Bleak House by Charles Dickens (ebook reader that looks like a book TXT) 📕

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