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

by Lynn Shepherd

  It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn, should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots; and observes even them attentively, as Mr. George sits smoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

  At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the children to the last, and remembers the commission he has undertaken for an absent friend.

  “Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor—could you recommend me such a thing?”

  “Scores,” says Mr. Bagnet.

  “I am obliged to you,” returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand. “You’re a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mo-zart and Handel, and the rest of the big-wigs, like a thorough workman. And you needn’t,” says Mr. Bucket, in a considerate and private voice, “you needn’t commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don’t want to pay too large a price for my friend; but I want you to have your proper percentage, and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man must live, and ought to it.”

  Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl, to the effect that they have found a jewel of price.

  “Suppose I was to give you a look in, say at half arter ten tomorrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few wiolincellers of a good tone?” says Mr. Bucket.

  Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite information ready, and even hint to each other at the practicability of having a small stock collected there for approval.

  “Thank you,” says Mr. Bucket, “thank you. Good night, ma’am. Good night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life.”

  They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions of goodwill on both sides. “Now George, old boy,” says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, “come along!” As they go down the little street, and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket “almost clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him.”

  The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, “Wait half a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first.” Immediately afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour, where he confronts him, and claps his own back against the door.

  “Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket. “Duty is duty, and friendship is friendship. I never want the two to clash, if I can help it. I have endeavoured to make things pleasant tonight, and I put it to you whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody, George.”

  “Custody? What for?” returns the trooper, thunderstruck.

  “Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case upon him with his fat forefinger, “duty, as you know very well, is one thing, and conversation is another. It’s my duty to inform you that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don’t happen to have heard of a murder?”

  “Murder!”

  “Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an impressive state of action, “bear in mind what I’ve said to you. I ask you nothing. You’ve been in low spirits this afternoon. I say, you don’t happen to have heard of a murder.”

  “No. Where has there been a murder?”

  “Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, “don’t you go and commit yourself. I’m a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that.”

  The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

  “Bucket! It’s not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed, and that you suspect me?”

  “George,” returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, “it is certainly possible, because it’s the case. This deed was done last night at ten o’clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten o’clock, and you’ll be able to prove it, no doubt.”

  “Last night! Last night?” repeats the trooper, thoughtfully. Then it flashes upon him. “Why, great Heaven, I was there last night!”

  “So I have understood, George,” returns Mr. Bucket, with great deliberation. “So I have understood. Likewise you’ve been very often there. You’ve been seen hanging about the place, and you’ve been heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it’s possible—I don’t say it’s certainly so, mind you, but it’s possible—that he may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow.”

  The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all, if he could speak.

  “Now, George,” continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table, with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise, “my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant. I tell you plainly there’s a reward out, of a hundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear to you that I must have you, and that I’m damned if I don’t have you. Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?”

  Mr. George has recovered himself, and stands up like a soldier. “Come,” he says; “I am ready.”

  “George,” continues Mr. Bucket, “wait a bit!” With his upholsterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. “This is a serious charge, George, and such is my duty.”

  The trooper flushes angrily, and hesitates a moment; but holds out his two hands, clasped together, and says, “There! Put them on!”

  Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. “How do you find them? Are they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I’ve got another pair in my pocket.” This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman, anxious to execute an order neatly, and to the perfect satisfaction of his customer. “They’ll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see, George”; he takes a cloak from a corner, and begins adjusting it about the trooper’s neck; “I was mindful of your feelings when I come out, and brought this on purpose. There! Who’s the wiser?”

  “Only I,” returns the trooper; “but as I know it, do me one more good turn, and pull my hat over my eyes.”

  “Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain’t it a pity? It looks so.”

  “I can’t look chance men in the face with these things on,” Mr. George hurriedly replies. “Do, for God’s sake, pull my hat forward.”

  So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and conducts his prize into the streets; the trooper marching on as steadily as usual, though with his head less erect; and Mr. Bucket steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

  *

  CHAPTER 50

  ESTHER’S NARRATIVE

  It happened that when I came home from Deal, I found a note from Caddy Jellyby (as we always continued to call her), informing me that her health, which had been for some time very delicate, was worse, and that she would be more glad than she could tell me if I would go to see her. It was a note of a few lines, written from the couch on which she lay, and enclosed to me in another from her husband, in which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude. Caddy was now
the mother, and I the godmother, of such a poor little baby—such a tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance that seemed to be scarcely anything but cap-border, and a little lean, long-fingered hand, always clenched under its chin. It would lie in this attitude all day, with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used to imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. Whenever it was moved it cried; but at all other times it was so patient, that the sole desire of its life appeared to be, to lie quiet, and think. It had curious little dark veins in its face, and curious little dark marks under its eyes, like faint remembrances of poor Caddy’s inky days; and altogether, to those who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous little sight.

  But it was enough for Caddy that she was used to it. The projects with which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther’s education, and little Esther’s marriage, and even for her own old age, as the grandmother of little Esther’s little Esthers, was so prettily expressive of devotion to this pride of her life, that I should be tempted to recall some of them, but for the timely remembrance that I am getting on irregularly as it is.

