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

whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.

 

“Am I to understand, sir,” says Sir Leicester, “and is my Lady to

understand”—he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of

gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance

on her sense—“am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady

to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for

Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?”

 

“Certainly not, Sir Leicester,”

 

“I am glad to hear it.” Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.

 

“Pray, Mr. Rouncewell,” says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off

with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly,

“explain to me what you mean.”

 

“Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more.”

 

Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too

quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness,

however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a

picture of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with

attention, occasionally slightly bending her head.

 

“I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my

childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a

century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those

examples—perhaps as good a one as there is—of love, and

attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well

be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride

or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on

two sides—on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less

assuredly.”

 

Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this

way, but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though

silently, admits the justice of the ironmaster’s proposition.

 

“Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn’t have it

hastily supposed,” with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir

Leicester, “that I am ashamed of my mother’s position here, or

wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I

certainly may have desired—I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock

—that my mother should retire after so many years and end her days

with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond would

be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea.”

 

Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs.

Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days

with an ironmaster.

 

“I have been,” proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, “an

apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman’s wages, years

and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself.

My wife was a foreman’s daughter, and plainly brought up. We have

three daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being

fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had

ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one

of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any

station.”

 

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in

his heart, “even of the Chesney Wold station.” Not a little more

magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.

 

“All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the

class to which I belong, that what would be generally called

unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as

elsewhere. A son will sometimes make it known to his father that

he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The

father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little

disappointed at first very possibly. It may be that he had other

views for his son. However, the chances are that having

ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he will

say to his son, ‘I must be quite sure you are in earnest here.

This is a serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have

this girl educated for two years,’ or it may be, ‘I shall place

this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time,

during which you will give me your word and honour to see her only

so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so far

profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality,

you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you

happy.’ I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I

think they indicate to me my own course now.”

 

Sir Leicester’s magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.

 

“Mr. Rouncewell,” says Sir Leicester with his right hand in the

breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is

painted in the gallery, “do you draw a parallel between Chesney

Wold and a—” Here he resists a disposition to choke, “a factory?”

 

“I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very

different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel

may be justly drawn between them.”

 

Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long

drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is

awake.

 

“Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady—my Lady—

has placed near her person was brought up at the village school

outside the gates?”

 

“Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is,

and handsomely supported by this family.”

 

“Then, Mr. Rouncewell,” returns Sir Leicester, “the application of

what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.”

 

“Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say,” the

ironmaster is reddening a little, “that I do not regard the village

school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son’s

wife?”

 

From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this

minute, to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework

of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks

in consequence of people (ironmasters, lead-mistresses, and what

not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station

unto which they are called—necessarily and for ever, according to

Sir Leicester’s rapid logic, the first station in which they happen

to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people

out of THEIR stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and

opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift

progress of the Dedlock mind.

 

“My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!” She has

given a faint indication of intending to speak. “Mr. Rouncewell,

our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of

education, and our views of—in short, ALL our views—are so

diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be

repellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. This young

woman is honoured with my Lady’s notice and favour. If she wishes

to withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she chooses

to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his

peculiar opinions—you will allow me to say, in his peculiar

opinions, though I readily admit that he is not accountable for

them to me—who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from

that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. We

are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken.

It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young

woman’s position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms; and here

we beg—if you will be so good—to leave the subject.”

 

The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but she

says nothing. He then rises and replies, “Sir Leicester and Lady

Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to

observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his

present inclinations. Good night!”

 

“Mr. Rouncewell,” says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a

gentleman shining in him, “it is late, and the roads are dark. I

hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady

and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least.”

 

“I hope so,” adds my Lady.

 

“I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order

to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed

time in the morning.”

 

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringing

the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.

 

When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the

fire, and inattentive to the Ghost’s Walk, looks at Rosa, writing

in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.

 

“Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?”

 

“Oh! My Lady!”

 

My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling,

“Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson?”

 

“Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don’t know that I am in love

with him—yet.”

 

“Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?”

 

“I think he likes me a little, my Lady.” And Rosa bursts into

tears.

 

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing

her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes

so full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!

 

“Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you

are attached to me.”

 

“Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I

wouldn’t do to show how much.”

 

“And I don’t think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even

for a lover?”

 

“No, my Lady! Oh, no!” Rosa looks up for the first time, quite

frightened at the thought.

 

“Confide in me, my child. Don’t fear me. I wish you to be happy,

and will make you so—if I can make anybody happy on this earth.”

 

Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My

Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with

her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own

two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed,

Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady’s eyes are on the fire.

 

In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that

never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life?

Or does she listen to the Ghost’s Walk and think what step does it

most resemble? A man’s? A woman’s? The pattering of a little

child’s feet, ever coming on—on—on? Some melancholy influence is

upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit

alone upon the hearth so desolate?

 

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before

dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir

Leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and

opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society,

manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell’s son. Not a cousin of the

batch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness

of William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a

stake in the country—or the pension list—or something—by fraud

and wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase

by Sir Leicester, as eloquent upon