Bleak House Charles Dickens (classic books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: Charles Dickens
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The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr. Georgeâs approach until, lifting up herself and her tub together when she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds him standing near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.
âGeorge, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!â
The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into the musical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens upon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms upon it.
âI never,â she says, âGeorge, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute when youâre near him. You are that restless and that rovingâ ââ
âYes! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am.â
âYou know you are!â says Mrs. Bagnet. âWhatâs the use of that? Why are you?â
âThe nature of the animal, I suppose,â returns the trooper good-humouredly.
âAh!â cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly. âBut what satisfaction will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or Australey?â
Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large-boned, a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind which have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy, wholesome, and bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman of from forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and so economically dressed (though substantially) that the only article of ornament of which she stands possessed appears to be her wedding-ring, around which her finger has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will never come off again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnetâs dust.
âMrs. Bagnet,â says the trooper, âI am on my parole with you. Mat will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far.â
âWell, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling,â Mrs. Bagnet rejoins. âAh, George, George! If you had only settled down and married Joe Pouchâs widow when he died in North America, Sheâd have combed your hair for you.â
âIt was a chance for me, certainly,â returns the trooper half laughingly, half seriously, âbut I shall never settle down into a respectable man now. Joe Pouchâs widow might have done me goodâ âthere was something in her, and something of herâ âbut I couldnât make up my mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat found!â
Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellow herself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr. George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the little room behind the shop.
âWhy, Quebec, my poppet,â says George, following, on invitation, into that department. âAnd little Malta, too! Come and kiss your Bluffy!â
These young ladiesâ ânot supposed to have been actually christened by the names applied to them, though always so called in the family from the places of their birth in barracksâ âare respectively employed on three-legged stools, the younger (some five or six years old) in learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or nine perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great assiduity. Both hail Mr. George with acclamations as an old friend and after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him.
âAnd howâs young Woolwich?â says Mr. George.
âAh! There now!â cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her saucepans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face. âWould you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter, with his father, to play the fife in a military piece.â
âWell done, my godson!â cries Mr. George, slapping his thigh.
âI believe you!â says Mrs. Bagnet. âHeâs a Briton. Thatâs what Woolwich is. A Briton!â
âAnd Mat blows away at his bassoon, and youâre respectable civilians one and all,â says Mr. George. âFamily people. Children growing up. Matâs old mother in Scotland, and your old father somewhere else, corresponded with, and helped a little, andâ âwell, well! To be sure, I donât know why I shouldnât be wished a hundred mile away, for I have not much to do with all this!â
Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin pots and pannikins upon the dresser shelvesâ âMr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet and young Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers like the fibres of a coconut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid complexion. His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted. Indeed there may be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding, brassbound air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human orchestra. Young Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer.
Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in due season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after
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