bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第265章
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my dear！”
Not another word does Mr Bucket say； but sits with most
attentive eyes； until the sacked depository of noble secrets is
brought down—Where are all those secrets now？ Does he keep
them yet？ Did they fly with him on that sudden journey？—and
until the procession moves； and Mr Bucket’s view is changed。
After which； he composes himself for an easy ride； and takes note
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of the fittings of the carriage； in case he should ever find such
knowledge useful。
Contrast enough between Mr Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark
carriage； and Mr Bucket shut up in his。 Between the
immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has
thrown the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the
stones of the streets； and the narrow track of blood which keeps
the other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head！
But it is all one to both； neither is troubled about that。
Mr Bucket sits out the procession； in his own easy manner； and
glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with
himself arrives。 He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock’s； which is at
present a sort of home to him； where he comes and goes as he
likes at all hours； where he is always welcome and made much of；
where he knows the whole establishment； and walks in an
atmosphere of mysterious greatness。
No knocking or ringing for Mr Bucket。 He has caused himself to
be provided with a key； and can pass in at his pleasure。 As he is
crossing the hall； Mercury informs him； “Here’s another letter for；
you； Mr Bucket； come by post；” and gives it him。
“Another one； eh？” says Mr Bucket。
If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering
curiosity as to Mr Bucket’s letters； that wary person is not the man
to gratify it。 Mr Bucket looks at him； as if his face were a vista of
some miles in length； and he were leisurely contemplating the
same。
“Do you happen to carry a box？” says Mr Bucket。
Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff…taker。
“Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres？” says Mr
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Bucket。 “Thankee。 It don’t matter what it is； I’m not particular as
to the kind。 Thankee！”
Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from
somebody downstairs for the purpose； and having made a
considerable show of tasting it； first with one side of his nose and
then with the other； Mr Bucket； with much deliberation；
pronounces it of the right sort； and goes on； letter in hand。
Now； although Mr Bucket walks upstairs to the little library
within the larger one； with the face of a man who receives some
scores of letters every day； it happens that much correspondence
is not incidental to his life。 He is no great scribe； rather handling
his pen like the pocket…staff he carries about with him always
convenient to his grasp； and discourages correspondence with
himself in others； as being too artless and direct a way of doing
delicate business。 Further； he often sees damaging letters
produced in evidence； and has occasion to reflect that it was a
green thing to write them。 For these reasons he has very little to
do with letters； either as sender or receiver。 And yet he has
received a round half dozen； within the last twenty…four hours。
“And this；” says Mr Bucket； spreading it out on the table； “is in
the same hand； and consists of the same two words。”
What two words？
He turns the key in the door； ungirdles his black pocket…book
（book of fate to many）； lays another letter by it； and reads； boldly
written in each； “LADY DEDLOCK。”
“Yes； yes；” says Mr Bucket。 “But I could have made the money
without this anonymous information。”
Having put the letters in his book of Fate； and girdled it up
again； he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner； which
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is brought upon a goodly tray； with a decanter of sherry。 Mr
Bucket frequently observes； in friendly circles where there is no
restraint； that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East Inder
sherry better than anything you can offer him。 Consequently he
fills and empties his glass； with a smack of his lips； and is
proceeding with his refreshment； when an idea enters his mind。
Mr Bucket softly opens the door of communication between
that room and the next； and looks in。 The library is deserted； and
the fire is sinking low。 Mr Bucket’s eye； after taking a pigeon…flight
round the room； alights upon a table where letters are usually put
as they arrive。 Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it。 Mr
Bucket draws near； and examines the directions。 “No；” he says；
“there’s none in that hand。 It’s only me as is written to。 I can break
it to Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet； tomorrow。”
With that； he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite；
and after a light nap； is summoned into the drawing…room。 Sir
Leicester has received him there these several evenings past； to
know whether he has anything to report。 The debilitated cousin
（much exhausted by the funeral）； and Volumnia； are in
attendance。
Mr Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three
people。 A bow of homage to Sir Leicester； a bow of gallantry to
Volumnia； and a bow of recognition to the debilitated cousin； to
whom it airily says； “You are a swell about town； and you know
me； and I know you。” Having distributed these little specimens of
his tact； Mr Bucket rubs his hands。
“Have you anything new to communicate； officer？” inquires Sir
Leicester。 “Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in
private？”
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“Why—not tonight； Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet。”
“Because my time；” pursues Sir Leicester； “is wholly at your
disposal； with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of
the law。”
Mr Bucket coughs； and glances at Volumnia； rouged and
necklaced； as though he would respectfully observe； “I do assure
you； you’re a pretty creetur。 I’ve seen hundreds worse…looking at
your time of life； I have indeed。”
The fair Volumnia； not quite unconscious perhaps of the
humanising influence of her charms；
