Bleak House - Charles Dickens (best chinese ebook reader .txt) 📗

“And to hold the candle,” pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting himself, “or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you’re asked. Which there’s not a man alive more ready to do, for you’re a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you’ve got the sort of heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can?”

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender, talking all the time.

“Don’t you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she’s under a mistake altogether. She’ll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I’m a-going to explain it to her.” Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby. “Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, you know⁠—‘Believe Me, if All Those Endearing,’ and cetrer⁠—you’re well acquainted with the song, because it’s in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are strangers⁠—charms⁠—attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence in yourself⁠—is, that you’ve done it.”

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered, what did Mr. Bucket mean.

“What does Mr. Bucket mean?” he repeated, and I saw by his face that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it must be; “I’ll tell you what he means, ma’am. Go and see Othello acted. That’s the tragedy for you.”

Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why.

“Why?” said Mr. Bucket. “Because you’ll come to that if you don’t look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your mind’s not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you’re what I call an intellectual woman⁠—with your soul too large for your body, if you come to that, and chafing it⁠—and you know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don’t you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady.”

Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I did at the time.

“And Toughey⁠—him as you call Jo⁠—was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it by this time.)”

Mrs. Snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Is that all?” said Mr. Bucket excitedly. “No. See what happens. Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a wretched state, comes here tonight and is seen a-speaking to your maidservant; and between her and your maidservant there passes a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do you do? You hide and you watch ’em, and you pounce upon that maidservant⁠—knowing what she’s subject to and what a little thing will bring ’em on⁠—in that surprising manner and with that severity that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be hanging upon that girl’s words!”

He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily clasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it stopped. Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again.

“Now, Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make,” said Mr. Bucket, rapidly glancing at it, “is to let me speak a word to this young lady in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one thing that’s likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your swiftest and best!” In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the door. “Now my dear, you’re steady and quite sure of yourself?”

“Quite,” said I.

“Whose writing is that?”

It was my mother’s. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed to me at my guardian’s.

“You know the hand,” he said, “and if you are firm enough to read it to me, do! But be particular to a word.”

It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what follows:

I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dear one, if I could, once more⁠—but only to see her⁠—not to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share. The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one’s good. You remember her dead child. The men’s consent I bought, but her help was freely given.

“ ‘I came.’ That was written,” said my companion, “when she rested there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right.”

The next was written at another time:

I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know