Bleak House, Charles Dickens [the beginning after the end novel read .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
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wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell’s son.”
“A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had
the becoming taste and perception,” observes Sir Leicester, “to
decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the
sentiments expressed by Mr. Rouncewell when he was here for some
half-hour in this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his
decision which I am glad to acknowledge.”
“Ha!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “It did not prevent him from being
very active in this election, though.”
Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. “Did I
understand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been very
active in this election?”
“Uncommonly active.”
“Against—”
“Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In
the business part of the proceedings he carried all before him.”
It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, that
Sir Leicester is staring majestically.
“And he was much assisted,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up, “by
his son.”
“By his son, sir?” repeats Sir Leicester with awful politeness.
“By his son.”
“The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady’s service?”
“That son. He has but one.”
“Then upon my honour,” says Sir Leicester after a terrific pause
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, “then
upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles,
the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have—a—
obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which
things are held together!”
General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is
really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and do
something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks—country’s going—
Dayvle—steeple-chase pace.
“I beg,” says Sir Leicester in a breathless condition, “that we may
not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superfluous.
My Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman—”
“I have no intention,” observes my Lady from her window in a low
but decided tone, “of parting with her.”
“That was not my meaning,” returns Sir Leicester. “I am glad to
hear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of
your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from
these dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be
done in such association to her duties and principles, and you
might preserve her for a better fate. You might point out to her
that she probably would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney
Wold by whom she would not be—” Sir Leicester adds, after a
moment’s consideration, “dragged from the altars of her
forefathers.”
These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference
when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head
in reply. The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little
stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.
“It is worthy of remark,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “however, that
these people are, in their way, very proud.”
“Proud?” Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.
“I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the
girl—yes, lover and all—instead of her abandoning them, supposing
she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances.”
“Well!” says Sir Leicester tremulously. “Well! You should know,
Mr. Tulkinghorn. You have been among them.”
“Really, Sir Leicester,” returns the lawyer, “I state the fact.
Why, I could tell you a story—with Lady Dedlock’s permission.”
Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Oh, he
is going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?
“No. Real flesh and blood.” Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant
and repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual
monotony, “Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester,
these particulars have only lately become known to me. They are
very brief. They exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for
the present. Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?”
By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking
towards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock can
be seen, perfectly still.
“A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter
who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really a
great lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of
your condition, Sir Leicester.”
Sir Leicester condescendingly says, “Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn,”
implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable
moral dimensions indeed in the eyes of an ironmaster.
“The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl,
and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.
Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she
had preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life been
engaged to marry a young rake—he was a captain in the army—
nothing connected with whom came to any good. She never did marry
him, but she gave birth to a child of which he was the father.”
By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the
moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile,
perfectly still.
“The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but
a train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to
discovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on
her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows
how difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be
always guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement,
you may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, the
husband’s grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr.
Rouncewell’s townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed
the girl to be patronized and honoured than he would have suffered
her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride,
that he indignantly took her away, as if from reproach and
disgrace. He had no sense of the honour done him and his daughter
by the lady’s condescension; not the least. He resented the girl’s
position, as if the lady had been the commonest of commoners. That
is the story. I hope Lady Dedlock will excuse its painful nature.”
There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting
with Volumnia’s. That fair young creature cannot believe there
ever was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the
threshold. The majority incline to the debilitated cousin’s
sentiment, which is in few words—“no business—Rouncewell’s fernal
townsman.” Sir Leicester generally refers back in his mind to Wat
Tyler and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his own.
There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been
kept at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began,
and this is the first night in many on which the family have been
alone. It is past ten when Sir Leicester begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to
ring for candles. Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into a
lake, and then Lady Dedlock for the first time moves, and rises,
and comes forward to a table for a glass of water. Winking
cousins, bat-like in the candle glare, crowd round to give it;
Volumnia (always ready for something better if procurable) takes
another, a very mild sip of which contents her; Lady Dedlock,
graceful, self-possessed, looked after by admiring eyes, passes
away slowly down the long perspective by the side of that nymph,
not at all improving her as a question of contrast.
In Mr. Tulkinghorn’s Room
Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the
journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on
his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and
were, in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely and
strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as
great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or
sentiment or any romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied.
Perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him as he
loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand and
holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down.
There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty
large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, his
reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to
it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour
or so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. But
he happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at the
documents awaiting his notice—with his head bent low over the
table, the old man’s sight for print or writing being defective at
night—he opens the French window and steps out upon the leads.
There he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude,
subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to subside, from the
story he has related downstairs.
The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk
on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read
their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though
their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he
be seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the
leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented
below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in
other characters nearer to his hand.
As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his
thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped
in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling
of his room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is
opposite the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door,
too, but the night being warm he did not close it when he came
upstairs. These eyes that meet his own are looking in through the
glass from the corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood
has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long
year as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.
He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the
doors behind her. There is a wild disturbance—is it fear or
anger?—in her eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she
looked downstairs two hours ago.
Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be
as pale, both as intent.
“Lady Dedlock?”
She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped
into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, like
two pictures.
“Why have you told my story to so many persons?”
“Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew
it.”
“How long have you known it?”
“I have suspected it a long while—fully known it a little while.”
“Months?”
“Days.”
He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in
his
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