Chapter LI. Enlightened

by Charles Dickens

　　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 themoment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, neglected orforgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge asa sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed Mr. Vholes of hisagreement with Richard that he should call there to learn hisaddress."Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C.'s address is not ahundred miles from here, sir, Mr. C.'s address is not a hundredmiles from here. Would you take a seat, sir?"Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business with himbeyond what he had mentioned."Just so, sir. I believe, sir," said Mr. Vholes, still quietlyinsisting on the seat by not giving the address, "that you haveinfluence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have.""I was not aware of it myself," returned Mr. Woodcourt; "but Isuppose 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 partof my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman whoconfides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall notbe wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, bewanting 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 playwithout--need I say what?""Money, I presume?""Sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to be honest with you (honesty being mygolden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that Igenerally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances ofMr. C.'s game I express to you no opinion, no opinion. It might behighly impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, toleave off; it might be the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir," saidMr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positivemanner, "nothing.""You seem to forget," returned Mr, Woodcourt, "that I ask you tosay nothing and have no interest in anything you say.""Pardon me, sir!" retorted Mr. Vholes. "You do yourself aninjustice. No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not--shall not in myoffice, if I know it--do yourself an injustice. You are interestedin anything, and in everything, that relates to your friend. Iknow human nature much better, sir, than to admit for an instantthat a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whateverconcerns his friend.""Well," replied Mr. Woodcourt, "that may be. I am particularlyinterested in his address.""The number, sir," said Mr. Vholes parenthetically, "I believe Ihave already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for thisconsiderable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! Thereare funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are fundsin hand. But for the onward play, more funds must be provided,unless Mr. C. is to throw away what he has already ventured, whichis wholly and solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, Itake 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 ofthe estate, not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir,without wronging some one. I must either wrong my three dear girlsor my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me, in theVale of Taunton; or some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (callit 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 ofMr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer isworthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to thewheel, 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.'sapartments. 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 insearch of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began tounderstand now but too well.He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as I had foundhim in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that hewas not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from whichhis eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to bestanding open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some momentswithout being perceived, and he told me that he never could forgetthe haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner beforehe was aroused from his dream."Woodcourt, my dear fellow," cried Richard, starting up withextended hands, "you come upon my vision like a ghost.""A friendly one," he replied, "and only waiting, as they say ghostsdo, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?" They wereseated now, near together."Badly enough, and slowly enough," said Richard, "speaking at leastfor my part of it.""What part is that?""The Chancery part.""I never heard," returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, "of itsgoing well yet.""Nor I," said Richard moodily. "Who ever did?" He brightenedagain in a moment and said with his natural openness, "Woodcourt, Ishould be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by itin your estimation. You must know that I have done no good thislong time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to havebeen capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have donebetter by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has workedme, but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if youhave not already heard, a very different opinion. To make short ofa long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have anobject now--or it has me--and it is too late to discuss it. Takeme 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 ownsake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and canstrike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very differentcreatures."He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his wearycondition."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 ofme?""Aye! Indeed I will." They shook hands upon it laughingly, but indeep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart ofhearts."You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen nobody hereyet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like tomention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. Youcan hardly make the best of me if I don't. You know, I dare say,that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?"Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him. "Nowpray," returned Richard, "don't think me a heap of selfishness.Don't suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking myheart over this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights andinterests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine; they can't beseparated; Vholes works for both of us. Do think of that!"He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave himthe strongest assurances that he did him no injustice."You see," said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner oflingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, "toan upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yourshere, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. Iwant to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to domy utmost to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I canscrape together to extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseechyou, think of that!"Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had passed,he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's anxietyon this point that in telling me generally of his first visit toSymond's Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear Ihad had before that my dear girl's little property would beabsorbed by Mr. Vholes and that Richard's justification to himselfwould be sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care ofCaddy that the interview took place, and I now return to the timewhen Caddy had recovered and the shade was still between me and mydarling.I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Richard.It a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not soradiantly willing as I had expected."My dear," said I, "you have not had any difference with Richardsince I have been so much away?""No, Esther.""Not heard of him, perhaps?" said I."Yes, I have heard of him," said Ada.Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could notmake my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself? I said.No, Ada thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go withme? Yes, Ada thought she had better go with me. Should we go now?Yes, let us go now. Well, I could not understand my darling, withthe tears in her eyes and the love in her face!We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre day, and dropsof chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourlessdays when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned atus, the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made anycompromise about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied mybeautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streets, and Ithought there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavementsthan I had ever seen before.We had first to find out Symond's Inn. We were going to inquire ina shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. "Weare not likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction,"said I. So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, wesaw it written up. Symond's Inn.We had next to find out the number. "Or Mr. Vholes's office willdo," I recollected, "for Mr. Vholes's office is next door." Uponwhich Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the cornerthere. And it really was.Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was goingfor the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darlingwas right again. So up we went to the second story, when we cameto Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn thehandle and go in. Thus we came to Richard, poring over a tablecovered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dustymirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw theominous words that ran in it repeated. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. "If you hadcome a little earlier," he said, "you would have found Woodcourthere. There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. Hefinds time to look in between-whiles, when anybody else with halfhis work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. Andhe is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so--everythingthat I am not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, anddarkens whenever he goes again.""God bless him," I thought, "for his truth to me!""He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting hisdejected look over the bundles of papers, "as Vholes and I areusually, but he is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries.We have gone into them, and he has not. He can't be expected toknow much of such a labyrinth."As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his twohands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his eyesappeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were allbitten away."Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think?" said I."Why, my dear Minerva," answered Richard with his old gay laugh,"it is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sunshines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shiningbrightly in an open spot. But it's well enough for the time. It'snear the offices and near Vholes.""Perhaps," I hinted, "a change from both--""Might do me good?" said Richard, forcing a laugh as he finishedthe sentence. "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only come in oneway now--in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either the suitmust be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, mydear girl, the suit, my dear girl!"These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearestto him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, Icould not see it."We are doing very well," pursued Richard. "Vholes will tell youso. We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes. We are giving themno rest. Vholes knows all their windings and turnings, and we areupon them everywhere. We have astonished them already. We shallrouse up that nest of sleepers, mark my words!"His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than hisdespondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fiercein its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet soconscious of being forced and unsustainable that it had longtouched me to the heart. But the commentary upon it now indeliblywritten in his handsome face made it far more distressing than itused to be. I say indelibly, for I felt persuaded that if thefatal cause could have been for ever terminated, according to hisbrightest visions, in that same hour, the traces of the prematureanxiety, self-reproach, and disappointment it had occasioned himwould have remained upon his features to the hour of his death."The sight of our dear little woman," said Richard, Ada stillremaining silent and quiet, "is so natural to me, and hercompassionate face is so like the face of old days--"Ah! No, no. I smiled and shook my head."--So exactly like the face of old days," said Richard in hiscordial voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard whichnothing ever changed, "that I can't make pretences with her. Ifluctuate a little; that's the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear,and sometimes I--don't quite despair, but nearly. I get," saidRichard, relinquishing my hand gently and walking across the room,"so tired!"He took a few turns up and down and sunk upon the sofa. "I get,"he repeated gloomily, "so tired. It is such weary, weary work!"He was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voiceand looking at the ground when my darling rose, put off her bonnet,kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlighton his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, and turned herface to me. Oh, what a loving and devoted face I saw!"Esther, dear," she said very quietly, "I am not going home again."A light shone in upon me all at once."Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We havebeen married above two months. Go home without me, my own Esther;I shall never go home any more!" With those words my darling drewhis head down on her breast and held it there. And if ever in mylife I saw a love that nothing but death could change, I saw itthen before me."Speak to Esther, my dearest," said Richard, breaking the silencepresently. "Tell her how it was."I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms.We neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own I wantedto hear nothing. "My pet," said I. "My love. My poor, poorgirl!" I pitied her so much. I was very fond of Richard, but theimpulse that I had upon me was to pity her so much."Esther, will you forgive me? Will my cousin John forgive me?""My dear," said I, "to doubt it for a moment is to do him a greatwrong. And as to me!" Why, as to me, what had I to forgive!I dried my sobbing darling's eyes and sat beside her on the sofa,and Richard sat on my other side; and while I was reminded of thatso different night when they had first taken me into theirconfidence and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they toldme between them how it was."All I had was Richard's," Ada said; "and Richard would not takeit, Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I loved himdearly!""And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent DameDurden," said Richard, "that how could we speak to you at such atime! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went outone morning and were married.""And when it was done, Esther," said my darling, "I was alwaysthinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. Andsometimes I thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes Ithought you ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin John;and I could not tell what to do, and I fretted very much."How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before! Idon't know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so fondof them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them somuch, and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another.I never had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at onetime, and in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But Iwas not there to darken their way; I did not do that.When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took herwedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. Then Iremembered last night and told Richard that ever since her marriageshe had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Adablushingly asked me how did I know that, my dear. Then I told Adahow I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had littlethought why, my dear. Then they began telling me how it was allover again, and I began to be sorry and glad again, and foolishagain, and to hide my plain old face as much as I could lest Ishould put them out of heart.Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think ofreturning. When that time arrived it was the worst of all, forthen my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck,calling me by every dear name she could think of and saying whatshould she do without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as forme, I should have been the worst of the three if I had not severelysaid to myself, "Now Esther, if you do, I'll never speak to youagain!""Why, I declare," said I, "I never saw such a wife. I don't thinkshe loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, forgoodness' sake." But I held her tight all the while, and couldhave wept over her I don't know how long."I give this dear young couple notice," said I, "that I am onlygoing away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always comingbackwards and forwards until Symond's Inn is tired of the sight ofme. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be theuse of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!"I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but Ilingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed torive my heart to turn from.So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave mesome encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could takethat liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smilingthrough her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands,and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to methat I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blankwithout her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hopeof seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little whileas I walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took acoach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans hadreappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death;indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian hadgone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Beingquite alone, I cried a little again, though on the whole I don'tthink I behaved so very, very ill.It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to theloss of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long timeafter years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scenein which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowedstony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking somesort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the eveningonly to look up at her windows.It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so tome, and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into myconfidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came tothe new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behindthe yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times,looking up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who cameout of his office while we were there and turned his head to lookup too before going home. The sight of his lank black figure andthe lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to thestate of my mind. I thought of the youth and love and beauty of mydear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if itwere a cruel place.It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that Imight safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up witha light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oillanterns on the way. I listened for a few moments, and in themusty rotting silence of the house believed that I could hear themurmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-likepanel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly downagain, thinking that one of these days I would confess to thevisit.And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I knewanything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished theseparation between Ada and me and had brought us together again forthose moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to thechange, but all the better for that hovering about my darling.My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the darkwindow. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat,but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine."Little woman," said he, "You have been crying.""Why, yes, guardian," said I, "I am afraid I have been, a little.Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian."I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance thatmy words and my look at her empty place had prepared him."Is she married, my dear?"I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referredto his forgiveness."She has no need of it," said he. "Heaven bless her and herhusband!" But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, sowas his. "Poor girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!"Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, "Well,well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.""But its mistress remains, guardian." Though I was timid aboutsaying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he hadspoken. "She will do all she can to make it happy," said I."She will succeed, my love!"The letter had made no difference between us except that the seatby his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned hisold bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in hisold way, and said again, "She will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless,Bleak House is thinning fast, O little woman!"I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I wasrather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all Ihad meant to be since the letter and the answer.