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

by Lynn Shepherd

  As I watched her face, and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr. Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate from one of alarm.

  “O dear, dear!” cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her hands, “what shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff—that you came home and told us, of, Mr. Snagsby—that frightened me so, Mrs. Snagsby. O I am frightened again. Hold me!”

  “You are so much better now,” said I. “Pray, pray tell me more.”

  “Yes I will, yes I will! But don’t be angry with me, that’s a dear lady, because I have been so ill.”

  Angry with her, poor soul!

  “There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid at the house? And so I said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no—no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you! and went.”

  “And did she go—?”

  “Yes,” cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry, “yes! she went the way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me from somewhere, and laid hold of me, and I was frightened.”

  Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated, but I said, “Don’t leave me now!” and Mr. Bucket added, “You’ll be better with us, we may want you; don’t lose time!”

  I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that it was neither night nor day; that morning was dawning, but the street-lamps were not yet put out; that the sleet was still falling, and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet housetops, the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the courts by which we went. At the same time I remember, that the poor girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my hearing; that I could feel her resting on my arm; that the stained house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me; that great water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head, or in the air; and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.

  At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one lamp was burning over an iron gate, and where the morning faintly struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it, was a burial ground—a dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring; but where I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses, with a few dull lights in their windows, and on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the gate, drenched in a fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and splashed down everything, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a woman lying—Jenny, the mother of the dead child.

  I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me, with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.

  “Miss Summerson, you’ll understand me, if you think a moment. They changed clothes at the cottage.”

  They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in my mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves; but I attached no meaning to them in any other connexion.

  “And one returned,” said Mr. Bucket, “and one went on. And the one that went on, only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive, and then turned across country, and went home. Think a moment!”

  I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead child. She lay there, with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron gate, and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had so lately spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, senseless creature. She who had brought my mother’s letter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to this condition by some means connected with my mother that I could not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw, but did not comprehend, the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt’s face. I saw, but did not comprehend, his touching the other on the breast to keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a reverence for something. But my understanding for all this was gone.

  I even heard it said between them:

  “Shall she go?”

  “She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her. They have a higher right than ours.”

  I passed on to the gate, and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head, put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it was my mother, cold and dead.

  *

  CHAPTER 60

  PERSPECTIVE

  I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all about me, I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved. I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it was not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it, if I could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

  I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

  During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian’s invitation, to stay with us. When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him in our old way—though I could have done that sooner, if he would have believed me—I resumed my work, and my chair beside his. He had appointed the time himself, and we were alone.

  “Dame Trot,” said he, receiving me with a kiss, “welcome to the Growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time—as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short.”

  “And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?” said I.

  “Aye, my dear? Bleak House,” he returned, “must learn to take care of itself.”

  I thought his tone sounded sorrowful; but, looking at him, I saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.

  “Bleak House,” he repeated; and his tone did not sound sorrowful, I found; “must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you.”

  “It’s like you, Guardian,” said I, “to have been taking that into consideration, for a happy surprise to both of us.”

  “Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for that virtue; since, if you were generally on the road, you could be seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of Ada as I can, in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, Guardian?”

  “I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden.”

  “Does he still say the same of Richard?”

  “Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about him; who can be?”

  My dear girl had been to see us lately, every day; some times twice in a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin John as it had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of laying any injunctions upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand that she felt it a part of her duty to him, to be sparing of her visits at our house. My guardian�
��s delicacy had soon perceived this, and had tried to convey to her that he thought she was right.

  “Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard,” said I. “When will he awake from his delusion!”

  “He is not in the way to do so now, my dear,” replied my guardian. “The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me: having made me the principal representative of the great occasion of his suffering.”

  I could not help adding, “So unreasonably!”

  “Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot,” returned my guardian, “what shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason and injustice from beginning to end—if it ever has an end—how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles, than older men did, in old times.”