  To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me, which had been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago, when she had laid asleep with her head in my lap. She almost—I think I must say quite—believed that I did her good whenever I was near her. Now, although this was such a fancy of the affectionate girl’s that I am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might have all the force of a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I set off to Caddy, with my guardian’s consent, posthaste; and she and Prince made so much of me, that there never was anything like it. Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went again. It was a very easy journey; for I had only to rise a little earlier in the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeeping matters before leaving home.

  But when I had made these three visits, my guardian said to me, on my return at night:

  “Now, little woman, little woman, this will never do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant coaching will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a while, and take possession of our old lodgings.”

  “Not for me, dear Guardian,” said I, “for I never feel tired”; which was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such request.

  “For me then,” returned my guardian; “or for Ada, or for both of us. It is somebody’s birthday tomorrow, I think.”

  “Truly I think it is,” said I, kissing my darling, who would be twenty-one tomorrow.

  “Well,” observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously, “that’s a great occasion, and will give my fair cousin some necessary business to transact in assertion of her independence, and will make London a more convenient place for all of us. So to London we will go. That being settled, there is another thing—how have you left Caddy?”

  “Very unwell, Guardian. I fear it will be some time before she regains her health and strength.”

  “What do you call some time, now?” asked my guardian, thoughtfully.

  “Some weeks, I am afraid.”

  “Ah!” He began to walk about the room with his hands in his pockets, showing that he had been thinking as much. “Now what do you say about her doctor? Is he a good doctor, my love?”

  I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary; but that Prince and I had agreed only that evening, that we would like his opinion to be confirmed by some one.

  “Well, you know,” returned my guardian quickly, “there’s Woodcourt.”

  I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For a moment, all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr. Woodcourt seemed to come back and confuse me.

  “You don’t object to him, little woman?”

  “Object to him, Guardian? Oh no!”

  “And you don’t think the patient would object to him?”

  So far from that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have a great reliance on him, and to like him very much. I said that he was no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often in his kind attendance on Miss Flite.

  “Very good,” said my guardian. “He has been here today, my dear, and I will see him about it tomorrow.”

  I felt in this short conversation—though I did not know how, for she was quiet, and we interchanged no look—that my dear girl well remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist, when no other hands than Caddy’s had brought me the little parting token. This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, and Caddy too, that I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House; and that if I avoided that disclosure any longer, I might become less worthy in my own eyes of its master’s love. Therefore, when we went upstairs, and had waited listening until the clock struck twelve, in order that only I might be the first to wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday, and to take her to my heart, I set before her, just as I had set before myself, the goodness and honour of her cousin John, and the happy life that was in store for me. If ever my darling were fonder of me at one time than another in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest of me that night. And I was so rejoiced to know it, and so comforted by the sense of having done right, in casting this last idle reservation away, that I was ten times happier than I had been before. I had scarcely thought it a reservation a few hours ago; but now that it was gone, I felt as if I understood its nature better.

  Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacant, and in half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had never gone away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us, to celebrate my darling’s birthday; and we were as pleasant as we could be with the great blank among us that Richard’s absence naturally made on such an occasion. After that day I was for some weeks—eight or nine as I remember—very much with Caddy; and thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this time than any other since we had first come together, except the time of my own illness. She often came to Caddy’s; but our function there was to amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confidential manner. Whenever I went home at night, we were together; but Caddy’s rest was broken by pain, and I often remained to nurse her.

  With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love, and their home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was! So self-denying, so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account, so afraid of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassisted labours of her husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop; I had never known the best of her until now. And it seemed so curious that her pale face and helpless figure should be lying there day after day, where dancing was the business of life; where the kit and the apprentices began early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy waltzed by himself in the kitchen all the afternoon.

  At Caddy’s request, I took the supreme direction of her apartment, trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter and more airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay my small small namesake in her arms, and sit down to chat or work, or read to her. It was at one of the first of these quiet times that I told Caddy about Bleak House.

  We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all, we had Prince, who in his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the very little child. Whatever Caddy’s condition really was, she never failed to declare to Prince that she was all but well—which I, Heaven forgive me, never failed to confirm. This would put Prince in such good spirits, that he would sometimes take the kit from his pocket and play a chord or two to astonish the baby—which I never knew it to do in the least degree, for my tiny namesake never noticed it at all.

  Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionally with her usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond her grandchild, as if her attention were absorbed by a young Borrioboolan on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, as serene, and as untidy, she would say, “Well, Caddy, child,
and how do you do today?” And then would sit amiably smiling, and taking no notice of the reply; or would sweetly glide off into a calculation of the number of letters she had lately received and answered, or of the coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola-Gha. This she would always do with a serene contempt for our limited sphere of action, not to be disguised.

  Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning to night and from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions. If the baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should make him uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, it was surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddy required any little comfort that the house contained, she first carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. In return for this consideration, he would come into the room once a day, all but blessing it—showing a condescension, and a patronage, and a grace of manner, in dispensing the light of his high-shouldered presence, from which I might have supposed him (if I had not known better) to have been the benefactor of Caddy’s life.

  “My Caroline,” he would say, making the nearest approach that he could to bending over her. “Tell me that you are better today.”

  “O much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop,” Caddy would reply.

  “Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Summerson. She is not quite prostrated by fatigue?” Here he would crease up his eyelids, and kiss his fingers to me; though I am happy to say he had ceased to be particular in his attentions, since I had been so altered.