face upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck, and with one parting sob began the world. Not this--oh, not this! The world that sets this right.
David Copperfield
"David Copperfield"--published in 1849-50--will always be acclaimed by many as the best of all d.i.c.kens"s books. It was its author"s favourite, and its universal and lasting popularity is entirely deserved. "David Copperfield" is especially remarkable for the autobiographical element, not only in the wretched days of childhood at the wine merchant"s, but in the shorthand-reporting in the House of Commons.
d.i.c.kens never forgot his early degradation, as it seemed to him, in the blacking warehouse at Hungerford Stairs, or quite forgave those who sent him to an occupation he so loathed.
Much of "David Copperfield" is familiar in our mouths as household words, and Swinburne has maintained that Micawber ranks with d.i.c.k Swiveller as one of the greatest characters in all d.i.c.kens"s novels. "Copperfield" comes midway in the great list of works by Charles d.i.c.kens.
_I.--My Early Childhood_
I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o"clock at night, at Blunderstone, in Suffolk. I was a posthumous child.
My father"s eyes had been closed upon the light of this world six months when mine opened upon it. Miss Betsey Trotwood, an aunt of my father"s, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, arrived on the afternoon of the day I was born, and explained to my mother (who was very much afraid of her) that she meant to provide for her child, which was to be a girl.
My aunt said never a word when she learnt that it was a boy, and not a girl, but took her bonnet by the strings in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at the doctor"s head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy.
The first objects that a.s.sume a distinct presence before me, as I look far back into the blank of my infancy, are my mother, with her pretty air and youthful shape, and Peggotty, my old nurse, with no shape at all, and with cheeks and arms so red and hard that I wondered the birds didn"t peck her in preference to apples.
I remember a few years later, a gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskers walking home from church on Sunday with us; and, somehow, I didn"t like him or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his hand should touch my mother"s in touching me--which it did.
It must have been about this time that, waking up from an uncomfortable doze one night, I found Peggotty and my mother both in tears, and both talking.
"Not such a one as this Mr. Copperfield wouldn"t have liked," said Peggotty. "That I say, and that I swear!"
"Good heavens!" cried my mother. "You"ll drive me mad! How can you have the heart to say such bitter things to me, when you are well aware that out of this place I haven"t a single friend to turn to?" But the following Sunday I saw the gentleman with the black whiskers again, and he walked home from church with us, and gradually I became used to seeing him and knowing him as Mr. Murdstone. I liked him no better than at first, and had the same uneasy jealousy of him.