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Mr Bucket。 “Come along！”
“You cannot do these things？ Then you can do as you please
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with me。 It is but the death； it is all the same。 Let us go； my angel。
Adieu you old man； grey。 I pity you； and I des…pise you！”
With these last words； she snaps her teeth together； as if her
mouth closed with a spring。 It is impossible to describe how Mr
Bucket gets her out； but he accomplishes that feat in a manner
peculiar to himself； enfolding and pervading her like a cloud； and
hovering away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter； and she
the object of his affections。
Sir Leicester； left alone； remains in the same attitude as though
he were still listening； and his attention were still occupied。 At
length he gazes round the empty room； and finding it deserted；
rises unsteadily to his feet； pushes back his chair； and walks a few
steps； supporting himself by the table。 Then he stops； and； with
more of those inarticulate sounds； lifts up his eyes and seems to
stare at something。
Heaven knows what he sees。 The green； green woods of
Chesney Wold； the noble house； the pictures of his forefathers；
strangers defacing them； officers of police coarsely handling his
most precious heirlooms； thousands of fingers pointing at him；
thousands of faces sneering at him。 But if such shadows flit before
him to his bewilderment； there is one other shadow which he can
name with something like distinctness even yet； and to which
alone he addresses his tearing of his white hair； and his extended
arms。
It is she； in association with whom； saving that she has been for
years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride； he has never
had a selfish thought。 It is she whom he has loved； admired；
honoured； and set up for the world to respect。 It is she； who； at the
core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his
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life； has been a stock of living tenderness and love； susceptible as
nothing else is of being struck with the agony he feels。 He sees her；
almost to the exclusion of himself； and cannot bear to look upon
her cast down from the high place she has graced so well。
And； even to the point of his sinking on the ground； oblivious of
his suffering； he can yet pronounce her name with something like
distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds； and in a tone of
mourning and compassion rather than reproach。
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Chapter 55
Flight
nspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his great
blow； as just now chronicled； but is yet refreshing himself
I
with sleep preparatory to his field…day； when； through the
night and along the freezing wintry roads； a chaise and pair comes
out of Lincolnshire； making its way towards London。
Railroads shall soon traverse all this country； and with a rattle
and a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the
wide night…landscape； turning the moon paler； but； as yet； such
things are non…existent in these parts； though not wholly
unexpected。 Preparations are afoot； measurements are made；
ground is staked out。 Bridges are begun； and their not yet united
piers desolately look at one another over roads and streams； like
brick and mortar couples with an obstacle to their union；
fragments of embankments are thrown up； and left as precipices
with torrents of rusty carts and barrows tumbling over them；
tripods of tall poles appear on hill…tops； where there are rumours
of tunnels； everything looks chaotic； and abandoned in fell
hopelessness。 Along the freezing roads； and through the night； the
post…chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind。
Mrs Rouncewell； so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold；
sits within the chaise； and by her side sits Mrs Bagnet with her
grey cloak and umbrella。 The old girl would prefer the bar in front；
as being exposed to the weather； and a primitive sort of perch
more in accordance with her usual course of travelling； but Mrs
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Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her
proposing it。 The old lady cannot make enough of the old girl。 She
sits； in her stately manner； holding her hand； and； regardless of its
roughness； puts it often to her lips。 “You are a mother； my dear
soul；” says she many times； “and you found out my George’s
mother！”
“Why； George；” returns Mrs Bagnet； “was always free with me；
ma’am； and when he said at our house to my Woolwich； that of all
the things my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be
a man； the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a
sorrowful line into his mother’s face； or turned a hair of her head
grey； then I felt sure； from his way； that something fresh had
brought his own mother into his mind。 I had often known him say
to me； in past times； that he had behaved bad to her。”
“Never； my dear！” returns Mrs Rouncewell； bursting into tears
“My blessing on him； never！ He was always fond of me； and loving
to me； was my George！ But he had a bold spirit； and he ran a little
wild； and went for a soldier。 And I know he waited at first； in
letting us know about himself； till he should rise to be an officer；
and when he didn’t rise； I know he considered himself beneath us；
and wouldn’t be a disgrace to us。 For he had a lion heart； had my
George； always from a baby！”
The old lady’s hands stray about her as of yore； while she
recalls； all in a tremble； what a likely lad； what a fine lad； what a
gay good…humoured clever lad he was； how they all took to him；
down at Chesney Wold； how Sir Leicester took to him when he
was a young gentleman； how the dogs took to him； how even the
people； who had been angry with him； forgave him the moment he
was gone； poor boy。 And now to see him after all； and in a prison
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too！ And the broad stomacher heaves； and the quaint upright old…
fashioned figure bends under its load of affectionate distress。
Mrs Bagnet； with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart；
leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while—not
without passing the back o