bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第214章
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be always guarded。 There was great domestic trouble and
amazement； you may suppose； I leave you to imagine； Sir
Leicester； the husband’s grief。 But that is not the present point。
When Mr Rouncewell’s townsman heard of the disclosure； he no
more allowed the girl to be patronised and honoured than he
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would have suffered her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes。
Such was his pride； that he indignantly took her away as if from
reproach and disgrace。 He had no sense of the honour done him
and his daughter by the lady’s condescension； not the least。 He
resented the girl’s position； as if the lady had been the commonest
of commoners。 That is the story。 I hope Lady Dedlock will excuse
its painful nature。”
There are various opinions on the merits； more or less
conflicting with Volumnia’s。 That fair young creature cannot
believe there ever was any such lady； and rejects the whole history
on the threshold。 The majority incline to the debilitated cousin’s
sentiment； which is in few words—“no business—Rouncewell’s
fernal townsman。” Sir Leicester generally refers back in his mind
to Wat Tyler； and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his
own。
There is not much conversation in all； for late hours have been
kept in Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere
began； and this is the first night in many on which the family have
been alone。 It is past ten； when Sir Leicester begs Mr Tulkinghorn
to ring for candles。 Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into
a lake； and then Lady Dedlock for the first time moves； and rises；
and comes forward to a table for a glass of water。 Winking cousins；
bat…like in the candle glare； crowd round to give it； Volumnia
（always ready for something better if procurable） takes another； a
very mild sip of which contents her； Lady Dedlock； graceful； self…
possessed； looked after by admiring eyes； passes away slowly
down the long perspective by the side of that Nymph； not at all
improving her as a question of contrast。
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Chapter 41
In Mr Tulkinghorn’s Room
r Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret…room； a little
breathed by the journey up； though leisurely
M
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
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would walk on turret…tops in the starlight； and look up into the sky
to read their fortunes there。 Hosts of stars are visible tonight；
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 met 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 recognises 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
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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
