The Solitary House (With Bonus Novels Bleak House and the Woman in White)

by Lynn Shepherd

  “Not at all,” I would assure him.

  “Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss Summerson. We must spare nothing that will restore her. We must nourish her. My dear Caroline”; he would turn to his daughter-in-law with infinite generosity and protection; “want for nothing, my love. Frame a wish and gratify it, my daughter. Everything this house contains, everything my room contains, is at your service, my dear. Do not,” he would sometimes add, in a burst of Deportment, “even allow my simple requirements to be considered, if they should at any time interfere with your own, my Caroline. Your necessities are greater than mine.”

  He had established such a long prescriptive right to this Deportment (his son’s inheritance from his mother), that I several times knew both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by these affectionate self-sacrifices.

  “Nay, my dears,” he would remonstrate; and when I saw Caddy’s thin arm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be melted too, though not by the same process; “Nay, nay! I have promised never to leave ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and I ask no other return. Now, bless ye! I am going to the Park.”

  He would take the air there, presently, and get an appetite for his hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrong; but I never saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, except that he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy, and would take the child out walking with great pomp—always, on those occasions, sending him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a half-penny in his pocket. But even this disinterestedness was attended with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge; for before Peepy was sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with the professor of Deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at the expense of Caddy and her husband, from top to toe.

  Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he used to come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice how she was, and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt to say anything more, I liked him very much. If he found me bustling about, doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as if with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got any further. His sole occupation was to sit with his head against the wall, looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite divest my mind of a fancy that they understood one another.

  I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors, because he was now Caddy’s regular attendant. She soon began to improve under his care; but he was so gentle, so skilful, so un-wearying in the pains he took, that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I saw a good deal of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not so much as might be supposed; for knowing Caddy to be safe in his hands, I often slipped home at about the hours when he was expected. We frequently met, notwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myself now; but I still felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still was sorry for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in his professional engagements, which were numerous; and had as yet no settled projects for the future.

  It was when Caddy began to recover, that I began to notice a change in my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me; because I observed it in many slight particulars, which were nothing in themselves and only became something when they were pieced together. But I made it out, by putting them together, that Ada was not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her tenderness for me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a moment doubt that; but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.

  Now I could not understand this; and I was so anxious for the happiness of my own pet, that it caused me some uneasiness, and set me thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed this something from me, lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my head that she was a little grieved—for me—by what I had told her about Bleak House.

  How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don’t know. I had no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I was not grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy. Still, that Ada might be thinking—for me, though I had abandoned all such thoughts—of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so easy to believe that I believed it.

  What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and show her that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as brisk and busy as possible, and that, I had tried to be all along. However, as Caddy’s illness had certainly interfered, more or less, with my home duties—though I had always been there in the morning to make my guardian’s breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughed, and said there must be two little women, for his little woman was never missing—I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I went about the house, humming all the tunes I knew; and I sat working and working in a desperate manner, and I talked and talked, morning, noon, and night.

  And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.

  “So, Dame Trot,” observed my guardian, shutting up his book, one night when we were all three together; “so Woodcourt has restored Caddy Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?”

  “Yes,” I said; “and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers, is to be made rich, Guardian.”

  “I wish it was,” he returned, “with all my heart.”

  So did I too, for that matter. I said so.

  “Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew, if we knew how. Would we not, little woman?”

  I laughed as I worked, and replied that I was not sure about that, for it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there might be many who could ill spare him. As, Miss Flite, and Caddy herself, and many others.

  “True,” said my guardian. “I had forgotten that. But we would agree to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough to work with tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own happy home, and his own household gods—and household goddess, too, perhaps?”

  That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.

  “To be sure,” said my guardian. “All of us. I have a great regard for Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an independent man, with that just kind of pride which he possesses. And yet I would be glad to do it if I might, or if I knew how. He seems half inclined for another voyage. But that appears like casting such a man away.”

  “It might open a new world to him,” said I.

  “So it might, little woman,” my guardian assented. “I doubt if he expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that he sometimes feels some particular disappointment, or misfortune, encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?”

  I shook my head.

  “Humph,” said my guardian. “I am mistaken, I dare say.”

  As there was a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl’s satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I worked which was a favourite with my guardian.

  “And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?” I asked him, when I had hummed it quietly all through.

  “I don’t quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was likely at present that he will give a long trial to another country.”

  “I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him wherever he goes,” said I; “and though they are not riches, he will never be the poorer for them, Guardian, at least.”

  “Never, little woman,” he replied.

  I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian’s chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite; and I saw, as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears, and that tears were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be placid and merry, once for all to undeceive my dear, and set her loving heart at rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.

  So I made my sweet g
irl lean upon my shoulder—how little thinking what was heavy on her mind!—and I said she was not quite well, and put my arm about her, and took her upstairs. When we were in our own room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I was so unprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in me; I never thought she stood in need of it.

  “O my dear good Esther,” said Ada, “if I could only make up my mind to speak to you and my cousin John, when you are together!”

  “Why, my love!” I remonstrated. “Ada? why should you not speak to us!”

  Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.

  “You surely don’t forget, my beauty,” said I, smiling, “what quiet, old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the discreetest of dames? You don’t forget how happily and peacefully my life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain that you don’t forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can never be.”

  “No, never, Esther.”

  “Why then, my dear,” said I, “there can be nothing amiss—and why should you not speak to us?”

