Bleak House, Charles Dickens [the beginning after the end novel read .txt] 📗

passed the twenty years of her

existence between twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeable

manner. Lapsing then out of date and being considered to bore

mankind by her vocal performances in the Spanish language, she

retired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on an annual present

from Sir Leicester and whence she makes occasional resurrections in

the country houses of her cousins. She has an extensive

acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legs

and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that dreary city.

But she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of an

indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in an

obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird’s-eggs.

 

In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear case

for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it, and

when William Buffy came in, it was fully expected that her name

would be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But William

Buffy somehow discovered, contrary to all expectation, that these

were not the times when it could be done, and this was the first

clear indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the

country was going to pieces.

 

There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make warm

mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot

than most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularly

desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments,

unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. In a well-regulated body politic this natural desire on the part of a

spirited young gentleman so highly connected would be speedily

recognized, but somehow William Buffy found when he came in that

these were not times in which he could manage that little matter

either, and this was the second indication Sir Leicester Dedlock

had conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces.

 

The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages

and capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely to

have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their

cousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it,

and lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite

as much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can

be how to dispose of them.

 

In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns supreme.

Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world

(for the world of fashion does not stretch ALL the way from pole to

pole), her influence in Sir Leicester’s house, however haughty and

indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it.

The cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when Sir

Leicester married her, do her feudal homage; and the Honourable Bob

Stables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and

lunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed

woman in the whole stud.

 

Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this

dismal night when the step on the Ghost’s Walk (inaudible here,

however) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the

cold. It is near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over

the house, raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling.

Bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and

cousins yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the

soda-water tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins

gathered round the fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar

fire (for there are two), Sir Leicester. On the opposite side of

the broad hearth, my Lady at her table. Volumnia, as one of the

more privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair between them. Sir

Leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and

the pearl necklace.

 

“I occasionally meet on my staircase here,” drawls Volumnia, whose

thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long

evening of very desultory talk, “one of the prettiest girls, I

think, that I ever saw in my life.”

 

“A PROTEGEE of my Lady’s,” observes Sir Leicester.

 

“I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked

that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty

perhaps,” says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, “but in its

way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!”

 

Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the

rouge, appears to say so too.

 

“Indeed,” remarks my Lady languidly, “if there is any uncommon eye

in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell’s, and not mine. Rosa is her

discovery.”

 

“Your maid, I suppose?”

 

“No. My anything; pet—secretary—messenger—I don’t know what.”

 

“You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a

flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle—no, not a poodle,

though—or anything else that was equally pretty?” says Volumnia,

sympathizing. “Yes, how charming now! And how well that

delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an

immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! She is the

dearest friend I have, positively!”

 

Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper

of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, he

has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her

praised. So he says, “You are right, Volumnia,” which Volumnia is

extremely glad to hear.

 

“She has no daughter of her own, has she?”

 

“Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had

two.”

 

My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated

by Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticks

and heaves a noiseless sigh.

 

“And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the

present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the

opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions,” says Sir

Leicester with stately gloom, “that I have been informed by Mr.

Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell’s son has been invited to go into

Parliament.”

 

Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.

 

“Yes, indeed,” repeats Sir Leicester. “Into Parliament.”

 

“I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?”

exclaims Volumnia.

 

“He is called, I believe—an—ironmaster.” Sir Leicester says it

slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is

called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other

word expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.

 

Volumnia utters another little scream.

 

“He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr.

Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn

being always correct and exact; still that does not,” says Sir

Leicester, “that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with

strange considerations—startling considerations, as it appears to

me.”

 

Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester

politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one,

and lights it at my Lady’s shaded lamp.

 

“I must beg you, my Lady,” he says while doing so, “to remain a few

moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening

shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note”—Sir

Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it—“I am

bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the

favour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject

of this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before retiring.”

 

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her

hosts—O Lud!—well rid of the—what is it?—ironmaster!

 

The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir

Leicester rings the bell, “Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell,

in the housekeeper’s apartments, and say I can receive him now.”

 

My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly,

looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over

fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear

voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a

shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman

dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has a

perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed

by the great presence into which he comes.

 

“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for

intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank

you, Sir Leicester.”

 

The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between

himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.

 

“In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in

progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places

that we are always on the flight.”

 

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel

that there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted

in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to

mature, and the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks

stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the

sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time

which was as much the property of every Dedlock—while he lasted—

as the house and lands. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair,

opposing his repose and that of Chesney Wold to the restless

flights of ironmasters.

 

“Lady Dedlock has been so kind,” proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a

respectful glance and a bow that way, “as to place near her a young

beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with

Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and

to their becoming engaged if she will take him—which I suppose she

will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some

confidence in my son’s good sense—even in love. I find her what

he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks

of her with great commendation.”

 

“She in all respects deserves it,” says my Lady.

 

“I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment

on the value to me of your kind opinion of her.”

 

“That,” observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he

thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, “must be quite

unnecessary.”

 

“Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young

man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son

must make his; and his being married at present is out of the

question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself

to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to

him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once—I am sure, Sir

Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me—I

should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold.

Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take the

liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way

inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him

for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is.”

 

Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir

Leicester’s old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in

the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come

in a shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as

of his