The Solitary House (131 page)

“Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry,” said Caddy, “that he has not finished dressing yet, and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther.”

I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.

“It takes him a long time to dress,” said Caddy, “because he is very much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a
reputation to support. You can’t think how kind he is to Pa. He talks to Pa, of an evening, about the Prince Regent, and I never saw Pa so interested.”

There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing his Deportment on Mr. Jellyby, that quite took my fancy. I asked Caddy, if he brought her papa out much?

“No,” said Caddy, “I don’t know that he does that; but he talks to Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of course I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to Deportment, but they get on together delightfully. You can’t think what good companions they make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life; but he takes one pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop’s box regularly, and keeps putting it to his nose, and taking it away again, all the evening.”

That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes of life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Gha, appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.

“As to Peepy,” said Caddy, with a little hesitation, “whom I was most afraid of—next to having any family of my own, Esther—as an inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentleman to that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear! He lets him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the crusts of his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the house; he tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short,” said Caddy, cheerily, “and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl, and ought to be very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?”

“To the Old Street Road,” said I; “where I have a few words to say to the solicitor’s clerk, who was sent to meet me at the coach-office on the very day when I came to London, and first saw you, my dear. Now I think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house.”

“Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,” returned Caddy.

To the Old Street Road we went, and there inquired at Mrs. Guppy’s residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the parlours, and having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking
herself like a nut in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for, immediately presented herself, and requested us to walk in. She was an old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room was prepared for a visit; and there was a portrait of her son in it, which, I had almost written here, was more like than life: it insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not to let him off.

Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there too. He was dressed in a great many colours, and was discovered at a table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.

“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, rising, “this is indeed an Oasis. Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady, and get out of the gangway.”

Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish appearance, did as her son requested; and then sat down in a corner, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation, with both hands.

I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine was more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.

“I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir,” said I.

Mr. Guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket with a bow. Mr. Guppy’s mother was so diverted that she rolled her head as she smiled, and made a silent appeal to Caddy with her elbow.

“Could I speak to you alone for a moment?” said I.

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy’s mother just now, I think I never saw. She made no sound of laughter; but she rolled her head, and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appealed to Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder, and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-door into her bedroom adjoining.

“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, “you will excuse the waywardness of a parent ever mindful of a son’s ’appiness. My
mother, though highly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal dictates.”

I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have turned so red, or changed so much, as Mr. Guppy did when I now put up my veil.

“I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here,” said I, “in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge’s, because, remembering what you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I feared I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy.”

I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I never saw such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension.

“Miss Summerson,” stammered Mr. Guppy, “I—I—beg your pardon, but in our profession—we—we—find it necessary to be explicit. You have referred to an occasion, miss, when I—when I did myself the honour of making a declaration which—”

Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the room, and fluttered his papers.

“A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss,” he explained, “which rather knocks me over. I—er—a little subject to this sort of thing—er—By George!”

I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his chair into the corner behind him.

“My intention was to remark, miss,” said Mr. Guppy,—“dear me—something bronchial, I think—hem!—to remark that you was so good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration. You—you wouldn’t perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses are present, it might be a satisfaction to—to your mind—if you was to put in that admission.”

“There can be no doubt,” said I, “that I declined your proposal without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy.”

“Thank you, miss,” he returned, measuring the table with his
troubled hands. “So far that’s satisfactory, and it does you credit. Er—this is certainly bronchial!—must be in the tubes—er—you wouldn’t perhaps be offended if I was to mention—not that it’s necessary, for your own good sense or any person’s sense must show ’em that—if I was to mention that such declaration on my part was final, and there terminated?”

“I quite understand that,” said I.

“Perhaps—er—it may not be worth the form, but it might be a satisfaction to your mind—perhaps you wouldn’t object to admit that, miss?” said Mr. Guppy.

“I admit it most fully and freely,” said I.

“Thank you,” returned Mr. Guppy. “Very honourable, I am sure. I regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall back upon that offer, or to renew it in any shape or form whatever; but it will ever be a retrospect entwined—er—with friendship’s bowers.” Mr. Guppy’s bronchitis came to his relief, and stopped his measurement of the table.

“I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?” I began.

“I shall be honoured, I am sure,” said Mr. Guppy. “I am so persuaded that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will—will keep you as square as possible—that I can have nothing but pleasure, I am sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer.”

“You were so good as to imply, on that occasion—”

“Excuse me, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, “but we had better not travel out of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I implied anything.”

“You said on that occasion,” I recommenced, “that you might possibly have the means of advancing my interests, and promoting my fortunes, by making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I presume that you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence of Mr. Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I have come to beg of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kindness to relinquish all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this sometimes, and I have
thought of it most lately—since I have been ill. At length I have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose, and act upon it in any way, to come to you, and assure you that you are altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in reference to me that would do me the least service, or give me the least pleasure. I am acquainted with my personal history; and I have it in my power to assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such means. You may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a long time. If so, excuse my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to do this, for my peace.”

“I am bound to confess,” said Mr. Guppy, “that you express yourself, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I gave you credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I am prepared to tender a full apology. I should wish to be understood, miss, as hereby offering that apology—limiting it, as your own good sense and right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present proceedings.”

I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had upon him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to do something I asked, and he looked ashamed.

“If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once, so that I may have no occasion to resume,” I went on, seeing him about to speak, “you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately as possible, because you announced this impression of yours to me in a confidence which I have really wished to respect—and which I always have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my illness. There really is no reason why I should hesitate to say that I know very well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request to you, is quite removed. Therefore I make the entreaty I have now preferred; and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me, to accede to it.”

I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had looked more and more ashamed, and that he looked most
ashamed, and very earnest, when he now replied with a burning face:

“Upon my word and honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am a living man, I’ll act according to your wish! I’ll never go another step in opposition to it. I’ll take my oath to it, if it will be any satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time touching the matters now in question,” continued Mr. Guppy, rapidly, as if he were repeating a familiar form of words, “I speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so—”

“I am quite satisfied,” said I, rising at this point, “and I thank you very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!”

Mr. Guppy’s mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipient of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave. Mr. Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there, staring.

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently:

“Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend upon me!”

“I do,” said I, “quite confidently.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, going with one leg and staying with the other, “but this lady being present—your own witness—it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions.”

“Well, Caddy,” said I, turning to her, “perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any engagement—”

“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” suggested Mr. Guppy.

“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” said I, “between this gentleman—”

“William Guppy of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex,” he murmured.

“Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Mr. Guppy. “Very full—er—excuse me—lady’s name, Christian and surname both?”

I gave them.

“Married woman, I believe?” said Mr. Guppy. “Married woman. Thank you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn, within the city of London, but extraparochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford Street. Much obliged.”

He ran home and came running back again.

“Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly terminated some time back,” said Mr. Guppy to me, forlornly and despondently, “but it couldn’t be. Now
could
it, you know! I only put it to you.”

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit to a doubt. He thanked me, and ran to his mother’s again—and back again.

“It’s very honourable of you, miss, I am sure,” said Mr. Guppy. “If an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship—but, upon my soul, you may rely upon me in every respect, save and except the tender passion only!”

The struggle in Mr. Guppy’s breast, and the numerous oscillations it occasioned him between his mother’s door and us, were sufficiently conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted cutting), to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was still oscillating in the same troubled state of mind.

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CHAPTER 39