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Bleak House: Bucket

Oh, with what fear I heard this. If--but then came the newspaper report that Mr. George, a fine and hearty ex-soldier, who had been heard to threaten Mr. Tulkinghorn because the lawyer had squeezed him financially, and who had been seen at Lincoln's Inn Fields on the night of the murder, had been arrested, charged with the crime. But why? The mystery was not solved, it seemed. Mr. Bucket, I found, was still on the trail of--some one. Then one day Mr. Bucket told my lord that it was not the soldier who had killed Mr. Tulkinghorn, but a woman. And he went on with all the story of my mother's early disgrace with Captain Hawdon, and how Mr. Tulkinghorn had discovered it, threatening her with exposure; how my lady had been seen going out on the night of the tragedy and how a veiled woman had been noticed near the lawyer's rooms at the same time. "It is my duty to tell you this," said the detective, "to prepare you for the revelation I am about to make. Others know of it; you must." Then in was brought Mortense, my lady's discharged French maid (who hated my lady and hated Mr. Tulkinghorn still more because he had refused to pay her hush-money on account of the masquerading scene before Jo), and Mr. Mucket proved her guilty of the murder and arrested her on the spot. But they left my lord stricken with paralysis, his proud figure beaten to the earth. Next I heard that my poor mother had fled the great London mansion, leaving a letter for Sir Leicester confessing her youthful shame, but protesting her innocence of the murder. "Full forgiveness; find--" wrote the baronet on a slate for Mr. Bucket.

Then began the strangest chase that was ever known. Bucket came for me, and we left the inspector's office in London before tow of the morning in a barouche with position and post-horses, Mr. Bucket seated on the box. A wild, uncanny ride it was, down by the waterside, over the London bridges, crossing and recrossing the dark river; out of the empty city streets into the country white with snow. On and on, with little rest for two days and more, toiling through the sleety, sloppy roads; snatching a bit of rest here and there; suddenly back to great, roaring London, hot on the scent now, and fetching up on foot at last at the grim gate of the terrible paupers' graveyard where my father was buried. And there on the steps, with one arm creeping around a bar of the gate as if to embrace it, lay my mother, cold and dead. But sunshine came again, as it always comes to the young and hopeful. My dear guardian brought it the sooner. I had promised him that I would be mistress of Bleak House some day. He had been kind; I was grateful. I thought Allan Woodcourt, who had been absent from England, had grown away from me. Returning, he had spoken too late. Ah, dear guardian, how did you know, and why did you take me down into Yorkshire so soon to show me a pretty, rustic doll's house of a cottage on pretext of getting my opinion of it as a residence for Doctor Woodcourt, who was to settle in those parts? And "Bleak House"? Yes, that was the name over the cottage door. And on that beautiful day you, my generous, self-sacrificing guardian, gave it to me and me to Allan Woodcourt. Thus was I made the happy mistress of Bleak House. Happy in the knowledge that widowed Ada with her boy was to live at the order Bleak House always. Happy to learn at last that Jarndyce and Jarndyce was devoured by its own costs and that its curse was laid for evermore.

HAWTHORNE SOON after the publication of "The Scarlet Letter," Hawthrone moved to Lenox, Massachusetts, where he wrote "The House of the Seven Gables." There has always been more or less discussion as to which house in Salem was pictured in this story, some persons claiming one, some another. It has become somewhat of an accepted fact that the house on Turner Street, now kept as a memorial, is the original house of the story. It was purchased by Miss Emerton of Salem, and during the work of restoration there were found two more gables than at first appeared; these were uncovered, so that now, at least, it is a house of seven gables.