BLEAK HOUSE

Inapoi la sumar

CHAPTER XLI  

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room

Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the  journey up, though leisurely performed.  There is an expression on  his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and  were, in his close way, satisfied.  To say of a man so severely and  strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as  great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or  sentiment or any romantic weakness.  He is sedately satisfied.   Perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him as he  loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand and  holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down.  There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty  large accumulation of papers.  The green lamp is lighted, his  reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to  it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour  or so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed.  But  he happens not to be in a business mind.  After a glance at the  documents awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over the  table, the old man's sight for print or writing being defective at  night--he opens the French window and steps out upon the leads.   

There he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude,  subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to subside, from the  story he has related downstairs.  The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk  on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read  their fortunes there. 

Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though  their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon.  If he  be seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the  leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented  below.  If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in  other characters nearer to his hand.  As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his  thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped  in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. 

The ceiling  of his room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is  opposite the window, is of glass.  There is an inner baize door,  too, but the night being warm he did not close it when he came  upstairs.  These eyes that meet his own are looking in through the  glass from the corridor outside.  He knows them well. 

The blood  has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long  year as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.  He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the  doors behind her.  There is a wild disturbance--is it fear or  anger?--in her eyes.  In her carriage and all else she looks as she  looked downstairs two hours ago.  Is it fear or is it anger now?  He cannot be sure.  Both might be  as pale, both as intent. 

"Lady Dedlock?"  She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped  into the easy-chair by the table.  They look at each other, like  two pictures. 

"Why have you told my story to so many persons?" 

"Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew  it." 

"How long have you known it?" 

"I have suspected it a long while--fully known it a little while." 

"Months?" 

"Days." 

He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in  his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has  stood before her at any time since her marriage.  The same formal  politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be  defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same  distance, which nothing has ever diminished. 

"Is this true concerning the poor girl?" 

He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite  understanding the question. 

"You know what you related.  Is it true?  Do her friends know my  story also?  Is it the town-talk yet?  Is it chalked upon the walls  and cried in the streets?" 

So!  Anger, and fear, and shame.  All three contending.  What power  this woman has to keep these raging passions down!  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his  ragged grey eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual  under her gaze. 

"No, Lady Dedlock.  That was a hypothetical case, arising out of  Sir Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a  hand.  But it would be a real case if they knew--what we know." 

"Then they do not know it yet?" 

"No." 

"Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?" 

"Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, "I cannot give a  satisfactory opinion on that point." 

And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he  watches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of this  woman are astonishing!" 

"Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all  the energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "I will make it  plainer.  I do not dispute your hypothetical case.  I anticipated  it, and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr.  Rouncewell here.  I knew very well that if he could have had the  power of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl  tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently,  the subject of my great and distinguished patronage.  But I have an  interest in her, or I should rather say--no longer belonging to  this place--I had, and if you can find so much consideration for  the woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be very  sensible of your mercy." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug  of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more. 

"You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that  too.  Is there anything that you require of me?  Is there any claim  that I can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my  husband in obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness of  your discovery?  I will write anything, here and now, that you will  dictate.  I am ready to do it."  And she would do it, thinks the lawver, watchful of the firm hand  with which she takes the pen! 

"I will not trouble you, Lady Dedlock.  Pray spare yourself." 

"I have long expected this, as you know.  I neither wish to spare  myself nor to be spared.  You can do nothing worse to me than you  have done.  Do what remains now." 

"Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done.  I will take leave to  say a few words when you have finished." 

Their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do  it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened  window.  Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and  the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. 

The narrow one!   Where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined  to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn  existence?  Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet?  Curious  questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under  the watching stars upon a summer night. 

"Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," Lady Dedlock  presently proceeds, "I say not a word. 

If I were not dumb, you  would be deaf.  Let that go by.  It is not for your ears." 

He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with  her disdainful hand. 

"Of other and very different things I come to speak to you.  My  jewels are all in their proper places of keeping.  They will be  found there.  So, my dresses.  So, all the valuables I have.  Some  ready money I had with me, please to say, but no large amount.  I  did not wear my own dress, in order that I might avoid observation.   I went to be henceforward lost.  Make this known.  I leave no other  charge with you." 

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. 

"I  am not sure that I understand you.  You want--" 

"To be lost to all here.  I leave Chesney Wold to-night.  I go this  hour."  Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head.  She rises, but he, without moving  hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt- frill, shakes his head. 

"What?  Not go as I have said?" 

"No, Lady Dedlock," he very calmly replies. 

"Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be?  Have you  forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and  who it is?" 

"No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means." 

Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it  in her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or  foot or raising his voice, "Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop  and hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring the  alarm-bell and rouse the house.  And then I must speak out before  every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it." 

He has conquered her.  She falters, trembles, and puts her hand  confusedly to her head.  Slight tokens these in any one else, but  when so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees indecision for a  moment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value.  He promptly says again, "Have the goodness to hear me, Lady  Dedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has risen.  She  hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down. 

