Page:Bleak House.djvu/537

"By his son, sir?” repeats Sir Leicester, with awful politeness.

“By his son.”

“The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady's service?”

“That son. He has but one.”

“Then upon my honor,” says Sir Leicester, after a terrific pause, during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare; “then upon my honor, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles, the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have—a—obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which things are held together!”

General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and do something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks—Country's going—Dayvle—steeple-chase pace.

“I beg,” says Sir Leicester, in a breathless condition, “that we may not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superfluous. My Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman———”

“I have no intention,” observes my Lady from her window, in a low but decided tone, “of parting with her.”

“That was not my meaning,” returns Sir Leicester. “I am glad to hear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be done, in such association, to her duties and principles; and you might preserve her for a better fate. You might point out to her that she probably would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would not be—” Sir Leicester adds, after a moment's consideration, “dragged from the altars of her forefathers.”

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head in reply. The moon is rising; and where she sits there is a little stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.

“It is worthy of remark,” says Mr. Tulkinghoru, “however, that these people are, in their way, very proud.”

“Proud?” Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.

“I should not be surprised, if they all voluntarily abandoned the girlyes, lover and all—instead of her abandoning them, supposing she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances.”

“Well!” says Sir Leicester, tremulouslessly, “Well! You should know, Mr. Tulkinghorn. You have been among them.”

“Really, Sir Leicester,” returns the lawyer, “I state the fact. Why, I could tell you a story—with Lady Dedlock's permission.”

Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! O he is going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?

“No. Real flesh and blood.” Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant, and repeats, with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual monotony, “Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester, these particulars have only lately become known to me. They are very brief. They exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for the present. Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?”

By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking towards