bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第206章
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Lady。”
“My Lady went out； Sir Leicester； before you were taken ill；
and don’t know of your illness yet。”
He points again； in great agitation； at the two words。 They all
try to quiet him； but he points again with increased agitation。 On
their looking at one another； not knowing what to say； he takes the
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slate once more； and writes “My Lady。 For God’s sake； where？”
And makes an imploring moan。
It is though better that his old housekeeper should give him
Lady Dedlock’s letter； the contents of which no one knows or can
surmise。 She opens it for him； and puts it out for his perusal。
Having read it twice by a great effort； he turns it down so that it
shall not be seen； and lies moaning。 He passes into a kind of
relapse； or into a swoon； and it is an hour before he opens his eyes；
reclining on his faithful and attached old servant’s arm。 The
doctors know that he is best with her； and； when not actively
engaged about him； stand aloof。
The slate comes into requisition again； but the word he wants
to write； he cannot remember。 His anxiety； his eagerness； and
affliction； at this pass； are pitiable to behold。 It seems as if he must
go mad； in the necessity he feels for haste； and the inability under
which he labours of expressing to do what； or to fetch whom。 He
has written the letter B； and there stopped。 Of a sudden； in the
height of his misery； he puts Mr before it。 The old housekeeper
suggests Bucket。 Thank Heaven！ That’s his meaning。
Mr Bucket is found to be downstairs； by appointment。 Shall he
come up？
There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester’s burning
wish to see him； or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared
of every one but the housekeeper。 It is speedily done； and Mr
Bucket appears。 Of all men upon earth； Sir Leicester seems fallen
from his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this
man。
“Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet； I’m sorry to see you like this。 I
hope you’ll cheer up。 I’m sure you will； on account of the family
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credit。”
Sir Leicester puts her letter in his hand； and looks intently in
his face while he reads it。 A new intelligence comes into Mr
Bucket’s eye； as he reads on； with one hook of his finger； while
that eye is still glancing over the words； he indicates； “Sir
Leicester Dedlock； Baronet； I understand you。”
Sir Leicester writes upon the slate。 “Full forgiveness。 Find—”
Mr Bucket stops his hand。
“Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet； I’ll find her。 But my search
after her must be begun out of hand。 Not a minute must be lost。”
With the quickness of thought he follows Sir Leicester
Dedlock’s look towards a little box upon a table。
“Bring it here； Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet？ Certainly。 Open
it with one of these here keys？ Certainly。 The littlest key？ To be
sure。 Take the notes out？ So I will。 Count ’em？ That’s soon done。
Twenty and thirty’s fifty； and twenty’s seventy； and fifty’s one
twenty； and forty’s one sixty。 Take ’em for expenses？ That I’ll do；
and render an account of course。 Don’t spare money？ No； I won’t。”
The velocity and certainty of Mr Bucket’s interpretation on all
these heads is little short of miraculous。 Mrs Rouncewell； who
holds the light； is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands；
as he starts up； furnished for his journey。
“You’re George’s mother； old lady； that’s about what you are； I
believe？” says Mr Bucket； aside； with his hat already on； and
buttoning his coat。
“Yes； sir； I am his distressed mother。”
“So I thought； according to what he mentioned to me just now。
Well； then； I’ll tell you something。 You needn’t be distressed no
more。 Your son’s all right。 Now don’t you begin a…crying； because
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what you’ve got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock；
Baronet； and you won’t do that by crying。 As to your son； he’s all
right； I tell you； and he sends his loving duty； and hoping you’re
the same。 He’s discharged honourable； that’s about what he is；
with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours；
and yours is a tidy one； I’ll bet a pound。 You may trust me； for I
took your son。 He conducted himself in a game way； too； on that
occasion； and he’s a fine…made man； and you’re a fine…made old
lady； and you’re a mother and son； the pair of you； as might be
showed for models in a caravan。 Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet；
what you’ve trusted to me； I’ll go through with。 Don’t you be afraid
of my turning out of my way； right or left； or taking a sleep； or a
wash； or a shave； till I have found what I go in search of。 Say
everything as is kind and forgiving on your part？ Sir Leicester
Dedlock； Baronet； I will。 And I wish you better； and these family
affairs smoothed over—as； Lord！ many other family affairs equally
has been； and equally will be； to the end of time。”
With this peroration； Mr Bucket； buttoned up； goes quietly out；
looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night
in quest of the fugitive。
His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock’s rooms； and
look all over them for any trifling indication that may help him。
The rooms are in darkness now； and to see Mr Bucket with a wax…
light in his hand； holding it above his head； and taking a sharp
mental inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at
variance with himself； would be to see a sight；—which nobody
does see； as he is particular to lock himself in。
“A spicy boudoir this；” says Mr Bucket； who feels in a manner
furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning。 “Must
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have cost a sight of money。 Rum articles to cut away from； these；
she must have been hard put to it！”
Opening and shutting table…drawers； and looking into caskets
and jewel…cases； he sees the reflection of himself in various
mirrors； and moralises thereon。
“One might suppose I was a moving in the fashionable circles；
and getting myself up for Almack’s；” says Mr Bucket。 “I begin to
think I must be a swell in the Guards； without knowing it。”
Ever looking about； he has opened a dainty little chest in an
inner drawer。 His great hand； turning over some gloves which it
can scarcely feel； they are so light and soft within it； comes upon a
white handkerchief。
“Hum！ Let’s have a look at you；” says Mr Bucket； putting down
the light。 “What should you be kept by yourself for？ What’s your
motive？ Are you her Ladyship’s property； or somebody else’s？
You’ve got a mark upon you； somewheres or another； I suppose？”
He finds it as he speaks； “Esther Summerson。”
“Oh！” says Mr Bucket； pausing with his finger at his ear。
“Come； I’ll take you。”
He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has
carried them on； leaves everything else precisely as he found it；
glides away after some five minutes in all； and passes into the
street。 With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir
Leicester’s room； he sets off； full swing； to the nearest coach…stand；
picks out the horse for his money； and directs to be driven to the
Shooting Gallery。 Mr Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge
of horses； but he lays out a little money on the principal events in
that line； and generally sums up his knowledge of the subject in
the remark； that when he see a horse as can go； he knows him。
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His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance。 Clattering
over the stones at a dangerous pace； yet thoughtfully bringing his
keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in
the midnight streets； and even on the lights in upper windows
where people are going or gone to bed； and on all the turnings that
he rattles by； and alike on the heavy sky； and on the earth where
the snow lies thin—for something may present itself to assist him；
anywhere—he dashes to his destination at such a speed； that when
he stops； the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam。
“Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up； and I’ll be
back。”
He runs up the long wooden entry； and finds the trooper
smoking his pipe。
“I thought I should； George； after what you have gone through；
my lad。 I haven’t a word to spare。 Now； honour！ All to save a
woman。 Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died—that
was the name； I know—all right！—where does she live？”
The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address
near Oxford…street。
“You won’t repent it； George。 Good night！”
He is off again with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by
the frosty fire； staring at him open…mouthed； and gallops away
