Chapter 53 - Page 2

panels, that the Herald’s College might be supposed to have lost its father and mother at a blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust and ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the last improvements, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding on behind, in a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seem plunged into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garb, be not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible), it must be highly gratified this day.

Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages, and the calves of so many legs all steeped in grief, Mr Bucket sits concealed in one of the inconsolable carriages, and at his ease surveys the crowd through the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd — as for what not? — and looking here and there, now from this side of the carriage, now from the other, now up at the house windows, now along the people’s heads, nothing escapes him.

“And there you are, my partner, eh?” says Mr Bucket to himself, apostrophizing Mrs Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the steps of the deceased’s house. “And so you are. And so you are! And very well indeed you are looking, Mrs Bucket!”

The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of its assemblage to be brought out. Mr Bucket, in the foremost emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice a hair’s breadth open while he looks.

And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is still occupied with Mrs B. “There you are, my partner, eh?” he murmuringly repeats. “And our lodger with you. I’m taking notice of you, Mrs Bucket; I hope you’re all right in your health, my dear!”

Not another word does Mr Bucket say; but sits with most attentive eyes, until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down — Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did they fly with him on that sudden journey? and until the procession moves, and Mr Bucket’s view is changed. After which, he composes himself for an easy ride; and takes note of the fittings of the carriage, in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.

Contrast enough between Mr Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark carriage, and Mr Bucket shut up in his. Between the immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the streets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is all one to both; neither is troubled about that.

Mr Bucket sits out the procession, in his own easy manner, and glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock’s, which is at present a sort