Bleak House, by Charles Dickens (1852-1853) - Chapter 12 -
On the Watch
On the Watch
It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last,
and Chesney Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares,
for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The fashionable
intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad tidings to benighted
England. It has also found out that they will entertain a brilliant and
distinguished circle of the ELITE of the BEAU MONDE (the fashionable
intelligence is weak in English, but a giant refreshed in French) at the ancient
and hospitable family seat in Lincolnshire.
For the greater honour of the brilliant and
distinguished circle, and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of
the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper
limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect from the
house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods and approvingly
beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. It glides over
the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never
catches them, all day. It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral
portraits with bars and patches of brightness never contemplated by the
painters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney- piece, it
throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the
hearth and seems to rend it.
Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind,
my Lady and Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and Sir
Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a considerable
amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the
part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots,
and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in
the Place Vendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of
the Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and
queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the Gate of the
Star, out of Paris.
Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even
here my Lady Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,
drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only last Sunday,
when poor wretches were gay--within the walls playing with children among the
clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden; walking, a score abreast, in
the Elysian Fields, made more Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses;
between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say
a word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little
gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing Paris with
dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard
card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, animate and
inanimate--only last Sunday, my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the
clutch of Giant Despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.
She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness
of soul lies before her, as it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of it
round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfect remedy is
always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced. Fling Paris
back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and
cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld, let it be some leagues
away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the
city a mere mound in a plain--two dark square towers rising out of it, and light
and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in Jacob's dream!
Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and
rarely bored. When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own
greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a
subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage
and generally reviews his importance to society.
"You have an unusual amount of correspondence this
morning?" says my Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has
almost read a page in twenty miles.
"Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever."
"I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I
"You see everything," says Sir Leicester with
"Ha!" sighs my Lady. "He is the most
tiresome of men!"
"He sends--I really beg your pardon--he
sends," says Sir Leicester, selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a
message to you. Our stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove
it out of my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--" Sir Leicester is so
long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Lady looks a little
irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right of way--' I beg your
pardon, that's not the place. He says--yes! Here I have it! He says, 'I beg my
respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change.
Will you do me the favour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have
something to tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the
affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I
have seen him.'"
My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.
"That's the message," observes Sir Leicester.
"I should like to walk a little," says my
Lady, still looking out of her window.
"Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of
"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady
with unmistakable distinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."
The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights
from the rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an
impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly and walks away so
quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulous politeness, is unable to
assist her, and is left behind. A space of a minute or two has elapsed before he
comes up with her. She smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with
him for a quarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the
The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part
of three days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more or
less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly politeness to
each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme of general admiration.
Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady, says Madame, the hostess of the
Golden Ape, and though he might be her amiable father, one can see at a glance
that they love each other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing,
hat in hand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my Lady, how
recognisant of my Lord's politeness, with an inclination of her gracious head
and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! It is ravishing!
The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks
them about like the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whose
countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in whose
aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the Radical of Nature
to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over it after stopping to refit, and he
goes on with my Lady for Chesney Wold, lying only one night in London on the way
Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day
declines, and through the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of
bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touched at the
western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night,
they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the
elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carriage
as it passes underneath, some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come
down, some arguing with malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting to
consider the question disposed of, now all breaking out again in violent debate,
incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will persist in putting in a last
contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the travelling chariot rolls
on to the house, where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though
not through so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of
front. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that.
Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir
Leicester's customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.
"How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see
"I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good
health, Sir Leicester?"
"In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell."
"My Lady is looking charmingly well," says
Mrs. Rouncewell with another curtsy.
My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words,
that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be.
But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and
my Lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she
may have conquered, asks, "Who is that girl?"
"A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa."
"Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her,
with even an appearance of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are,
child?" she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.
Rosa, very much abashed, says, "No, if you please,
my Lady!" and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look,
but looks all the prettier.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen, my Lady."
"Nineteen," repeats my Lady thoughtfully.
"Take care they don't spoil you by flattery."
"Yes, my Lady."
My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate
gloved fingers and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester
pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a panel, as
large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what to make of it, which
was probably his general state of mind in the days of Queen Elizabeth.
That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do
nothing but murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so
beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling touch that
Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this, not without personal
pride, reserving only the one point of affability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite
sure as to that. Heaven forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of
any member of that excellent family, above all, of my Lady, whom the whole world
admires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free," not quite
so cold and distant, Mrs. Rounceweil thinks she would be more affable.
