Chapter XXII. Mr. Bucket

by Charles Dickens

　　Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though theevening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open,and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not bedesirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet orJanuary with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultrylong vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheekslike peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosyswellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to looktolerably cool to-night.Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plentymore has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thickeverywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its waytakes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flingsas much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law-or Mr. Tulkinghorn,one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, inthe eyes of the laity.In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into whichhis papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things ofearth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sitsat one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though ahard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old winewith the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artfulcellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When hedines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit offish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, hedescends with a candle to the echoing regions below the desertedmansion, and heralded by a remote reverberation of thunderingdoors, comes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere andcarrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two scoreand ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself sofamous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southerngrapes.Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoyshis wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silenceand seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable thanever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy,pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows,associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blankshut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two forhimself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all amystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man ofthe same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of lifeuntil he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving(as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gavehis gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walkedleisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usuallength. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestlyand uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild,shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyerbids him fill his glass."Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd storyagain.""If you please, sir.""You told me when you were so good as to step round here lastnight--""For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir;but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in thatperson, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or toadmit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must askyou to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.""Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, thatyou put on your hat and came round without mentioning yourintention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's nota matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned.""Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--notto put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive.Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her tohave her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--Ishould say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whetherit concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a veryactive mind, sir."Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind hishand, "Dear me, very fine wine indeed!""Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?" says Mr.Tulkinghorn. "And to-night too?""Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in--not to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what sheconsiders such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is thename they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. Hehas a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I amnot quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here northere. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easierfor me to step round in a quiet manner."Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby.""Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his coughof deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!""It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty yearsold.""Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure.It might be--any age almost." After rendering this general tributeto the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behindhis hand for drinking anything so precious."Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr.Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rustysmallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair."With pleasure, sir."Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationerrepeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house.On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start andbreaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any othergentleman present!"Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive facebetween himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table,a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when hehimself came in and has not since entered by the door or by eitherof the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges havenot creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet thisthird person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat andstick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quietlistener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man inblack, of about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr.Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothingremarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner ofappearing."Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way."This is only Mr. Bucket.""Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a coughthat he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be."I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I havehalf a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is veryintelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?""It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on,and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don'tobject to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, wecan have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can doit without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.""Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer inexplanation."Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in hisclump of hair to stand on end."And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to theplace in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged toyou if you will do so."In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dipsdown to the bottom of his mind."Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't dothat. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall onlybring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him,and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be agood job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see theboy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; youan't going to do that.""Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. Andreassured, "Since that's the case--""Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking himaside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, andspeaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, youknow, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what youare.""I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returnsthe stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--""That's what you are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an'tnecessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, whichis a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake andhave his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had anuncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a manlike you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matterslike this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!""Certainly, certainly," returns the other."I don't mind telling you," says Bucket with an engaging appearanceof frankness, "that as far as I can understand it, there seems tobe a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a littleproperty, and whether this female hasn't been up to some gamesrespecting that property, don't you see?""Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly."Now, what you want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby onthe breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that everyperson should have their rights according to justice. That's whatyou want.""To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod."On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you callit, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncleused to call it.""Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby."You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quiteaffectionately. "--On account of which, and at the same time tooblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, inconfidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quietever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about yourintentions, if I understand you?""You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby."Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimatewith it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am."They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of hisunfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into thestreets."You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name ofGridley, do you?" says Bucket in friendly converse as they descendthe stairs."No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know anybody of thatname. Why?""Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only having allowed his temperto get a little the better of him and having been threatening somerespectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant Ihave got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense shoulddo."As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, thathowever quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in someundefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he isgoing to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixedpurpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off,sharply, at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass apolice-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both theconstable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they cometowards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, andto gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behindsome under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleekhair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almostwithout glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which theyoung man, looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most partMr. Bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging asthe great mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch,composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which hewears in his shirt.When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for amoment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from theconstable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his ownparticular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors,Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street,undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smellsand sights that he, who has lived in London all his life, canscarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and itsheaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr.Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were goingevery moment deeper down into the infernal gulf."Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabbypalanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd."Here's the fever coming up the street!"As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object ofattraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream ofhorrible faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behindwalls, and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning,thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place."Are those the fever-houses, Darby?" Mr. Bucket coolly asks as heturns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, formonths and months, the people "have been down by dozens" and havebeen carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucketobserving to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a littlepoorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathethe dreadful air.There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As fewpeople are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there ismuch reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or theColonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, orthe Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There areconflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Somethink it must be Carrots, some say the Brick. The Colonel isproduced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsbyand his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and fromits squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket.Whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades awayand flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behindthe walls, as before.At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the ToughSubject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the ToughSubject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and theproprietress of the house--a drunken face tied up in a blackbundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her private apartment--leads to the establishment ofthis conclusion. Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottleof stuff for a sick woman but will be here anon."And who have we got here to-night?" says Mr. Bucket, openinganother door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "Two drunken men,eh? And two women? The men are sound enough," turning back eachsleeper's arm from his face to look at him. "Are these your goodmen, my dears?""Yes, sir," returns one of the women. "They are our husbands.""Brickmakers, eh?""Yes, sir.""What are you doing here? You don't belong to London.""No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire.""Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?""Saint Albans.""Come up on the tramp?""We walked up yesterday. There's no work down with us at present,but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, Iexpect.""That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning hishead in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground."It an't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "Jenny and meknows it full well."The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so lowthat the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch theblackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to everysense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the pollutedair. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way oftable. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the womensit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spokenis a very young child."Why, what age do you call that little creature?" says Bucket. "Itlooks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough aboutit; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby isstrangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that hehas seen in pictures."He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman."Is he your child?""Mine."The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoopsdown again and kisses it as it lies asleep."You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," saysMr. Bucket."I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.""Ah, Jenny, Jenny!" says the other woman to her. "Better so. Muchbetter to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!""Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns Bucketsternly, "as to wish your own child dead?""God knows you are right, master," she returns. "I am not. I'dstand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true asany pretty lady.""Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, mollifiedagain. "Why do you do it?""It's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyesfilling with tears, "when I look down at the child lying so. If itwas never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so.I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers--warn'tI, Jenny?--and I know how she grieved. But look around you at thisplace. Look at them," glancing at the sleepers on the ground."Look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a goodturn. Think of the children that your business lays with often andoften, and that you see grow up!""Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, andhe'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, youknow.""I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But I havebeen a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with theague, of all the many things that'll come in his way. My masterwill be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made tofear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him everso much, and ever so hard, there's no one to help me; and if heshould be turned bad 'spite of all I could do, and the time shouldcome when I should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed,an't it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now andwish he had died as Jenny's child died!""There, there!" says Jenny. "Liz, you're tired and ill. Let metake him."In doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quicklyreadjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby hasbeen lying."It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as shenurses, "that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my deadchild that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of itsbeing taken away from her now. While she thinks that, I think whatfortune would I give to have my darling back. But we mean the samething, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poorhearts!"As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, astep is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into thedoorway and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy?Will he do?""That's Jo," says Mr. Snagsby.Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in amagic-lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against thelaw in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however,giving him the consolatory assurance, "It's only a job you will bepaid for, Jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr.Bucket for a little private confabulation, tells his talesatisfactorily, though out of breath."I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "andit's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you."First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing overthe physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconicverbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly,Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usualpanacea for an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Buckethas to take Jo by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him onbefore him, without which observance neither the Tough Subject norany other Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln'sInn Fields. These arrangements completed, they give the women goodnight and come out once more into black and foul Tom-all-Alone's.By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit,they gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting, and whistling,and skulking about them until they come to the verge, whererestoration of the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd,like a concourse of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and isseen no more. Through the clearer and fresher streets, never soclear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and rideuntil they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate.As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being onthe first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of theouter door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For aman so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time toopen the door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds anote of preparation.Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning,and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drankhis old wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashionedcandlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light.Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearingto Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes alittle way into this room, when Jo starts and stops."What's the matter?" says Bucket in a whisper."There she is!" cries Jo."Who!""The lady!"A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room,where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. Thefront of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice oftheir entrance and remains like a statue."Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, "how you know that to be thelady.""I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and thegownd.""Be quite sure of what you say, Tough," returns Bucket, narrowlyobservant of him. "Look again.""I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo with startingeyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.""What about those rings you told me of?" asks Bucket."A-sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of hisleft hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes fromthe figure.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 likethat.""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. "Doyou recollect the lady's voice?""I think I does," says Jo.The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this? I will speak as longas you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all likethis voice?"Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. "Not a bit!""Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did yousay it was the lady for?""Cos," says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at allshaken 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, noryet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, thebonnet, 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 andhooked it.""Well!" says Mr. Bucket slightly, "we haven't got much good out ofyou. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take care howyou spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucketstealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other likecounters--which is a way he has, his principal use of them being inthese games of skill--and then puts them, in a little pile, intothe 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 intothe room, the veil is raised and a sufficiently good-lookingFrenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of theintensest."Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with hisusual equanimity. "I will give you no further trouble about thislittle wager.""You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not atpresent placed?" says mademoiselle."Certainly, certainly!""And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguishedrecommendation?""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 ofthe 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. Therean'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 Ican be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my littlewoman will be getting anxious--""Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I amquite 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 thedoor and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what I likein you is that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what youare. 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 whatyou 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 todo," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him inthe tenderest manner, "it's what you do. That's what I estimate ina man in your way of business."Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confusedby the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awakeand out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which hegoes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him.He is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeablereality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfectbeehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster tothe police-station with official intelligence of her husband'sbeing made away with, and who within the last two hours has passedthrough every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But asthe little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!