bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第215章
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begging and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness；
watching and waiting； and dragging through the time。 Let me
draw the curtains and light the candles； and make things more
comfortable about you。 The church…clocks will strike the hours
just the same； Sir Leicester； and the night will pass away just the
same。 My Lady will come back just the same。”
“I know it； Mrs Rouncewell； but I am weak—and he has been so
long gone。”
“Not so very long； Sir Leicester。 Not twenty…four hours yet。”
“But that is a long time。 O it is a long time！”
He says it with a groan that wrings her heart。
She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light
upon him； she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen； even by her。
Therefore； she sits in the darkness for a while； without a word；
then gently begins to move about； now stirring the fire； now
standing at the dark window looking out。 Finally he tells her； with
recovered self…command； “As you say； Mrs Rouncewell； it is no
worse for being confessed。 It is getting late； and they are not come。
Light the room！” When it is lighted； and the weather shut out； it is
only left to him to listen。
But they find that； however dejected and ill he is； he brightens
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when a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms；
and being sure that everything is ready to receive her。 Poor
pretence as it is； these allusions to her being expected keep up
hope within him。
Midnight comes； and with it the same blank。 The carriages in
the streets are few； and other late sounds in that neighbourhood
there are none； unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray
into the frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the
pavement。 Upon this wintry night it is so still； that listening to the
intense silence is like looking at intense darkness。 If any distant
sound be audible in this case； it departs through the gloom like a
feeble light in that； and all is heavier than before。
The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed （not unwilling
to go； for they were up all last night）； and only Mrs Rouncewell
and George keep watch in Sir Leicester’s room。 As the night lags
tardily on—or rather when it seems to stop altogether； at between
two and three o’clock—they find a restless craving on him to know
more about the weather； now he cannot see it。 Hence George；
patrolling regularly every half hour to the rooms so carefully
looked after； extends his march to the hall…door； looks about him；
and brings back the best report he can make of the worst of nights；
the sleet still falling； and even the stone footways lying ankle…deep
in icy sludge。
Volumnia in her room up a retired landing on the staircase—
the second turning past the end of the carving and gilding—a
cousinly room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir
Leicester； banished for its crimes； and commanding in the day a
solemn yard； planted with dried…up shrubs like antediluvian
specimens of black tea—is a prey to horrors of many kinds。 Not
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last nor least among them； possibly； is a horror of what may befall
her little income； in the event； as she expresses it； “of anything
happening” to Sir Leicester。 Anything； in this sense； meaning one
thing only； and that the last thing that can happen to the
consciousness of any baronet in the known world。
An effect of these horrors is； that Volumnia finds she cannot go
to bed in her own room； or sit by the fire in her own room； but
must come forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl；
and her fair form enrobed in drapery； and parade the mansion like
a ghost： particularly haunting the rooms； warm and luxurious；
prepared for one who still does not return。 Solitude under such
circumstances being not to be thought of； Volumnia is attended by
her maid； who； impressed from her own bed for that purpose；
extremely cold； very sleepy； and generally an injured maid as
condemned by circumstances to take office with a cousin； when
she had resolved to be maid to nothing less than ten thousand a
year； has not a sweet expression of countenance。
The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms； however； in
the course of his patrolling； is an assurance of protection and
company； both to mistress and maid； which renders them very
acceptable in the small hours of the night。 Whenever he is heard
advancing； they both make some little decorative preparation to
receive him； at other times； they divide their watches into short
scraps of oblivion； and dialogues； not wholly free from acerbity； as
to whether Miss Dedlock； sitting with her feet upon the fender；
was or was not falling into the fire when rescued （to her great
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
