Bleak House
The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.
“Now, what do you say to that?” asks Bucket.
Jo shakes his head. “Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like
that.”
“What are you talking of?” says Bucket, evidently pleased though, and
well pleased too.
“Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller,”
returns Jo.
“Why, you’ll tell me I’m my own mother next,” says Mr. Bucket. “Do
you recollect the lady’s voice?”
“I think I does,” says Jo.
The figure speaks. “Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as
you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this
voice?”
Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. “Not a bit!”
“Then, what,” retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, “did you
say it was the lady for?”
“Cos,” says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken
in his certainty, “cos that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the
gownd. It is her and it an’t her. It an’t her hand, nor yet her
rings, nor yet her woice. But that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and
the gownd, and they’re wore the same way wot she wore ’em, and it’s
her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it.”
“Well!” says Mr. Bucket slightly, “we haven’t got much good out of
YOU. But, however, here’s five shillings for you. Take care how you
spend it, and don’t get yourself into trouble.” Bucket stealthily
tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters—which is
a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of
skill—and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy’s hand and
takes him out to the door, leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means
comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the
veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn’s coming into the room, the
veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking Frenchwoman is
revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his
usual equanimity. “I will give you no further trouble about this
little wager.”
“You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at
present placed?” says mademoiselle.
“Certainly, certainly!”
“And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished
recommendation?”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.”
“A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.”
“It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.”
“Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.”
“Good night.”
Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr.
Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the
ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not
without gallantry.
“Well, Bucket?” quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.
“It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an’t a
doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dress on. The boy was
exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you
as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don’t say it wasn’t
done!”
“You have kept your word, sir,” returns the stationer; “and if I can
be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman
will be getting anxious—”
“Thank you, Snagsby, no further use,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “I am
quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already.”
“Not at all, sir. I wish you good night.”
“You see, Mr. Snagsby,” says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door
and shaking hands with him over and over again, “what I like in you
is that you’re a man it’s of no use pumping; that’s what YOU are.
When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it’s
done with and gone, and there’s an end of it. That’s what YOU do.”
“That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,” returns Mr. Snagsby.
“No, you don’t do yourself justice. It an’t what you endeavour to
do,” says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the
tenderest manner, “it’s what you DO. That’s what I estimate in a man
in your way of business.”
Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused
by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake
and out—doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he
goes—doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. He
is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable
reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect
beehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster to
the police-station with official intelligence of her husband’s being
made away with, and who within the last two hours has passed through
every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But as the little
woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!
CHAPTER XXIII
Esther’s Narrative
We came home from Mr. Boythorn’s after six pleasant weeks. We were
often in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodge where
we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper’s
wife; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except at church on
Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold; and although several
beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the same influence
on me as at first. I do not quite know even now whether it was
painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards her or made me
shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind of fear, and I
know that in her presence my thoughts always wandered back, as they
had done at first, to that old time of my life.
I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what this lady
so curiously was to me, I was to her—I mean that I disturbed her
thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way. But
when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed and distant and
unapproachable, I felt this to be a foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt
the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and
unreasonable, and I remonstrated with myself about it as much as I
could.
One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boythorn’s house, I
had better mention in this place.
I was walking in the garden with Ada when I was told that some one
wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where this person was
waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had cast off her shoes
and walked through the wet grass on the day when it thundered and
lightened.
“Mademoiselle,” she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-eager
eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance and
speaking neither with boldness nor servility, “I have taken a great
liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so
amiable, mademoiselle.”
“No excuse is necessary,” I returned, “if you wish to speak to me.”
“That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the
permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?” she said in a
quick, natural way.
“Certainly,” said I.
“Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. I have
left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high, so very high.
Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right!” Her quickness anticipated what
I might have said presently but as yet had only thought. “It is not
for me to come here to complain of my Lady. But I say she is so high,
so very high. I will not say a word more. All the world knows that.”
“Go on, if you please,” said I.
“Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness.
Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a
young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good,
accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the honour
of being your domestic!”
“I am sorry—” I began.
“Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!” she said with an
involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. “Let me hope a
moment! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more retired than
that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know this service
would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted. Well! I
wish that, I know that I should win less, as to wages here. Good. I
am content.”
“I assure you,” said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of having
such an attendant, “that I keep no maid—”
“Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one so
devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would be so
true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Mademoiselle, I wish
with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money at present.
Take me as I am. For nothing!”
She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid of her.
Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour she still pressed
herself upon me, speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though always
with a certain grace and propriety.
“Mademoiselle, I come from the South country where we are quick and
where we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was too high for me; I
was too high for her. It is done—past—finished! Receive me as your
domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do more for you than you
figure to yourself now. Chut! Mademoiselle, I will—no matter, I will
do my utmost possible in all things. If you accept my service, you
will not repent it. Mademoiselle, you will not repent it, and I will
serve you well. You don’t know how well!”
There was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at me
while I explained the impossibility of my engaging her (without
thinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so),
which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the streets
of Paris in the reign of terror.
She heard me out without interruption and then said with her pretty
accent and in her mildest voice, “Hey, mademoiselle, I have received
my answer! I am sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere and seek what I
have not found here. Will you graciously let me kiss your hand?”
She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to take
note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. “I fear I
surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?” she said with
a parting curtsy.
I confessed that she had surprised us all.
“I took an oath, mademoiselle,” she said, smiling, “and I wanted to
stamp it on my mind so that I might keep it faithfully. And I will!
Adieu, mademoiselle!”
So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a close. I
supposed she went away from the village, for I saw her no more; and
nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasures until
six weeks were out and we returned home as I began just now by
saying.
At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Richard was
constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or Sunday and
remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimes rode out on
horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with us and rode back
again early next day. He was as vivacious as ever and told us he was
very industrious, but I was not easy in my mind about him. It
appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected. I could not
find that it led to anything but the formation of delusive hopes in
connexion with the suit already the pernicious cause of so much
sorrow and ruin. He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told
us, and nothing could be plainer than that the will under which he
and Ada were to take I don’t know how many thousands of pounds must
be finally established if there were any sense or justice in the
Court of Chancery—but oh, what a great IF that sounded in my
ears—and that this happy conclusion could not be much longer
delayed. He proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that
side he had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the
infatuation. He had even begun to haunt the court. He told us how he
saw Miss Flite there daily, how they talked together, and how he did