I am a widower with three daughters--Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my desire is so to discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good name.
This appears to be a pleasant spot, miss."
The remark being made to me in consequence of my being next him as we walked, I assented and enumerated its chief attractions.
"Indeed?" said Mr. Vholes.
"I have the privilege of supporting an aged father in the Vale of Taunton--his native place--and I admire that country very much.
I had no idea there was anything so attractive here."
To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Vholes if he would like to live altogether in the country.
"There, miss," said he, "you touch me on a tender string.
My health is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I had only myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural habits, especially as the cares of business have prevented me from ever coming much into contact with general society, and particularly with ladies' society, which I have most wished to mix in.
But with my three daughters, Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my aged father--I cannot afford to be selfish.
It is true I have no longer to maintain a dear grandmother who died in her hundred and second year, but enough remains to render it indispensable that the mill should be always going."
It required some attention to hear him on account of his inward speaking and his lifeless manner.
"You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters," he said.
"They are my weak point.
I wish to leave the poor girls some little independence, as well as a good name."
We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn's house, where the tea-table, all prepared, was awaiting us.
Richard came in restless and hurried shortly afterwards, and leaning over Mr. Vholes's chair, whispered something in his ear.
Mr. Vholes replied aloud--or as nearly aloud I suppose as he had ever replied to anything--"You will drive me, will you, sir?
It is all the same to me, sir.
Anything you please.
I am quite at your service."
We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to be left until the morning to occupy the two places which had been already paid for.
As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning Richard and very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain as we politely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole to the Dedlock Arms and retire when the night-travellers were gone.
Richard's high spirits carrying everything before them, we all went out together to the top of the hill above the village, where he had ordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lantern standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had been harnessed to it.
I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern's light, Richard all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins in his hand; Mr. Vholes quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, looking at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it.
I have before me the whole picture of the warm dark night, the summer lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows and high trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, and the driving away at speed to Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
My dear girl told me that night how Richard's being thereafter prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make this difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchanging heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give him; how he thought of her through his present errors, and she would think of him at all times--never of herself if she could devote herself to him, never of her own delights if she could minister to his.
And she kept her word?
I look along the road before me, where the distance already shortens and the journey's end is growing visible; and true and good above the dead sea of the Chancery suit and all the ashy fruit it cast ashore, I think I see my darling.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A Struggle
When our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we were punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome.
I was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding my housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in as if I had been a new year, with a merry little peal.
"Once more, duty, duty, Esther," said I; "and if you are not overjoyed to do it, more than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything and everything, you ought to be.
That's all I have to say to you, my dear!"
The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and business, devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated journeys to and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the house, so many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such a general new beginning altogether, that I had not a moment's leisure.
But when these arrangements were completed and everything was in order, I paid a visit of a few hours to London, which something in the letter I had destroyed at Chesney Wold had induced me to decide upon in my own mind.
I made Caddy Jellyby--her maiden name was so natural to me that I always called her by it--the pretext for this visit and wrote her a note previously asking the favour of her company on a little business expedition.
Leaving home very early in the morning, I got to London by stage-coach in such good time that I got to Newman Street with the day before me.
Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad and so affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make her husband jealous.
But he was, in his way, just as bad--I mean as good; and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave me any possibility of doing anything meritorious.
The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an apprentice --it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the trade of dancing--was waiting to carry upstairs.
Her father-in-law was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, and they lived most happily together. (When she spoke of their living together, she meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the good lodging, while she and her husband had what they could get, and were poked into two corner rooms over the Mews.)
"And how is your mama, Caddy?" said I.
"Why, I hear of her, Esther," replied Caddy, "through Pa, but I see very little of her.
We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Ma thinks there is something absurd in my having married a dancing- master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her."
It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions against becoming absurd, but I need scarcely observe that I kept this to myself.
"And your papa, Caddy?"
"He comes here every evening," returned Caddy, "and is so fond of sitting in the corner there that it's a treat to see him."
Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr. Jellyby's head against the wall.