Bleak House HTML version

9. Signs and Tokens
I don't know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. I mean all the time to
write about other people, and I try to think about myself as little as possible, and I am
sure, when I find myself coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, "Dear,
dear, you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn't!" but it is all of no use. I hope any
one who may read what I write will understand that if these pages contain a great deal
about me, I can only suppose it must be because I have really something to do with
them and can't be kept out.
My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, and found so much
employment for our time that the winter days flew by us like bright-winged birds.
Generally in the afternoons, and always in the evenings, Richard gave us his company.
Although he was one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very
fond of our society.
He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say it at once. I had
never seen any young people falling in love before, but I found them out quite soon. I
could not say so, of course, or show that I knew anything about it. On the contrary, I
was so demure and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes I considered within
myself while I was sitting at work whether I was not growing quite deceitful.
But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and I was as quiet as a
mouse. They were as quiet as mice too, so far as any words were concerned, but the
innocent manner in which they relied more and more upon me as they took more and
more to one another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing how it
interested me.
"Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," Richard would say, coming up
to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a
blush, "that I can't get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day-- grinding
away at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the
country round, like a highwayman--it does me so much good to come and have a
steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again!"
"You know, Dame Durden, dear," Ada would say at night, with her head upon my
shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, "I don't want to talk when we
come upstairs here. Only to sit a little while thinking, with your dear face for company,
and to hear the wind and remember the poor sailors at sea--"
Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over very often now, and
there was some talk of gratifying the inclination of his childhood for the sea. Mr.
Jarndyce had written to a relation of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his
interest in Richard's favour, generally; and Sir Leicester had replied in a gracious