056 - Pursuit

Finding great candidates to hire can be like, well,

trying to find a needle in a haystack. Sure, you can post your job to some job board,

but then all you can do is hope the right person comes along,

which is why you should try Zip Recruiter for free.

Add ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Zip Recruiter doesn't depend on candidates finding you. It finds them for you.

It's powerful technology identifies people with the right experience

and actively invites them to apply to your job.

You get qualified candidates fast. So, while other companies might deliver a lot of,

hey, Zip Recruiter finds you what you're looking for.

The needle in the haystack.

See why four out of five employers who post a job on Zip Recruiter get a quality candidate

within the first day? Zip Recruiter, the smartest way to hire.

And right now, you can try Zip Recruiter for free. That's right.

Free at ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

That ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Finding great candidates to hire can be like, well,

trying to find a needle in a haystack. Sure, you can post your job to some job board,

but then all you can do is hope the right person comes along,

which is why you should try Zip Recruiter for free.

Add ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Zip Recruiter doesn't depend on candidates finding you.

It finds them for you.

It's powerful technology identifies people with the right experience

and actively invites them to apply to your job.

You get qualified candidates fast.

So while other companies might deliver a lot of, hey, Zip Recruiter,

finds you what you're looking for.

The needle in the haystack.

See why four out of five employers who post a job on Zip Recruiter get a quality candidate

within the first day? Zip Recruiter, the smartest way to hire.

And right now, you can try Zip Recruiter for free.

That's right.

Free.

Add ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

That ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Finding great candidates to hire can be like, well,

trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Sure, you can post your job to some job board,

but then all you can do is hope the right person comes along,

which is why you should try Zip Recruiter for free.

Add ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

Zip Recruiter doesn't depend on candidates finding you.

It finds them for you.

It's powerful technology identifies people with the right experience

and actively invites them to apply to your job.

You get qualified candidates fast.

So while other companies might deliver a lot of,

hey, Zip Recruiter, find you what you're looking for.

The needle in the haystack.

See why four out of five employers who post a job on Zip Recruiter get a quality candidate

within the first day? Zip Recruiter, the smartest way to hire.

And right now, you can try Zip Recruiter for free.

That's right.

Free at ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

That ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

ziprecruiter.com slash zip.

This is a Librevox recording.

All Librevox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer,

please visit Librevox.org.

Bleak House by Charles Dickens, chapter 56.

Pursuit.

Impressive as behooves its high breeding.

The deadlock townhouse stares at the other houses

in the street of dismal grandeur

and gives no outward sign of anything going wrong within.

Carriages rattle, doors are battered at.

The world exchanges calls, ancient charmers with skeleton throats

and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly bloom

upon them seen by daylight.

When indeed these fascinating creatures look like death

and the lady fused together, dazzle the eyes of men.

Fourth from the frigid muse come easily swinging carriages

guided by short-legged coachmen and flaxen wigs.

Deep sunk into downy hammercloths

and up behind mount luscious mercuries,

bearing sticks of state and wearing cocktats broadwise,

a spectacle for the angels.

The deadlock townhouse changes not externally

and hours pass before its exalted dullness

is disturbed within.

But volumna, the fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint

of boredom and finding that disorder

attacking her spirits with some virulence

ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene.

Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response,

she opens it and peeps in, seeing no one there takes possession.

The sprightly deadlock is reputed in that grass-grown city

of the ancients bath to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity

which impels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions

to sidle about with a golden glass at her eye,

peering into objects of every description.

Certain it is that she avails herself of the present opportunity

of hovering over her kinsmen's letters and papers like a bird,

taking a short peck at this document

and a blink with her head on one side at that document

and hopping about from table to table with her glass

at her eye in an inquisitive and restless manner.

In the course of these researches, she stumbles over something

and turning her glass in that direction,

sees her kinsmen lying on the ground like a fell tree.

Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable

augmentation of reality from this surprise

and the house is quickly in commotion.

Servants tear up in downstairs, bells are violently rung,

doctors are sent for, and lady deadlock is sought in all directions but not found.

Nobody has seen or heard her since she last rang her bell.

Her letter to Sylvester is discovered on her table,

but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received another missive

from another world, requiring to be personally answered

and all the living languages and all the dead are as one to him.

