bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第236节
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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； pauses in the writing of
cocked…hat notes； and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace。 Mr
Bucket prices that decoration in his mind； and thinks it as likely as
not that Volumnia is writing poetry。
“If I have not；” pursues Sir Leicester； “in the most emphatic
manner； adjured you； officer； to exercise your utmost skill in this
atrocious case； I particularly desire to take the present
opportunity of rectifying any omission I may have made。 Let no
expense be a consideration。 I am prepared to defray all charges。
You can incur none； in pursuit of the object you have undertaken；
that I shall hesitate for a moment to bear。”
Mr Bucket made Sir Leicester’s bow again； as a response to this
liberality。
“My mind；” Sir Leicester adds； with generous warmth； “has
not； as may be easily supposed； recovered its tone since the late
diabolical occurrence。 It is not likely ever to recover its tone。 But it
is full of indignation tonight； after undergoing the ordeal of
consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful； a zealous； a
devoted adherent。”
Sir Leicester’s voice trembles； and his grey hair stirs upon his
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head。 Tears are in his eyes； the best part of his nature is aroused。
“I declare；” he says； “I solemnly declare； that until this crime is
discovered； and； in the course of justice； punished； I almost feel as
if there were a stain upon my name。 A gentleman who has devoted
a large portion of his life to me； a gentleman who has devoted the
last day of his life to me； a gentleman who has constantly sat at my
table and slept under my roof； goes from my house to his own； and
is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house。 I cannot
say but that he may have been followed from my house； watched
at my house； even first marked because of his association with my
house—which may have suggested his possessing greater wealth；
and being altogether of greater importance than his own retiring
demeanour would have indicated。 If I cannot； with my means； and
my influence； and my position； bring all the perpetrators of such a
crime to light； I fail in the assertion of my respect for that
gentleman’s memory； and of my fidelity towards one who was ever
faithful to me。”
While he makes this protestation with great emotion and
earnestness； looking round the room as if he were addressing an
assembly； Mr Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in
which there might be； but for the audacity of the thought； a touch
of compassion。
“The ceremony of today；” continues Sir Leicester； “strikingly
illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend；” he lays a
stress on the word； for death levels all distinctions； “was held by
the flower of the land； has； I say； aggravated the shock I have
received from this most horrible and audacious crime。 If it were
my brother who had committed it； I would not spare him。”
Mr Bucket looks very grave。 Volumnia remarks of the deceased
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that he was the trustiest and dearest person！
“You must feel it as a deprivation to you； miss；” replies Mr
Bucket； soothingly； “no doubt。
