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 tonight 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
