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

by Lynn Shepherd

  “Rosa.”

  The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how serious my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.

  “See to the door. Is it shut?”

  Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.

  “I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to do, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you. Say nothing to any one of what passes between us.”

  The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be trustworthy.

  “Do you know,” Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring her chair nearer; “do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from what I am to any one?”

  “Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as you really are.”

  “You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor child!”

  She says it with a kind of scorn—though not of Rosa—and sits brooding, looking dreamily at her.

  “Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?”

  “I don’t know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my heart, I wish it was so.”

  “It is so, little one.”

  The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure, by the dark expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an explanation.

  “And if I were to say today, Go! Leave me! I should say what would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very solitary.”

  “My Lady! Have I offended you?”

  “In nothing. Come here.”

  Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady’s feet. My Lady, with that motherly touch of the famous Ironmaster night, lays her hand upon her dark hair, and gently keeps it there.

  “I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy, and that I would make you so if I could make anybody happy, on this earth. I cannot. There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part, rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have written to the father of your lover, and he will be here today. All this I have done for your sake.”

  The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses, and says what shall she do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses her on the cheek, and makes no other answer.

  “Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and happy!”

  “Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought—forgive my being so free—that you are not happy.”

  “I!”

  “Will you be more so, when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think again. Let me stay a little while!”

  “I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now—not what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!”

  She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion, and leaves the room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent as if all passion, feeling, and interest, had been worn out in the earlier ages of the world, and had perished from its surface with its other departed monsters.

  Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of her appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library; but she repairs to the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him first.

  “Sir Leicester, I am desirous—but you are engaged.”

  O dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.

  Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him for a moment.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?”

  With a look that plainly says, “You know you have the power to remain if you will,” she tells him it is not necessary, and moves towards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his clumsy bow, and retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he darken her life.

  It is a dull street under the best conditions; where the two long rows of houses stare at each other with that severity, that half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared into stone, rather than originally built in that material. It is a street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful street; and from these petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends’ caps (its only present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high and dry master in the House of Lords.

  Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair, could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands. And yet—and yet—she sends a look in that direction, as if it were her heart’s desire to have that figure moved out of the way.

  Sir Leicester begs his Lady’s pardon. She was about to say?

  “Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment), and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am tired to death of the matter.”

  “What can I do—to—assist?” demands Sir Leicester, in some considerable doubt.

  “Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to send him up?”

  “Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request,” says Sir Leicester, to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business term, “request the iron gentleman to walk this way.”

  Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person, graciously.

  “I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell,” Sir Leicester skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, “was desirous to speak with you. Hem!”

  “I shall be very happy,” returns the iron gentleman, “to give my best attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say.”

  As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her; and there is nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.

  “Pray, sir,” says Lady Dedlock, listlessly, “may I be allowed to inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son, respecting your son’s fancy?”

  It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look upon him, as she asks this question.

  “If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son to conquer that—fancy.” The ironmaster repeats her expression with a little emphasis.

  “And did you?”

  “O! Of course I did.”

  Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very proper. The iron gentleman having said that he would do it, was bound to do it. No difference in this respect between the base metals and the precious. Highly proper.

  “And pray has he done so?”

  “Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes
couple an intention with our—our fancies, which renders them not altogether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest.”

  Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and polite; but, within such limits, evidently adapts his tone to his reception.

  “Because,” proceeds my Lady, “I have been thinking of the subject—which is tiresome to me.”

  “I am very sorry, I am sure.”

  “And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite concur”; Sir Leicester flattered; “and if you cannot give us the assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion that the girl had better leave me.”

  “I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind.”

  “Then she had better go.”

  “Excuse me, my Lady,” Sir Leicester considerately interposes, “but perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman, which she has not merited. Here is a young woman,” says Sir Leicester, magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand, like a service of plate, “whose good fortune it is to have attracted the notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very great—I believe unquestionably very great, sir—for a young woman in that station of life. The question then arises, should that young woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune, simply because she has”; Sir Leicester, with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up his sentence; “has attracted the notice of Mr. Rouncewell’s son? Now, has she deserved this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this our previous understanding?”

  “I beg your pardon,” interposes Mr. Rouncewell’s son’s father. “Sir Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so unimportant—which is not to be expected—you would recollect that my first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining here.”

  Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? O! Sir Leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their report of the iron gentleman’s observations.

  “It is not necessary,” observes my Lady, in her coldest manner, before he can do anything but breathe amazedly, “to enter into these matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever to say against her; but she is so far insensible to her many advantages and her good fortune, that she is in love—or supposes she is, poor little fool—and unable to appreciate them.”

  Sir Leicester begs to observe, that wholly alters the case. He might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman had better go.

  “As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion, when we were fatigued by this business,” Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds, “we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions, and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here, and had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would you prefer?”

  “Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly—”

  “By all means.”

  “—I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of the incumbrance, and remove her from her present position.”

  “And to speak as plainly;” she returns, with the same studied carelessness, “so should I. Do I understand that you will take her with you?”

  The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

  “Sir Leicester, will you ring?” Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from his window and pulls the bell. “I had forgotten you. Thank you.” He makes his usual bow, and goes quietly back again. Mercury, swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce, skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

  Rosa has been crying, and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with her near the door ready to depart.

  “You are taken charge of, you see,” says my Lady, in her weary manner, “and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.”

  “She seems after all,” observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little forward with his hands behind him, “as if she were crying at going away.”

  “Why, she is not well-bred, you see,” returns Mr. Rouncewell with some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer to retort upon; “and she is an inexperienced little thing, and knows no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s composed reply.

  Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and that she thanks my Lady over and over again. “Out, you silly little puss!” says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily; “have a spirit, if you’re fond of Watt!” My Lady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, “There, there, child! You are a good girl. Go away!” Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the subject, and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in my Lady’s view, bigger and blacker than before.

  “Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock,” says Mr. Rouncewell, after a pause of a few moments, “I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away, without troubling you at all. But it appeared to me—I dare say magnifying the importance of the thing—that it was respectful to explain to you how the matter stood, and candid to consult your wishes and convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world.”

  Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these remarks. “Mr. Rouncewell,” he returns, “do not mention it. Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side.”

  “I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a last word, revert to what I said before of my mother’s long connexion with the family, and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I would point out this little instance here on my arm, who shows herself so affectionate and faithful in parting, and in whom my mother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings—though of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much more.”

  If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his parting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.

  Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still standing in his window with his hands behind him, and my Lady still sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, “Well she may be! The power of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole time.” But he can act a part too—his one unchanging character—and as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester’s pair, should find no flaw in him.

  Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room today. Sir Leicester is whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party, and the discomfiture of the Coodle F
action. Lady Dedlock asks, on sitting down to dinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated cousin’s text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone yet? No. What is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.

  But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he is reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please to receive him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will receive him now. He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permission, while she is at table. When they are alone, my Lady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries.

  “What do you want, sir?”

  “Why, Lady Dedlock,” says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little distance from her, and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up and down, up and down; “I am rather surprised by the course you have taken.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a departure from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new position, Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of saying that I don’t approve of it.”

  He stops in his rubbing, and looks at her, with his hands on his knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an indefinable freedom in his manner, which is new, and which does not escape this woman’s observation.

  “I do not quite understand you.”

  “Oh yes, you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady Dedlock, we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this girl.”