"The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, Lady  Dedlock; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize for  them.  The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester is so well  known to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long have  appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery." 

"Sir," she returns without looking up from the ground on which her  eyes are now fixed, "I had better have gone.  It would have been  far better not to have detained me.  I have no more to say." 

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear." 

"I wish to hear it at the window, then.  I can't breathe where I  am." 

His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant's  misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and  dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the  terrace below.  But a moment's observation of her figure as she  stands in the window without any support, looking out at the stars --not up-gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens,  reassures him.  By facing round as she has moved, he stands a  little behind her. 

"Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision  satisfactory to myself on the course before me.  I am not clear  what to do or how to act next.  I must request you, in the  meantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not  to wonder that I keep it too."  He pauses, but she makes no reply.  "Pardon me, Lady Dedlock.  This is an important subject.  You are  honouring me with your attention?"  "I am." 

"'Thank you.  I might have known it from what I have seen of your  strength of character.  I ought not to have asked the question, but  I have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I go  on.  The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester." 

"'Then why," she asks in a low voice and without removing her  gloomy look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in his  house?" 

"Because he IS the consideration.  Lady Dedlock, I have no occasion  to tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that his  reliance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of  the sky would not amaze him more than your fall from your high  position as his wife." 

She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly  as ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company. 

"I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of this  case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means of  my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as  to shake your hold upon Sir Leicester and Sir Leicester's trust and  confidence in you.  And even now, with this case, I hesitate.  Not  that he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that  nothing can prepare him for the blow." 

"Not my flight?" she returned. 

"Think of it again." 

"Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and a  hundred times the whole truth, far and wide.  It would be  impossible to save the family credit for a day.  It is not to be  thought of." 

There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no  remonstrance. 

"When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he and  the family credit are one.  Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, Sir  Leicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and his  patrimony"--Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here--"are, I need not say to  you, Lady Dedlock, inseparable." 

"Go on!" 

"Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog- trot style, "I have much to consider. 

This is to be hushed up if  it can be.  How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his  wits or laid upon a death-bed?  If I inflicted this shock upon him  to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him be  accounted for?  What could have caused it?  What could have divided  you?  Lady Dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying would  come on directly, and you are to remember that it would not affect  you merely (whom I cannot at all consider in this business) but  your husband, Lady Dedlock, your husband." 

He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic or  animated. 

"There is another point of view," he continues, "in which the case  presents itself.  Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to  infatuation.  He might not be able to overcome that infatuation,  even knowing what we know.  I am putting an extreme case, but it  might be so. 

If so, it were better that he knew nothing.  Better  for common sense, better for him, better for me.  I must take all  this into account, and it combines to render a decision very  difficult." 

She stands looking out at the same stars without a word.  They are  beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her. 

"My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by this  time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business  consideration of the matter like a machine. 

"My experience teaches  me, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I know would do far  better to leave marriage alone.  It is at the bottom of three  fourths of their troubles.  So I thought when Sir Leicester  married, and so I always have thought since.  No more about that.   I must now be guided by circumstances.  In the meanwhile I must beg  you to keep your own counsel, and I will keep mine." 

"I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your  pleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky. 

"Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock." 

"It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the  stake?" 

"I am sure that what I recommend is necessary." 

"I am to remain on this gaudy platforna on which my miserable  deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when  you give the signal?" she said slowly. 

"Not without notice, Lady Dedlock.  I shall take no step without  forewarning you."  She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from  memory or calling them over in her sleep. 

"We are to meet as usual?" 

"Precisely as usual, if you please." 

"And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years?" 

"As you have done so many years.  I should not have made that  reference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you that your  secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no  better than it was.  I know it certainly, but I believe we have  never wholly trusted each other." 

She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time  before asking, "Is there anything more to be sald to-night?" 

"Why," Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his  hands, "I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my  arrangements, Lady Dedlock." 

"You may be assured of it." 

"Good.  And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business  precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in  any communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our interview  I have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester's  feelings and honour and the family reputation.  I should have been  happy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if  the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not." 

"I can attest your fidelity, sir."  Both before and after saving it she remains absorbed, but at length  moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence,  towards the door.  Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as  he would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten years  ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out.  It is not  an ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes  into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a  very slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy.  But as he  reflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting no  common constraint upon herself.  He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own  rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, her  hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain.   

He would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up  and down for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed  by the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk.  But he shuts out the  now chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls  asleep.  And truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into  the turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the  digger and the spade were both commissioned and would soon be  digging.  The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repentant  country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins  entering on various public employments, principally receipt of  salary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty  thousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false  teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of  Bath and the terror of every other commuuity. 

Also into rooms high  in the roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables,  where humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers' lodges, and in  holy matrimony with Will or Sally.  Up comes the bright sun,  drawing everything up with it--the Wills and Sallys, the latent  vapour in the earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and  beasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf  and unfold emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the  great kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the  lightsome air.  Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn's  unconscious head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady  Dedlock are in their happy home and that there is hospitality at  the place in Lincolnshire.

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