Bleak House
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 _protégée_ 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
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