They lay him down upon his bed and shave and rub and fan

and put ice to his head and try every means of restoration.

How be it, the day has ebbed away and it is night in his room

before his statorous breath lows or his fixed eyes show any consciousness

of the candle that is occasionally passed before them.

But when this change begins, it goes on and by and by he nods

or moves his eyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.

He fell down this morning, a handsome stately gentleman,

somewhat in firm but of a fine presence and with a well-filled face.

He lies upon his bed and aged man with sunken cheeks

the decrepit shadow of himself.

His voice was rich in mellow and he had so long been thoroughly persuaded

of the weight and import to mankind of any word he said

that his words really had come to sound as if there was something in them.

But now he can only whisper and what he whispers sounds like what it is,

mere jumble and jargon. His favorite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside.

It is the first act he notices and he clearly drives pleasure from it.

After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech,

he makes signs for a pencil so inexpressively that they cannot at first understand him.

It is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants and brings in a slate.

After pausing for some time, he slowly scrolls upon it in a hand that is not his.

Chesney wall?

No, she tells him. He is in London. He was taken ill in the library this morning.

Right thankful she is that she happened to come to London and is able to attend upon him.

It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester.

You will be much better tomorrow, Sir Leicester. All the gentlemen say so.

This with tears coursing down her fair old face.

After making a survey of the room and looking with particular attention

all around the bed with a doctor's stand, he writes, my lady.

My lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill and don't know of your illness yet.

He points again in great agitation at the two words. They all try to quiet him,

but he points again with increased agitation.

On their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate once more

and writes, my lady, for God's sake, where, and makes an imploring moan.

It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady Deadlock's letter,

the contents of which no one knows or can surmise. She opens it for him and puts it out for his

perusal. Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be seen

and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of relapse, or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he

opens his eyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm. The doctors know that

he is best with her, and when, not actively engaged about him, stand aloof.

The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to write he cannot remember.

His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction at this pass are pitiful to behold.

It seems as if he must go mad, in the necessity he feels for haste, and the inability under which

he labors of expressing to do what or to fetch whom. He has written the letter B, and there stopped.

Of a sudden, in the height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it.

The old housekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven, that's his meaning. Mr. Bucket is found

to be downstairs by appointment. Shall he come up? There is no possibility of misconstruing

Sylvester's burning wish to see him, or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of

everyone but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket appears.

Of all men upon earth, Sylvester seems fallen from his high estate to place his soul,

trust, and reliance upon this man. Sylvester deadlocked Baronet. I'm sorry to see like this.

I hope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the family credit.

Sylvester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his face while he reads it.

A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket's eye as he reads on, with one hook of his finger,

while that eye is still glancing over the words he indicates. Sylvester deadlocked Baronet. I understand

you. Sylvester writes upon the slate, full forgiveness, fine. Mr. Bucket stops his hand.

Sylvester deadlocked Baronet, I'll find her, but my search after her must be begun out of hand,

not a minute must be lost. With the quickness of thought, he follows Sylvester deadlock's look

toward a little box upon a table. Bring it here, Sylvester deadlocked Baronet. Certainly,

open it with one of these key keys. Certainly, the littlest key to be sure. Take the notes out,

so I will count them. That's soon done. 20 and 30's 50 and 20's 70 and 50's 120 and 40's 160,

taken for expenses. That I'll do and render an account, of course. Don't spare money,

though I won't. The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on all these heads

is a little short of miraculous. Mrs. Roundswell, who holds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of

his eyes and hands as he starts up, furnished for his journey. Your George's mother, old lady,

that's about what you are, I believe, says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and buttoning

his coat. Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother. So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me

just now. Well, then, I'll tell you something. You needn't me distressed no more. Your son's

alright. Now, don't you begin a crying because what you've got to do is to take care of Sylvester

Deadlock Baronette, and you won't do that by crying. As to your son, he's alright, I tell you,

and he sends his loving duty and hoping you're the same. He's discharged honorable. That's about

what he is, with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one.

