Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖

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must have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous lives

to pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr.

Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs.

Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her;

and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment’s

disappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for any

consideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How young

Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent,

his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.

 

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of

the repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth

swept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the

backyard. The great delight and energy with which the two young

ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in

imitation of their mother and skating in and out on little

scaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but

some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion of

tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a

whisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess,

while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too

moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmness

proper to her position. At last the various cleansing processes

are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh

attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink are

placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of

mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.

 

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are

very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet

announces, “George! Military time.”

 

It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl

(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and

for Mr. Bagnet. “Happy returns to all!” says Mr. George.

 

“But, George, old man!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him

curiously. “What’s come to you?”

 

“Come to me?”

 

“Ah! You are so white, George—for you—and look so shocked. Now

don’t he, Lignum?”

 

“George,” says Mr. Bagnet, “tell the old girl. What’s the matter.”

 

“I didn’t know I looked white,” says the trooper, passing his hand

over his brow, “and I didn’t know I looked shocked, and I’m sorry I

do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died

yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.”

 

“Poor creetur!” says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother’s pity. “Is he

gone? Dear, dear!”

 

“I didn’t mean to say anything about it, for it’s not birthday

talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I

should have roused up in a minute,” says the trooper, making

himself speak more gaily, “but you’re so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.”

 

“You’re right. The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Is as quick. As

powder.”

 

“And what’s more, she’s the subject of the day, and we’ll stick to

her,” cries Mr. George. “See here, I have brought a little brooch

along with me. It’s a poor thing, you know, but it’s a keepsake.

That’s all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet.”

 

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring

leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of

reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. “Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet.

“Tell him my opinion of it.”

 

“Why, it’s a wonder, George!” Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. “It’s the

beautifullest thing that ever was seen!”

 

“Good!” says Mr. Bagnet. “My opinion.”

 

“It’s so pretty, George,” cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all

sides and holding it out at arm’s length, “that it seems too choice

for me.”

 

“Bad!” says Mr. Bagnet. “Not my opinion.”

 

“But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow,” says

Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand

stretched out to him; “and though I have been a crossgrained

soldier’s wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends,

I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on

yourself, for good luck, if you will, George.”

 

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over

young Woolwich’s head to see it done with an interest so maturely

wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help

laughing in her airy way and saying, “Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a

precious old chap you are!” But the trooper fails to fasten the

brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. “Would

any one believe this?” says he, catching it as it drops and looking

round. “I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like

this!”

 

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like

a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the

trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to

be got into action. “If that don’t bring you round, George,” says

she, “just throw your eye across here at your present now and then,

and the two together MUST do it.”

 

“You ought to do it of yourself,” George answers; “I know that very

well, Mrs. Bagnet. I’ll tell you how, one way and another, the

blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad.

‘Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help

him.”

 

“What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under

your roof.”

 

“I helped him so far, but that’s little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet,

there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than

to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to

be helped out of that.”

 

“Ah, poor creetur!” says Mrs. Bagnet.

 

“Then,” says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing

his heavy hand over his hair, “that brought up Gridley in a man’s

mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two

got mixed up in a man’s mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do

with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel,

standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking

everything so evenly—it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure

you.”

 

“My advice to you,” returns Mrs. Bagnet, “is to light your pipe and

tingle that way. It’s wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for

the health altogether.”

 

“You’re right,” says the trooper, “and I’ll do it.”

 

So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that

impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer

the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet’s health, always given by

himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But

the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of

calling “the mixtur,” and George’s pipe being now in a glow, Mr.

Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the

evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following

terms.

 

“George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a

day’s march. And you won’t find such another. Here’s towards

her!”

 

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns

thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model

composition is limited to the three words “And wishing yours!”

which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession

and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows

up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation,

“Here’s a man!”

 

Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,

looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man—a quick

keen man—and he takes in everybody’s look at him, all at once,

individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a

remarkable man.

 

“George,” says the man, nodding, “how do you find yourself?”

 

“Why, it’s Bucket!” cries Mr. George.

 

“Yes,” says the man, coming in and closing the door. “I was going

down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the

musical instruments in the shop-window—a friend of mine is in want

of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone—and I saw a party

enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I

thought I couldn’t be mistaken. How goes the world with you,

George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you,

ma’am? And with you, governor? And Lord,” says Mr. Bucket,

opening his arms, “here’s children too! You may do anything with

me if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No

occasion to inquire who YOUR father and mother is. Never saw such

a likeness in my life!”

 

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George

and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. “You pretty dears,” says

Mr. Bucket, “give us another kiss; it’s the only thing I’m greedy

in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the

ages of these two, ma’am? I should put ‘em down at the figures of

about eight and ten.”

 

“You’re very near, sir,” says Mrs. Bagnet.

 

“I generally am near,” returns Mr. Bucket, “being so fond of

children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of ‘em, ma’am, all by

one mother, and she’s still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not

so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And

what do you call these, my darling?” pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching

Malta’s cheeks. “These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart!

And what do you think about father? Do you think father could

recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr.

Bucket’s friend, my dear? My name’s Bucket. Ain’t that a funny

name?”

 

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs.

Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass

for Mr. Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad

to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she

tells him that as a friend of George’s she is particularly glad to

see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

 

“Not in his usual spirits?” exclaims Mr. Bucket. “Why, I never

heard of such a thing! What’s the matter, George? You don’t

intend to tell me you’ve been out of spirits. What should you be

out of spirits for? You haven’t got anything on your mind, you

know.”

 

“Nothing particular,” returns the trooper.

 

“I should think not,” rejoins Mr. Bucket. “What could you have on

your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR

minds, eh? Not they, but they’ll be upon the minds of some of the

young fellows, some of these days, and make ‘em precious low-spirited. I ain’t much of a prophet, but I can tell you that,

ma’am.”

 

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his

own.

 

“There, ma’am!” says Mr. Bucket. “Would you believe it? No, I

haven’t. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket

is as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have ‘em, but

no. So it is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must

not repine. What a very nice backyard, ma’am! Any way out of that

yard, now?”

 

There