  “Nothing amiss, Esther?” returned Ada, “O when I think of all these years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!”

  I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not to answer, otherwise than by cheering her; and so I turned off into many little recollections of our life together, and prevented her from saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not before, I returned to my guardian to say good night; and then I came back to Ada, and sat near her for a little while.

  She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was a little changed. I had thought so, more than once lately. I could not decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was changed; but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked different to me. My guardian’s old hopes of her and Richard arose sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, “she has been anxious about him,” and I wondered how that love would end.

  When I had come home from Caddy’s while she was ill, I had often found Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and I had never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near her, which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawer; but I still rather wondered what the work could be, for it was evidently nothing for herself.

  And I noticed as I kissed my dear, that she lay with one hand under her pillow so that it was hidden.

  How much less amiable I must have been than they thought me, how much less amiable than I thought myself, to be so preoccupied with my own cheerfulness and contentment, as to think that it only rested with me to put my dear girl right, and set her mind at peace!

  But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. And I awoke in it next day, to find that there was still the same shade between me and my darling.

  CHAPTER 51

  ENLIGHTENED

  When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went, that very same day, to Mr. Vholes’s in Symond’s Inn. For he never once, from the moment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, neglected or forgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge as a sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.

  He found Mr. Vholes in his office, and informed Mr. Vholes of his agreement with Richard, that he should call there to learn his address.

  “Just so, sir,” said Mr. Vholes. “Mr. C.’s address is not a hundred miles from here, sir, Mr. C.’s address is not a hundred miles from here. Would you take a seat, sir?”

  Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business with him beyond what he had mentioned.

  “Just so, sir. I believe, sir,” said Mr. Vholes, still quietly insisting on the seat by not giving the address, “that you have influence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have.”

  “I was not aware of it myself,” returned Mr. Woodcourt; “but I suppose you know best.”

  “Sir,” rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained, as usual, voice and all, “it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a part of my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not be wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, be wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I know it, sir.”

  Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address.

  “Give me leave, sir,” said Mr. Vholes. “Bear with me for a moment. Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play without—need I say what?”

  “Money, I presume?”

  “Sir,” said Mr. Vholes, “to be honest with you (honesty being my golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances of Mr. C.’s game I express to you no opinion, no opinion. It might be highly impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, to leave off; it might be the reverse. I say nothing. No, sir,” said Mr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk, in a positive manner, “nothing.”

  “You seem to forget,” returned Mr. Woodcourt, “that I ask you to say nothing, and have no interest in anything you say.”

  “Pardon me, sir!” retorted Mr. Vholes, “you do yourself an injustice. No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not—shall not in my office, if I know it—do yourself an injustice. You are interested in anything, and in everything, that relates to your friend. I know human nature much better, sir, than to admit for an instant that a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend.”

  “Well,” replied Mr. Woodcourt, “that may be. I am particularly interested in his address.”

  (“The number, sir,”) said Mr. Vholes parenthetically, (“I believe I have already mentioned.”) If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There are funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are funds in hand. But, for the onward play, more funds must be provided; unless Mr. C. is to throw away what he has already ventured—which is wholly and solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, I take the opportunity of stating openly to you, as the friend of Mr. C. Without funds, I shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr. C., to the extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate: not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging some one. I must either wrong my three dear girls; or my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me—in the Vale of Taunton; or some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly if you please) to wrong no one.”

  Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it.

  “I wish, sir,” said Mr. Vholes, “to leave a good name behind me. Therefore, I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of Mr. C., how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer is worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to the wheel, I do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that purpose. My name is painted on the door outside, with that object.”

  “And Mr. Carstone’s address, Mr. Vholes?”

  “Sir,” returned Mr. Vholes, “as I believe I have already mentioned, it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.’s apartment. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser; and I am far from objecting, for I court inquiry.”

  Upon this, Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day and went in search of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began to understand now but too well.

  He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished; much as I had found him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that he was not writing, but was sitting with a book before him, from which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to be standing open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some moments without being perceived; and he told me that he never could forget the haggardness of his face, and the dejection of his manner, before he was aroused from his dream.

  “Woodcourt, my dear fellow!” cried Richard, starting up
with extended hands, “you come upon my vision like a ghost.”

  “A friendly one,” he replied, “and only waiting, as they say ghosts do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?” They were seated now, near together.

  “Badly enough, and slowly enough,” said Richard; “speaking at least for my part of it.”

  “What part is that?”

  “The Chancery part.”

  “I never heard,” returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, “of its going well yet.”

  “Nor I,” said Richard, moodily. “Who ever did?”

  He brightened again in a moment, and said, with his natural openness:

  “Woodcourt, I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it in your estimation. You must know that I have done no good this long time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have done better by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked me; but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard, a very different opinion. To make short of a long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object now—or it has me—and it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and make the best of me.”

  “A bargain,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “Do as much by me in return.”

  “Oh! You,” returned Richard, “you can pursue your art for its own sake; and can put your hand upon the plough, and never turn; and can strike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very different creatures.”

  He spoke regretfully, and lapsed for a moment into his weary condition.

  “Well, well!” he cried, shaking it off, “everything has an end. We shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make the best of me?”

  “Aye! indeed I will.” They shook hands upon it laughingly, but in deep earnestness. I can answer, for one of them, with my heart of hearts.

  “You come as a godsend,” said Richard, “for I have seen nobody here yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. You can hardly make the best of me if I don’t. You know, I dare say, that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?”