Chapter 28

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 first 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 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

recognised; 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 gentleman 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 bedtime. 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 a very desultory talk, "one of the prettiest girls, I

think, that I ever saw in my life."

"A protegée 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,

sympathising. "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 chronicmalady 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 tonight, 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 apologised

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 workman的复数">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 sundial 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 today,

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 unspeakablegrandeur; 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