Холодный дом

Esther’s Narrative

           Againstthemoulderingwallbywhichtheystood,therewasabill,onwhichIcoulddiscernthewords,"FoundDrowned";andthisandaninscriptionaboutdragspossessedmewiththeawfulsuspicionshadowedforthinourvisittothatplace.IhadnoneedtoremindmyselfthatIwasnottherebytheindulgenceofanyfeelingofminetoincreasethedifficultiesofthesearch,ortolessenitshopes,orenhanceitsdelays.Iremainedquiet,butwhatIsufferedinthatdreadfulspotInevercanforget.Andstillitwaslikethehorrorofadream.Amanyetdarkandmuddy,inlongswollensoddenbootsandahatlikethem,wascalledoutofaboatandwhisperedwithMr.Bucket,whowentawaywithhimdownsomeslipperysteps—asiftolookatsomethingsecretthathehadtoshow.Theycameback,wipingtheirhandsupontheircoats,afterturningoversomethingwet;butthankGoditwasnotwhatIfeared!Aftersomefurtherconference,Mr.Bucket(whomeverybodyseemedtoknowanddeferto)wentinwiththeothersatadoorandleftmeinthecarriage,whilethedriverwalkedupanddownbyhishorsestowarmhimself.Thetidewascomingin,asIjudgedfromthesounditmade,andIcouldhearitbreakattheendofthealleywithalittlerushtowardsme.Itneverdidso—andIthoughtitdidso,hundredsoftimes,inwhatcanhavebeenatthemostaquarterofanhour,andprobablywasless—butthethoughtshudderedthroughmethatitwouldcastmymotheratthehorses’feet.Mr.Bucketcameoutagain,exhortingtheotherstobevigilant,darkenedhislantern,andoncemoretookhisseat.

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