Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖

they

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.