bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第296章
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displeasure） by her guardian genius the maid。
“How is Sir Leicester； now； Mr George？” inquires Volumnia；
adjusting her cowl over her head。
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“Why； Sir Leicester is much the same； miss。 He is very low and
ill； and he even wanders a little sometimes。”
“Has he asked for me？” inquires Volumnia tenderly。
“Why no； I can’t say he has； miss。 Not within my hearing； that is
to say。”
“This is a truly sad time； Mr George。”
“It is indeed； miss。 Hadn’t you better go to bed？”
“You had a deal better go to bed； Miss Dedlock；” quoth the
maid； sharply。
But Volumnia answers No！ No！ She may be asked for； she may
be wanted at a moment’s notice。 She never should forgive herself
“if anything was to happen” and she was not on the spot。 She
declines to enter on the question； mooted by the maid； how the
spot comes to be there； and not in her own room （which is nearer
to Sir Leicester’s）； but staunchly declares that on the spot she will
remain。 Volumnia further makes a merit of not having “closed an
eye”—as if she had twenty or thirty—though it is hard to reconcile
this statement with her having most indisputably opened two
within five minutes。
But when it comes to four o’clock； and still the same blank；
Volumnia’s constancy begins to fail her； or rather it begins to
strengthen； for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready for
the morrow； when much may be expected of her； that； in fact；
howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot； it may be required of
her； as an act of self…devotion； to desert the spot。 So； when the
trooper reappears with his “Hadn’t you better go to bed； miss？”
and when the maid protests； more sharply than before； “You had a
deal better go to bed； Miss Dedlock！” she meekly rises and says；
“Do with me what you think best！”
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Mr George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm
to the door of her cousinly chamber； and the maid as undoubtedly
thinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony。
Accordingly； these steps are taken； and now the trooper； in his
rounds； has the house to himself。
There is no improvement in the weather。 From the portico；
from the eaves； from the parapet； from every ledge； and post and
pillar； drips the thawed snow。 It has crept； as if for shelter； into the
lintels of the great door—under it into the corners of the windows；
into every chink and crevice of retreat； and there wastes and dies。
It is falling still； upon the roof； upon the skylight； even through the
skylight； and drip； drip； drip； with the regularity of the Ghost’s
Walk； on the stone floor below。
The trooper； his old recollections awakened by the solitary
grandeur of a great house—no novelty to him once at Chesney
Wold—goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms； holding up
his light at arm’s length。 Thinking of his varied fortunes within the
last few weeks； and of his rustic boyhood； and of the two periods of
his life so strangely brought together across the wide intermediate
space； thinking of the murdered man whose image is fresh in his
mind； thinking of the lady who has disappeared from these very
rooms； and the tokens of whose recent presence are all here；
thinking of the master of the house upstairs； and of the foreboding
“Who will tell him！” he looks here and looks there； and reflects
how he might see something now； which it would tax his boldness
to walk up to； lay his hand upon； and prove to be a fancy。 But it is
all blank； blank as the darkness above and below； while he goes up
the great staircase again； blank as the oppressive silence。
“All is still in readiness； George Rouncewell？”
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“Quite orderly and right； Sir Leicester。”
“No word of any kind？”
The trooper shakes his head。
“No letter that can possibly have been overlooked？”
But he knows there is no such hope as that； and lays his head
down without looking for an answer。
Very familiar to him； as he said himself some hours ago； George
Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long
remainder of the blank wintry night； and； equally familiar with his
unexpressed wish； extinguishes the light； and undraws the
curtains at the first late break of day。 The day comes like a
phantom。 Cold； colourless； and vague； it sends a warning streak
before it of a deathlike hue； as if it cried out； “Look what I am
bringing you； who watch there！ Who will tell him！”
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Chapter 59
Esther’s Narrative
t was three o’clock in the morning when the houses outside
London did at last begin to exclude the country； and to close
I
us in with streets。 We had made our way along roads in a far
worse condition than when we had traversed them by daylight；
both the fall and the thaw having lasted ever since； but the energy
of my companion had never slackened。 It had only been； as I
thought； of less assistance than the horses in getting us on； and it
had often aided them。 They had stopped exhausted halfway up
hills； they had been driven through streams of turbulent water；
they had slipped down and become entangled with the harness；
but he and his little lantern had been always ready； and when the
mishap was set right； I had never heard any variation in his cool
“Get on； my lads！”
The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our
journey back； I could not account for。 Never wavering； he never
even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles
of London。 A very few words； here and there； were then enough
for him； and thus we came； at between three and four o’clock in
the morning； into Islington。
I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I
reflected all this time； that we were leaving my mother farther and
farther behind every minute。 I think I had some strong hope that
he must be right； and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in
following this woman； but I tormented myself with questioning it；
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and discussing it； during the whole journey。 What was to ensue
when we found her； and what could com
