BLEAK HOUSE

Inapoi la Sumar

CHAPTER XXVIII  

The Ironmaster

Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the better, for the time being, of  the family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in a  figurative point of view, upon his legs.  He is at his place in  Lincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lying  grounds, and the cold and damp steal into Chesney Wold, though well  defended, and eke into Sir Leicester's bones.  The blazing fires of  faggot and coal--Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest--that blaze  upon the broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on the  frowning woods, sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not  exclude the enemy. 

The hot-water pipes that trail themselves all  over the house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the screens  and curtains fail to supply the fires' deficiencies and to satisfy  Sir Leicester's need.  Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims  one morning to the listening earth that Lady Dedlock is expected  shortly to return to town for a few weeks.  It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor  relations.  Indeed great men have often more than their fair share  of poor relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superior  quality, like inferior blood unlawfully shed, WILL cry aloud and  WILL be heard.  Sir Leicester's cousins, in the remotest degree,  are so many murders in the respect that they "will out." 

Among  whom there are cousins who are so poor that one might almost dare  to think it would have been the happier for them never to have been  plated links upon the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been made  of common iron at first and done base service.  Service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but not  profitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity.  So  they visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can,  and live but shabbily when they can't, and find--the women no  husbands, and the men no wives--and ride in borrowed carriages, and  sit at feasts that are never of their own making, and so go through  high life. 

The rich family sum has been divided by so many  figures, and they are the something over that nobody knows what to  do with.  Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock's side of the question and of  his way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less.   From my Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodle, down to Noodle,  Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of  relationship.  But while he is stately in the cousinship of the  Everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his  dignified way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the present  time, in despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several  such cousins at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.  Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, a  young lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the  honour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to another  great family.  Miss Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty  talent for cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for  singing to the guitar in the Spanish tongue, and propounding French  conundrums in country houses, 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 beard 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  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 (iron-masters, 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 the theme as if there were a  general rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and  pearl necklace.  And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets--for  it is one appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult  they may find it to keep themselves, they MUST keep maids and  valets--the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the  one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees  near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed  into leaves.

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