I'll bet a pound. You may trust me, for I took your son. He conducted himself in a game way too

on that occasion, and he's a fine man man, and you're a fine maid, old lady, and you're a mother

and a son, the pair of you as might be showed for models in a caravan. Sylvester Deadlock Baronette,

what you've trusted to me, I'll go through with. Don't you be afraid of my turning out of my way,

right or left, or taking a sleep or a wash or a shave till I have found what I go in search of?

Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part, Sylvester Deadlock Baronette, I will,

and I wish you better, and these family affairs smoothed over, as Lord, many other family affairs

equally has been, and equally will be to the end of time. With this peroration Mr. Bucket

buttoned up, goes quietly out, looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the

night in quest of the fugitive. Finding great candidates to hire can be like, well,

trying to find a needle in a haystack. Sure, you can post your job to some job board,

but then all you can do is hope the right person comes along, which is why you should try Zippercruder

for free, at zippercruder.com slash zip. Zippercruder doesn't depend on candidates finding you,

it finds them for you. It's powerful technology identifies people with the right experience,

and actively invites them to apply to your job. You get qualified candidates fast,

so while other companies might deliver a lot of hey, Zippercruder finds you what you're looking for.

The needle in the haystack. See why four out of five employers who post a job on Zippercruder

get a quality candidate within the first day. Zippercruder, the smartest way to hire,

and right now you can try Zippercruder for free. That's right, free at zippercruder.com slash zip.

That zippercruder.com slash zip zippercruder.com slash zip.

Access to affordable credit helps me pay my employees, but I don't really need it.

Infliction is killing me. What do you care? Big retailers and making record profits.

That's why we support the German Marshall credit card bill.

See, banks and credit unions help small businesses make payroll.

This bill would cut the vital resources they need.

While increasing Megastore profits, they deserve it. Don't they?

Tell Congress, stop the German Marshall Money Grab for corporate megastores,

paid for by the Electronic Payments Coalition.

Every day the world gets a little weirder, and a lot more awesome.

Cool stuff daily takes a look at everything from mining and space to the latest in the fight

against cancer to how AI is basically changing everything.

It's all the cool stuff you didn't know you needed to know.

Join us for cool stuff daily as we take a quick look at science, tech, and the wait, what stories

that make you sound way smarter at dinner. Subscribe to cool stuff daily now,

because the future is happening fast and it's way too fun to miss.

His first step is to take himself to Lady Deadlock's rooms and look all over them

for any trifling indication that may help him.

The rooms are in darkness now, and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax light in his hand,

holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental inventory of the many delicate objects

so curiously at variance with himself, would be to see a sight which nobody does see

as he is particular to lock himself in.

A spicy bootlaw this says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner

furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning.

Must have caused a sight of money, rum articles to cut away from these.

She must have been hard put to it.

Opening and shutting table drawers and looking into caskets and jewel cases,

he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors and moralizes thereon.

One might suppose I was a moving in the fashionable circles and getting myself up for all

max says Mr. Bucket. I begin to think I must be as swell in the guards without knowing it.

Ever looking about he as has opened a dainty little chest in an inner drawer,

his great hand turning over some gloves which it can scarcely feel they are so light and

soft within it comes upon a white handkerchief.

Hmm, let's have a look at you says Mr. Bucket putting down the light.

What should you be kept by yourself for?

What's your motive? Are you her ladyship's property or somebody else's?

You've got to mark upon you somewhere or other, I suppose.

He finds it as he speaks. Esther Somerson.

Oh, says Mr. Bucket pausing with his finger at his ear. Come, I'll take you.

He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has carried them on leaves everything

else precisely as he found it glides away after some five minutes and all and passes into the street

with a glance upwards at the dimly lighted windows of Sir Leicester's room. He sets off full swing

to the nearest coast stand, picks out the horse for his money and directs to be driven to the

shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of horses but he lays out

a little money on the principal events in that line and generally sums up his knowledge of

the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go he knows him. His knowledge is not

at fault in the present instance clattering over the stones at a dangerous pace yet thoughtfully

bringing his keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the midnight streets

and even on the lights in upper windows where people are going or gone to bed and on all the

turnings that he rattles by and alike on the heavy sky and the earth where the snow lies thin

for something may present itself to assist him. Anywhere he dashes to his destination at such a speed

that when he stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam. Unbear him half a moment to

freshen him up and I'll be back. He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his pipe.

