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Updated: July 18, 2025
One ancestress of Volumnia, in high- heeled shoes, very like her casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two centuries shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, and shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down like age and death.
He is very low and ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes." "Has he asked for me?" inquires Volumnia tenderly. "Why, no, I can't say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is to say." "This is a truly sad time, Mr. George." "It is indeed, miss. Hadn't you better go to bed?" "You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock," quoth the maid sharply. But Volumnia answers No! No!
"Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in private?" "Why not to-night, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet." "Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, "is wholly at your disposal with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of the law." Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced, as though he would respectfully observe, "I do assure you, you're a pretty creetur.
"Ere you kiss me, let me know whether I am speaking to an enemy or to my son; whether I stand here as your prisoner or your mother." He stood before her in silence, with bent head, and unable to speak. "Must it then be that if I had never borne a son, Rome would have never seen the camp of an enemy?" said Volumnia, in sorrowful tones. "But I am too old to bear much longer your shame and my misery.
Bucket murmurs, "Glad to have the honour of your approbation, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet." "In fact, Volumnia," proceeds Sir Leicester, "it is not holding up a good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions as you have put to him. He is the best judge of his own responsibility; he acts upon his responsibility.
The words of Valeria were seconded by the acclamations of the other women, to which Volumnia made answer: "I and Vergilia, my countrywomen, have an equal share with you all in the common miseries, and we have the additional sorrow, which is wholly ours, that we have lost the merit and good fame of Marcius, and see his person confined, rather than protected, by the arms of the enemy.
The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester has just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins. "Volumnia," replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand, "we are doing tolerably." "Only tolerably!"
Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks, "What for?" "Volumnia," remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity. "Volumnia!" "No, no, I don't mean what for," cries Volumnia with her favourite little scream. "How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!" "I am glad," returns Sir Leicester, "that you do mean what a pity."
But Volumnia the fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene. Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.
I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time of life, I have indeed." The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notes and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket prices that decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not that Volumnia is writing poetry.
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