  His gentleness and consideration for Richard, whenever we spoke of him, touched me so, that I was always silent on this subject very soon.

  “I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the whole Chancery battery of great guns, would be infinitely astonished by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors,” pursued my guardian. “When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be astonished too!”

  He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the wind was, and leaned on the back of my chair instead.

  “Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. Therefore, I have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month, next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can wait.”

  But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, I thought, had Mr. Woodcourt.

  “So he tells me,” returned my guardian. “Very good. He has made his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do you like her, my dear?”

  In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I liked her very much, and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.

  “I think so too,” said my guardian. “Less pedigree? Not so much of Morgan-ap—what’s his name?”

  That was what I meant, I acknowledged; though he was a very harmless person, even when we had had more of him.

  “Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains,” said my guardian. “I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?”

  No. And yet—

  My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.

  I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I could say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been better if we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly have explained why, even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not to anybody else.

  “You see,” said my guardian, “our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt’s way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us, and fond of you.”

  Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I could not have suggested a better arrangement; but I was not quite easy in my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think!

  “It is a very good plan indeed, dear Guardian, and we could not do better.”

  “Sure, little woman?”

  Quite sure. I had had a moment’s time to think, since I had urged that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.

  “Good,” said my guardian. “It shall be done. Carried unanimously.”

  “Carried unanimously,” I repeated, going on with my work.

  It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey, and never resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him, and all the great effects that were to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last theme.

  “You said, dear Guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another country. Have you been advising him since?”

  “Yes, little woman; pretty often.”

  “Has he decided to do so?”

  “I rather think not.”

  “Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?” said I. “Why—yes—perhaps,” returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a very deliberate manner. “About half a year hence or so, there is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated; streams and streets, town and country, mill and moor; and seems to present an opening for such a man. I mean, a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men’s sometimes do, I dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough after all, if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I suppose; but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care for. It is Woodcourt’s kind.”

  “And will he get this appointment?” I asked.

  “Why, little woman,” returned my guardian, smiling, “not being an oracle, I cannot confidently say; but I think so. His reputation stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck: and, strange to say, I believe the best man has the best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear; an appointment to a great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.”

  “The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice, if it falls on Mr. Woodcourt, Guardian.”

  “You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will.”

  We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it I considered.

  I now began to visit my dear girl every day, in the dull dark corner where she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever I found I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours, and used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no fear of becoming troublesome just yet.

  On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other times he would be writing, or reading papers in the Cause, at that table of his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. Sometimes I would come upon him, lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes’s office. Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood, lounging about, and biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln’s Inn, near the place where I had first seen him, O how different, how different!

  That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles I used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes’s office, I knew very well. It was not a large amount in the beginning; he had married in debt; and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what was meant by Mr. Vholes’s shoulder being at the wheel—as I still heard it was. My dear made the best of housekeeping, and tried hard to save; but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.

  She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She adorned and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she had been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought natural when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed, that I half believed she was blinded by her love for Richard to his ruinous career.

  I went one day to dine with them, while I was under this imp
ression. As I turned into Symond’s Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming out. She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce, as she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Monday at five o’clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, which never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest reticule of documents on her arm.

  “My dear!” she began. “So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? To be sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you.”

  “Then Richard is not come in yet?” said I. “I am glad of that, for I was afraid of being a little late.”

  “No, he is not come in,” returned Miss Flite. “He has had a long day in Court. I left him there, with Vholes. You don’t like Vholes, I hope? Don’t like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!”

  “I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now?” said I.

  “My dearest,” returned Miss Flite, “daily and hourly. You know what I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor’s table? My dear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in Court. He begins quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?”

  It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it was no surprise.

  “In short, my valued friend,” pursued Miss Flite, advancing her lips to my ear, with an air of equal patronage and mystery, “I must tell you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted, and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es.”

  “Indeed?” said I.

  “Ye-es,” repeated Miss Flite, in her most genteel accents, “my executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.) I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance.”