Bleak House by Charles Dickens (best ebook reader for laptop .txt) 📕

“Why, Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on himself. “Of course you may.”

It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrapped in the cloak.

“I have just left Richard,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “I have been sitting with him since ten o’clock last night.”

“Oh, dear me, he is ill!”

“No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed and faint⁠—you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes⁠—and Ada sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and came straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a little while, and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is now, I hope!”

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he had inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could I separate all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must have been if it had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the change in my appearance: “I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!”

We now turned into another narrow street. “Mr. Woodcourt,” said Mr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, “our business takes us to a law-stationer’s here, a certain Mr. Snagsby’s. What, you know him, do you?” He was so quick that he saw it in an instant.

“Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Mr. Bucket. “Then you will be so good as to let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have half a word with him?”

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my saying I heard someone crying.

“Don’t be alarmed, miss,” he returned. “It’s Snagsby’s servant.”

“Why, you see,” said Mr. Bucket, “the girl’s subject to fits, and has ’em bad upon her tonight. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to reason somehow.”

“At all events, they wouldn’t be up yet if it wasn’t for her, Mr. Bucket,” said the other man. “She’s been at it pretty well all night, sir.”

“Well, that’s true,” he returned. “My light’s burnt out. Show yours a moment.”

All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which I could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of light produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and knocked. The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in, leaving us standing in the street.

“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Woodcourt, “if without obtruding myself on your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.”

“You are truly kind,” I answered. “I need wish to keep no secret of my own from you; if I keep any, it is another’s.”

“I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as I can fully respect it.”

“I trust implicitly to you,” I said. “I know and deeply feel how sacredly you keep your promise.”

After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and Mr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. “Please to come in, Miss Summerson,” he said, “and sit down by the fire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I particularly want. It’s not in her box, and I think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle without hurting.”

We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke meekly.

“Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket,” said he. “The lady will excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. The back is Guster’s bedroom, and in it she’s a-carrying on, poor thing, to a frightful extent!”

We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found the little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, “to waive⁠—not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear⁠—hostilities for one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady.”

She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and looked particularly hard at me.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remotest corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, “it is not unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, at the present hour. I don’t know. I have not the least idea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I’d rather not be told.”

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr. Bucket took the matter on himself.

“Now, Mr. Snagsby,” said he, “the best thing you can do is to go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster⁠—”

“My Guster, Mr. Bucket!” cried Mr. Snagsby. “Go on, sir, go on. I shall be