I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through my lad. I haven't a word to spare.

Now, honor, old to save a woman. Miss Summerson, that was here when Gridley died. That was the name I

know all right. Where does she live? The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address

near Oxford Street. You won't repent it, George. Good night. He is off again with an impression of

having seen Phil sitting by the frosty fire, staring at him open-mouthed and gallops away again

and gets out in a cloud of steam again. Mr. Jarnis, the only person up in the house is just going to bed,

rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell and comes down to the door in his

dressing-gown. Don't be alarmed, sir. In a moment his visitor is confidential with him in the hall,

has shut the door and stands with his hand upon the lock. I've had the pleasure of seeing you

before, Inspector Bucket. Look at that hankage of, sir. Miss Esther Summersons, found it myself,

put away in a drawer of Lady Deadlock's, quarter of an hour ago, not a moment to lose, matter of

life or death. You know Lady Deadlock? Yes. There has been a discovery there today. Family affairs

have come out. Sir Lester Deadlock, Baronet, has had a fit, apoplexy, or paralysis, and couldn't be

brought to, and precious time has been lost. Lady Deadlock disappeared this afternoon and left a

letter for him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is. Mr. Jarnis, having read it,

asks him what he thinks. I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anywhere, there's more and more danger

every minute of it's drawing to that. I'd give a hundred pounds an hour to have got the start

of the present time. Now, Mr. Jarnis, I am employed by Sir Lester Deadlock, Baronet, to follow her and

find her, to save her and take her, her his forgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want Miss

Summerson. Mr. Jarnis, in a troubled voice repeats. Miss Summerson. Now, Mr. Jarnis,

Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatest attention all along. I speak to you as a gentleman

of a humane heart and under such pressing circumstances, as don't often happen. If ever delay was

dangerous, it's dangerous now, and if ever you couldn't afterward forgive yourself of causing it,

this is the time, eight or ten hours worth, as I tell you, a hundred pounds, a piece at least,

have been lost since Lady Deadlock disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket.

Besides all the rest, that's heavy on her. She has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of murder.

If I follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what Sir Lester, Deadlock, Baronet, has communicated

to me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in company with a young lady,

answering to the description of a young lady that she has a tenderness for, I ask no question,

and I can say no more than that. She will give me credit for being friendly. Let me come up with her

and be able to have the hold upon her of putting that young lady forward, and I'll save her and

prevail with her if she is alive. Let me come up with her alone, a hard matter, and I'll do my best,

but I don't answer for what the best may be. Time flies, it's getting on for one o'clock.

When one strikes, there's another hour gone, and it's worth a thousand pounds now, instead of a hundred.

This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be questioned. Mr.

Jorness begs him to remain there, while he speaks to Miss Somerson. Mr. Bucket says he will,

but acting on his usual principle does no such thing, following up stairs instead, and keeping his

man in sight. So he remains dodging and lurking about in the gloom of the staircase while they

confer. In a very little time, Mr. Jorness comes down, and tells him that Miss Somerson will join him

directly and place herself under his protection to accompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket

satisfied, expresses high approval, and awaits her coming at the door. There he mounts a high tower

in his mind, and looks out far and wide. Many solitary figures he perceives, creeping through the

streets, many solitary figures out on heaths and roads and lying under haystacks, but the figure

that he seeks is not among them. Other solitary he perceives in nooks of bridges looking over,

and in shattered places down by the river's level, and a dark, dark, shapeless object drifting

with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a drowning hold on his attention. Where is she?

Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds the handkerchief and carefully puts it up,

it were able with an enchanted power to bring before him the place where she found it, and the

night landscape near the cottage where it covered the little child, would he describe her there?

On the waist, where the brick kilns are burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw roofs of

the wretched huts in which the bricks are made are being scattered by the wind, where the clay and

water are hard frozen, and the mill in which the gaunt-blind horse goes round all day, looks like

an instrument of human torture, traversing this deserted, blighted spot. There is a lonely figure

with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out it would

seem from all companionship. It is the figure of a woman, too, but it is miserably dressed,

and no such clothes ever came through the hall and out at the great door of the deadlock mansion.

End of chapter 56