Bleak House - страница 95

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 to Lincolnshire.

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 curtsey.

'How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you.'

'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 curtsey.

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.