Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
- Performer: 0141439726
Book online «Bleak House - Charles Dickens (read this if txt) 📗». Author Charles Dickens
went away with him down some slippery steps—as if to look at
something secret that he had to show. They came back, wiping their
hands upon their coats, after turning over something wet; but thank
God it was not what I feared!
After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom everybody seemed to
know and defer to) went in with the others at a door and left me in
the carriage, while the driver walked up and down by his horses to
warm himself. The tide was coming in, as I judged from the sound
it made, and I could hear it break at the end of the alley with a
little rush towards me. It never did so—and I thought it did so,
hundreds of times, in what can have been at the most a quarter of
an hour, and probably was less—but the thought shuddered through
me that it would cast my mother at the horses’ feet.
Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant,
darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. “Don’t you be
alarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming down here,” he
said, turning to me. “I only want to have everything in train and
to know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get on, my
lad!”
We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had taken
note of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, but
judging from the general character of the streets. We called at
another office or station for a minute and crossed the river again.
During the whole of this time, and during the whole search, my
companion, wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance a
single moment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemed, if
possible, to be more on the alert than before. He stood up to look
over the parapet, he alighted and went back after a shadowy female
figure that flitted past us, and he gazed into the profound black
pit of water with a face that made my heart die within me. The
river had a fearful look, so overcast and secret, creeping away so
fast between the low flat lines of shore—so heavy with indistinct
and awful shapes, both of substance and shadow; so deathlike and
mysterious. I have seen it many times since then, by sunlight and
by moonlight, but never free from the impressions of that journey.
In my memory the lights upon the bridge are always burning dim, the
cutting wind is eddying round the homeless woman whom we pass, the
monotonous wheels are whirling on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks palely in upon me—a face rising out of
the dreaded water.
Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at
length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leave
the houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar way
to Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we
changed and went on. It was very cold indeed, and the open country
was white with snow, though none was falling then.
“An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson,” said Mr.
Bucket cheerfully.
“Yes,” I returned. “Have you gathered any intelligence?”
“None that can be quite depended on as yet,” he answered, “but it’s
early times as yet.”
He had gone into every late or early public-house where there was a
light (they were not a few at that time, the road being then much
frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money, and
making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he took
his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful steady
look, and he always said to the driver in the same business tone,
“Get on, my lad!”
With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o’clock and
we were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of
one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.
“Drink it, Miss Summerson, it’ll do you good. You’re beginning to
get more yourself now, ain’t you?”
I thanked him and said I hoped so.
“You was what you may call stunned at first,” he returned; “and
Lord, no wonder! Don’t speak loud, my dear. It’s all right.
She’s on ahead.”
I don’t know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to make,
but he put up his finger and I stopped myself.
“Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. I
heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but
couldn’t make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off.
Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she’s
before us now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler.
Now, if you wasn’t brought up to the butter trade, look out and see
if you can catch half a crown in your t’other hand. One, two,
three, and there you are! Now, my lad, try a gallop!”
We were soon in Saint Albans and alighted a little before day, when
I was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences of
the night and really to believe that they were not a dream.
Leaving the carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horses
to be ready, my companion gave me his arm, and we went towards
home.
“As this is your regular abode, Miss Summerson, you see,” he
observed, “I should like to know whether you’ve been asked for by
any stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarndyce
has. I don’t much expect it, but it might be.”
As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye—the
day was now breaking—and reminded me that I had come down it one
night, as I had reason for remembering, with my little servant and
poor Jo, whom he called Toughey.
I wondered how he knew that.
“When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know,” said
Mr. Bucket.
Yes, I remembered that too, very well.
“That was me,” said Mr. Bucket.
Seeing my surprise, he went on, “I drove down in a gig that
afternoon to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheels
when you came out to look after him yourself, for I was aware of
you and your little maid going up when I was walking the horse
down. Making an inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heard
what company he was in and was coming among the brick-fields to
look for him when I observed you bringing him home here.”
“Had he committed any crime?” I asked.
“None was charged against him,” said Mr. Bucket, coolly lifting off
his hat, “but I suppose he wasn’t over-particular. No. What I
wanted him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of
Lady Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue more free than
welcome as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by
the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn’t do, at any sort of
price, to have him playing those games. So having warned him out
of London, I made an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it
now he WAS away, and go farther from it, and maintain a bright
look-out that I didn’t catch him coming back again.”
“Poor creature!” said I.
“Poor enough,” assented Mr. Bucket, “and trouble enough, and well
enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly turned
on my back when I found him taken up by your establishment, I do
assure you.”
I asked him why. “Why, my dear?” said Mr. Bucket. “Naturally
there was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have been
born with a yard and a half of it, and a remnant over.”
Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in confusion
at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more than enable
me to understand that he entered into these particulars to divert
me. With the same kind intention, manifestly, he often spoke to me
of indifferent things, while his face was busy with the one object
that we had in view. He still pursued this subject as we turned in
at the garden-gate.
“Ah!” said Mr. Bucket. “Here we are, and a nice retired place it
is. Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-tapping, that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled.
They’re early with the kitchen fire, and that denotes good
servants. But what you’ve always got to be careful of with
servants is who comes to see ‘em; you never know what they’re up to
if you don’t know that. And another thing, my dear. Whenever you
find a young man behind the kitchen-door, you give that young man
in charge on suspicion of being secreted in a dwelling-house with
an unlawful purpose.”
We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and
closely at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes to
the windows.
“Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room
when he’s on a visit here, Miss Summerson?” he inquired, glancing
at Mr. Skimpole’s usual chamber.
“You know Mr. Skimpole!” said I.
“What do you call him again?” returned Mr. Bucket, bending down his
ear. “Skimpole, is it? I’ve often wondered what his name might
be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet Jacob?”
“Harold,” I told him.
“Harold. Yes. He’s a queer bird is Harold,” said Mr. Bucket,
eyeing me with great expression.
“He is a singular character,” said I.
“No idea of money,” observed Mr. Bucket. “He takes it, though!”
I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucket
knew him.
“Why, now I’ll tell you, Miss Summerson,” he replied. “Your mind
will be all the better for not running on one point too
continually, and I’ll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed
out to me where Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come
to the door and ask for Toughey, if that was all; but willing to
try a move or so first, if any such was on the board, I just
pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where I saw a shadow.
As soon as Harold opens it and I have had a look at him, thinks I,
you’re the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit about not
wanting to disturb the family after they was gone to bed and about
its being a thing to be regretted that charitable young ladies
should harbour vagrants; and then, when I pretty well understood
his ways, I said I should consider a fypunnote well bestowed if I
could relieve the premises of Toughey without causing any noise or
trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way,
‘It’s no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my friend, because I’m a
mere child in such matters and have no idea of money.’ Of course I
understood what his taking it so easy meant; and being now quite
sure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round a little stone
and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and looks as
innocent as you like, and says, ‘But I don’t know the value of
these things. What am I to DO
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