Холодный дом

Closing in

           Tulkinghorn’sinhabiting,wheretheshepherdsplayonChancerypipesthathavenostop,andkeeptheirsheepinthefoldbyhookandbycrookuntiltheyhaveshornthemexceedingclose,everynoiseismerged,thismoonlightnight,intoadistantringinghum,asifthecitywereavastglass,vibrating.What’sthat?Whofiredagunorpistol?Wherewasit?Thefewfoot-passengersstart,stop,andstareaboutthem.Somewindowsanddoorsareopened,andpeoplecomeouttolook.Itwasaloudreportandechoedandrattledheavily.Itshookonehouse,orsoamansayswhowaspassing.Ithasarousedallthedogsintheneighbourhood,whobarkvehemently.Terrifiedcatsscamperacrosstheroad.Whilethedogsareyetbarkingandhowlingthereisonedoghowlinglikeademonthechurch-clocks,asiftheywerestartledtoo,begintostrike.Thehumfromthestreets,likewise,seemstoswellintoashout.Butitissoonover.Beforethelastclockbeginstostriketen,thereisalull.Whenithasceased,thefinenight,thebrightlargemoon,andmultitudesofstars,areleftatpeaceagain.HasMr.Tulkinghornbeendisturbed?Hiswindowsaredarkandquiet,andhisdoorisshut.Itmustbesomethingunusualindeedtobringhimoutofhisshell.Nothingisheardofhim,nothingisseenofhim.Whatpowerofcannonmightittaketoshakethatrustyoldmanoutofhisimmovablecomposure?FormanyyearsthepersistentRomanhasbeenpointing,withnoparticularmeaning,fromthatceiling.Itisnotlikelythathehasanynewmeaninginhimto-night.

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