"'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell
adds--only "almost" because it borders on impiety to suppose that
anything could be better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the
Dedlock affairs--"that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter
now, a grown young lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only
kind of excellence she wants."
"Might not that have made her still more proud,
grandmother?" says Watt, who has been home and come back again, he is such
a good grandson.
"More and most, my dear," returns the
housekeeper with dignity, "are words it's not my place to use--nor so much
as to hear--applied to any drawback on my Lady."
"I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud,
is she not?"
"If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock
family have always reason to be."
"Well," says Watt, "it's to be hoped they
line out of their prayer- books a certain passage for the common people about
pride and vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!"
"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not
fit subjects for joking."
"Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says
Watt, "and I humbly ask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with
the family and their guests down here, there is no ojection to my prolonging my
stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller might?"
"Surely, none in the world, child."
"I am glad of that," says Watt, "because
I have an inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful
He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very
shy indeed. But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's ears that
burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady's maid is holding forth about
her at this moment with surpassing energy.
My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from
somewhere in the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyed
brown woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain feline mouth
and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws too eager and
the skull too prominent. There is something indefinably keen and wan about her
anatomy, and she has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes
without turning her head which could be pleasantly dispensed with, especially
when she is in an ill humour and near knives. Through all the good taste of her
dress and little adornments, these objections so express themselves that she
seems to go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being
accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is almost an
Englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language; consequently, she is in no
want of words to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention, and
she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner that her
companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the
spoon stage of that performance.
Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service
since five years and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet,
caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of her arriving at the
house! Ha, ha, ha! "And do you know how pretty you are, child?"
"No, my Lady." You are right there! "And how old are you, child!
And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!" Oh, how droll! It
is the BEST thing altogether.
In short, it is such an admirable thing that
Mademoiselle Hortense can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even
among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of
visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment expressed, in
her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of face, thin elongation of
compressed lips, and sidewise look, which intense appreciation of humour is
frequently reflected in my Lady's mirrors when my Lady is not among them.
All the mirrors in the house are brought into action
now, many of them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering
faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not submit to be
old; the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a January week or two
at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before
the Lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St.
James's to their being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshire is all
alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and
carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the village
and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night from distant openings in the trees, the row
of windows in the long drawing-room, where my Lady's picture hangs over the
great chimney- piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday
the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the
general flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes.
The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends
within it no contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and
virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of its immense
advantages. What can it be?
Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more
the pity) to set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel
neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There are no
caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed, swooning in opera boxes
with excess of delight and being revived by other dainty creatures poking
long-necked scent-bottles at their noses. There is no beau whom it takes four
men at once to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions,
or who is troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is
there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle notwithstanding,
dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got below the surface and is doing
less harmless things than jack- towelling itself and stopping its own digestion,
to which no rational person need particularly object?
Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney
Wold this January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have
set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. Who in mere lackadaisical want of
an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the vulgar wanting faith
in things in general, meaning in the things that have been tried and found
wanting, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad
shilling after finding it out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and
faithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time and cancelling a few
hundred years of history.
There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion,
not so new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world
and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be languid and
pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who are to rejoice at nothing
and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be disturbed by ideas. On whom even the
fine arts, attending in powder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain,
must array themselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past
generations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any
impress from the moving age.
Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation
with his party, who has known what office is and who tells Sir Leicester Dedlock
with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see to what the present
age is tending. A debate is not what a debate used to be; the House is not what
the House used to be; even a Cabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives
with astonishment that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the
limited choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie
between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to be impossible for the
Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may be assumed to be the case in
consequence of the breach arising out of that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving
the Home Department and the leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the
Exchequer to Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,
what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidency of the
Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him in the Woods and
Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What follows? That the country
is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to the patriotism
of Sir Leicester Dedlock) because you can't provide for Noodle!
On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy,
M.P., contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of the
country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it that is in
question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done with Cuffy what you ought to
have done when he first came into Parliament, and had prevented him from going
over to Duffy, you would have got him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have
had with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would have
brought to bear upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you would have got in
for three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and you would have strengthened your
administration by the official knowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All
this, instead of being as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!
As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are
differences of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and
distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but Boodle and his
retinue, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are the great actors for whom the
stage is reserved. A People there are, no doubt--a certain large number of
supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied upon for
shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their
followers and families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are
the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the
scene for ever and ever.
In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney
Wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in
the long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as with
the circle the necromancer draws around him--very strange appearances may be
seen in active motion outside. With this difference, that being realities and
not phantoms, there is the greater danger of their breaking in.
Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a
burning sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and
is not to he extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber of the
third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and having an
old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room, and is never bestowed
on anybody else, for he may come at any time. He is not come yet. It is his
quiet habit to walk across the park from the village in fine weather, to drop
into this room as if he had never been out of it since he was last seen there,
to request a servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he
should be wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of the
library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining flag- staff over his
head, and has some leads outside on which, any fine morning when he is down
here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger
species of rook.
Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the
dusk of the library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances
down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive him if he
had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night my Lady casually
asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"
Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not
One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady
loses herself in deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding
face in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her.
"Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then,
addressing the reflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can
contemplate your beauty at another time."
"Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty."
"That," says my Lady, "you needn't
contemplate at all."
At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when
the bright groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the
Ghost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady remain upon
the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards them at his usual
methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened. He wears his usual
expressionless mask--if it be a mask --and carries family secrets in every limb
of his body and every crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to
the great or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his
personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his
own client in that matter, and will never betray himself.
"How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir
Leicester, giving him his hand.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite
well. My Lady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands
behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace. My Lady walks upon
the other side.
"We expected you before," says Sir Leicester.
A gracious observation. As much as to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember
your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We
bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and
says he is much obliged.
"I should have come down sooner," he explains,
"but that I have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits
between yourself and Boythorn."
"A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes
Sir Leicester with severity. "An extremely dangerous person in any
community. A man of a very low character of mind."
"He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"It is natural to such a man to be so," says
Sir Leicester, looking most profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all
surprised to hear it."
"The only question is," pursues the lawyer,
"whether you will give up anything."
"No, sir," replies Sir Leicester.
"Nothing. I give up?"
"I don't mean anything of importance. That, of
course, I know you would not abandon. I mean any minor point."
"Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester,
"there can be no minor point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go
farther, and observe that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be
a minor point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as in
reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain."
Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have
now my instructions," he says. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal
"It is the character of such a mind, Mr.
Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicester interrupts him, "TO give trouble. An
exceedingly ill-conditioned, levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago,
would probably have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding,
and severely punished--if not," adds Sir Leicester after a moment's pause,
"if not hanged, drawn, and quartered."
Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of
a burden in passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory
thing to having the sentence executed.
"But night is coming on," says he, "and
my Lady will take cold. My dear, let us go in."
As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock
addresses Mr. Tulkinghorn for the first time.
"You sent me a message respecting the person whose
writing I happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the
circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I
can't imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely had
"You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
"Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I
think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the
writer of that actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?"
"How very odd!"
They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground
floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire
glows brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,
through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the
wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller besides the waste of
My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner,
and Sir Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands before
the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. He looks across
his arm at my Lady.
"Yes," he says, "I inquired about the
man, and found him. And, what is very strange, I found him--"
"Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am
afraid!" Lady Dedlock languidly anticipates.
"I found him dead."
"Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not
so much shocked by the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.
"I was directed to his lodging--a miserable,
poverty-stricken place --and I found him dead."
"You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn,"
observes Sir Leicester. "I think the less said--"
"Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story
out" (it is my Lady speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How
very shocking! Dead?"
Mr, Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of
his head. "Whether by his own hand--"
"Upon my honour!" cries Sir Leicester.
"Do let me hear the story!" says my Lady.
"Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must
"No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."
Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he
still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is
"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer with
undisturbed calmness, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it
was beyond my power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying
that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his own
deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be known. The coroner's
jury found that he took the poison accidentally."
"And what kind of man," my Lady asks,
"was this deplorable creature?"
"Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer,
shaking his bead. "He had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with
his gipsy colour and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have
considered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had
once been something better, both in appearance and condition."
"What did they call the wretched being?"
"They called him what he had called himself, but no
one knew his name."
"Not even any one who had attended on him?"
"No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In
fact, I found him."
"Without any clue to anything more?"
"Without any; there was," says the lawyer
meditatively, "an old portmanteau, but-- No, there were no papers."
During the utterance of every word of this short
dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in
their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as was
natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir Leicester has
looked at the fire, with the general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase.
The story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying that as it is quite
clear that no association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this
poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more
about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.
"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my
Lady, gathering up her mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the
moment! Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."
Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open
while she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner
and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next day-- again, for many
days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded
by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding
at her own shrine. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of
noble confidences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home. They
appear to take as little note of one another as any two people enclosed within
the same walls could. But whether each evermore watches and suspects the other,
evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore
prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each
would give to know how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time,
in their own hearts.