Chapter LVI. Pursuit

by Charles Dickens

　　Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town housestares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur andgives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriagesrattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancientcharmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a ratherghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed thesefascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together,dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easilyswinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs,deep sunk into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount lusciousMercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hatsbroadwise, a spectacle for the angels.The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours passbefore its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia thefair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom andfinding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence,ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene.Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens itand peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of theancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity whichimpels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidleabout with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of everydescription. Certain it is that she avails herself of the presentopportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers likea bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink with herhead on one side at that document, and hopping about from table totable with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restlessmanner. In the course of these researches she stumbles oversomething, and turning her glass in that direction, sees herkinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentationof reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly incommotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violentlyrung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in alldirections, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since shelast rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered onher table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not receivedanother missive from another world requiring to be personallyanswered, and all the living languages, and all the dead, are asone to him.They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, andput ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit,the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before hisstertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousnessof the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But whenthis change begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves hiseyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhatinfirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. Helies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepitshadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had solong been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankindof any word he said that his words really had come to sound as ifthere were something in them. But now he can only whisper, andwhat he whispers sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon.His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. Itis the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure fromit. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, hemakes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot atfirst understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out whathe wants and brings in a slate.After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a handthat is not his, "Chesney Wold?"No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in thelibrary this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened tocome to London and is able to attend upon him."It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester.You will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All thegentlemen say so." This, with the tears coursing down her fair oldface.After making a survey of the room and looking with particularattention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "MyLady.""My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, anddon't know of your illness yet."He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They alltry to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. Ontheir looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes theslate once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sake, where?" Andmakes an imploring moan.It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him LadyDedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or cansurmise. 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 itshall not be seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind ofrelapse or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens hiseyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm.The doctors know that he is best with her, and when not activelyengaged about him, stand aloof.The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants towrite he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, andaffliction at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if hemust go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inabilityunder which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom.He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, inthe height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it. The oldhousekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven! That's his meaning.Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall hecome up?There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burningwish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room clearedof every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr.Bucket appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallenfrom his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon thisman."Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this. Ihope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the familycredit."Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in hisface while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket'seye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye isstill glancing over the words, he indicates, "Sir LeicesterDedlock, 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 searchafter her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost."With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock'slook towards a little box upon a table."Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Openit with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? Tobe sure. Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That's soondone. Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty'sone twenty, and forty's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? ThatI'll do, and render an account of course. Don't spare money? No Iwon't."The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on allthese heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, whoholds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and handsas he starts up, furnished for his journey."You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, Ibelieve?" says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on andbuttoning 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 nomore. Your son's all right. Now, don't you begin a-crying,because what you've got to do is to take care of Sir LeicesterDedlock, 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, andhoping you're the same. He's discharged honourable; that's aboutwhat he is; with no more imputation on his character than there ison yours, and yours is a tidy one, I'll bet a pound. You may trustme, 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-madeold lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as might beshowed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,what you've trusted to me I'll go through with. Don't you beafraid of my turing out of my way, right or left, or taking asleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in searchof. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, andthese family affairs smoothed over--as, Lord, many other familyaffairs equally has been, and equally wlll 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 thenight in quest of the fugitive.His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms and lookall over them for any trifling indication that may help him. Therooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-lightin his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mentalinventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variancewith himself, would be to see a sight--which nobody does see, as heis particular to lock himself in."A spicy boudoir, this," says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a mannerfurbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. "Must havecost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; shemust have been hard put to it!"Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets andjewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors,and moralizes thereon."One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles andgetting myself up for almac's," says Mr. Bucket. "I begin to thinkI must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it."Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an innerdrawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it canscarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon awhite handkerchief."Hum! Let's have a look at you," says Mr. Bucket, putting down thelight. "What should you be kept by yourself for? What's yourmotive? 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 hascarried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it,glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into thestreet. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of SirLeicester's room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be drivento the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be ascientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on theprincipal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledgeof the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go,he knows him.His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clatteringover the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing hiskeen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in themidnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows wherepeople are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that herattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where thesnow lies thin--for something may present itself to assist him,anywhere--he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when hestops 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 hispipe."I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, mylad. I haven't a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save awoman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died--that wasthe 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 bythe frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops awayagain, and gets out in a cloud of steam again.Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going tobed, rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell,and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown."Don't be alarmed, sir." In a moment his visitor is confidentialwith him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his handupon the lock. "I've had the pleasure of seeing you before.Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss EstherSummerson's. Found it myself put away in a drawer of LadyDedlock's, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matterof life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?""Yes.""There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have comeout. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit--apoplexy orparalysis--and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has beenlost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letterfor him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!"Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks."I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there's more andmore danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I'd give ahundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time.Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,to follow her and find her, to save her and take her hisforgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want somethingelse. I want Miss Summerson."Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, "Miss Summerson?""Now, Mr. Jarndyce"--Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatestattention all along--"I speak to you as a gentleman of a humaneheart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't often happen.If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now; and if ever youcouldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is thetime. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred poundapiece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. Iam charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all therest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes,suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she, being inignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has communicatedto me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her incompany with a young lady, answering to the description of a younglady that she has a tenderness for--I ask no question, and I say nomore than that--she will give me credit for being friendly. Let mecome up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of puttingthat young lady for'ard, and I'll save her and prevail with her ifshe is alive. Let me come up with her alone--a hard matter--andI'll do my best, but I don't answer for what the best may be. Timeflies; it's getting on for one o'clock. When one strikes, there'sanother hour gone, and it's worth a thousand pound now instead of ahundred."This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot bequestioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaksto Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting on hisusual principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead andkeeping his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking aboutin the gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very littletime Mr. Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson willjoin him directly and place herself under his protection toaccompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresseshigh approval and awaits her coming at the door.There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far andwide. Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through thestreets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lyingunder haystacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them.Other solitaries he perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over;and in shadowed places down by the river's level; and a dark, dark,shapeless object drifting with the tide, more solitary than all,clings with a drowning hold on his attention.Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds thehandkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with anenchanted power to bring before him the place where she found itand the night-landscape near the cottage where it covered thelittle child, would he descry her there? On the waste where thebrick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched huts in which the bricks are made are beingscattered by the wind, where the clay and water are hard frozen andthe mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day lookslike an instrument of human torture--traversing this deserted,blighted spot there is a lonely figure with the sad world toitself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out, itwould seem, from all companionship. It is the figure of a woman,too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever camethrough the hall and out at the great door of the Dedlock mansion.