Chapter 56

Pursuit

Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town-

house stares at the other houses in the street of dismal

grandeur, and gives no outward sign of anything going wrong

within. Carriages rattle, doors are battered at, the world

exchanges calls; ancient charmers with skeleton throats, and

peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly bloom upon them seen

by daylight, when indeed these fascinating creatures look like

Death and the Lady fused together, dazzle the eyes of men. Forth

from the frigid Mews come easily swinging carriages guided by

short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk into downy

hammercloths; and up behind mount luscious Mercuries, bearing

sticks of state, and wearing cocked hats broadwise: a spectacle for

the Angels.

The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours

pass before its exalted dulness is disturbed within. But Volumnia

the fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom, and

finding 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 it and

peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.

The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the

ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity, which

impels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle

about with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every

description. Certain it is that she avails herself of the present

opportunity of hovering over her kinsman’s letters and papers,

like a bird; taking a short peck at this document, and a blink with

her head on one side at that document, and hopping about from

table to table, with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and

restless manner. In the course of these researches she stumbles

over something; and turning her glass in that direction, sees her

kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.

Volumnia’s pet little scream acquires a considerable

augmentation of reality from this surprise, and the house is

quickly in commotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are

violently rung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in

all directions, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since

she last rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on

her table;—but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received

another missive from another world, requiring to be personally

answered; and all the living languages, and all the dead, are as one

to him.

They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan,

and put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration.

Howbeit the day has ebbed away and it is night in his room, before

his stertorous breathing lulls, or his fixed eyes show any

consciousness of the candle that is occasionally passed before

them. But when this change begins it goes on; and by and by he

nods, or moves his eyes, or even his hand, in token that he hears

and comprehends.

He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman;

somewhat infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled

face. He lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow: and he

had so long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import

to mankind of any word he said, that his words really had come to

sound as if there were something in them. But now he can only

whisper; and what he whispers sounds like what it is—mere

jumble and jargon.

His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It

is the first fact he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it.

After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he

makes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively, that they cannot at

first understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out

what he wants, and brings him a slate.

After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it, in a

hand that is not his, “Chesney Wold?”

No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the

library, this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened to

come 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 tomorrow, Sir Leicester. All the

gentlemen say so.” This, with the tears coursing down her fair old

face.

After making a survey of the room, and looking with particular

attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes “My

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 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 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 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 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. 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

again, and gets out in a cloud of steam again.

Mr Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to

bed; 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 confidential

with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand

upon the lock. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before.Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir; Miss Esther

Summerson’s. Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady

Dedlock’s, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of

life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?”

“Yes.”

“There has been a discovery there, today. Family affairs have

come out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit—apoplexy

or paralysis—and couldn’t be brought to, and precious time has

been lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon, and left a

letter for 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 and

more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I’d give a

hundred 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 his

forgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want something

else. I want Miss Summerson.”

Mr Jarndyce in a troubled voice, repeats “Miss Summerson?”

“Now, Mr Jarndyce,”—Mr Bucket has read his face with the

greatest attention all along—“I speak to you as a gentleman of a

humane heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don’t

often happen. If ever delay was dangerous, it’s dangerous now;

and if ever you couldn’t afterwards forgive yourself for causing it,

this is the time. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred

pound a-piece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock

disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket.

Besides all the rest that’s heavy on her, she has upon her, as she

believes, suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has

communicated to me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow

her in company with a young lady, answering to the description of

a young lady that she has a tenderness for—I ask no question, and

I say no more than that—she will give me credit for being friendly.

Let me come up with her, and he able to have the hold upon her of

putting that young lady for’ard, and I’ll save her and prevail with

her if she is alive. Let me come up with her alone —a harder

matter—and I’ll do my best; but I don’t answer for what the best

may be. Time flies; it’s getting on for one o’clock. When one

strikes, there’s another hour gone; and it’s worth a thousand

pound now, instead of a hundred.”

This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot he

questioned. Mr Jarndyce begs him to remain there, while he

speaks to Miss Summerson. Mr Bucket says he will; but acting on

his usual principle, does no such thing—following upstairs instead,

and keeping his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking

about in the gloom of the staircase, while they confer. In a very

little time, Mr Jarndyce comes down, and tells him that Miss

Summerson will join him directly, and place herself under his

protection, to accompany him where he pleases. Mr Bucket,

satisfied, expresses high approval; and awaits her coming at the

door.

There, he mounts a high tower in his mind, and looks out, far

and wide. Many solitary figures he perceives, creeping through the

streets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying

under 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 the

handkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able, with an

enchanted power, to bring before him the place where she found

it, and the night landscape near the cottage where it covered the

little child, would he descry her there? On the waste, where the

brick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare; where the straw-

roofs of the wretched huts in which the bricks are made, are being

scattered by the wind, where the clay and water are hard frozen,

and the mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day,

looks like an instrument of human torture;—traversing this

deserted blighted spot, there is a lonely figure with the sad world

to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out, it

would seem, from all companionship. It is the figure of a woman,

too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever came

through the hall, and out at the great door, of the Dedlock mansion.

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