bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第251节
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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 velo
