Bleak House
characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or January
with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long
vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like
peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for
calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool
to-night.
Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn’s windows, and plenty more
has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick
everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way
takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as
much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law—or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one
of its trustiest representatives—may scatter, on occasion, in the
eyes of the laity.
In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which
his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth,
animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of
the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained
man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He
has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields,
which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as
he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken
brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the
echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and heralded by a remote
reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back encircled by an
earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant
nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to
find itself so famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of
southern grapes.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys
his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and
seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever,
he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at
that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with
darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in
town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his
family history, and his money, and his will—all a mystery to every
one—and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and
a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was
seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is
supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold
watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely
home to the Temple and hanged himself.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual
length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and
uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining
man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him
fill his glass.
“Now, Snagsby,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “to go over this odd story
again.”
“If you please, sir.”
“You told me when you were so good as to step round here last
night—”
“For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but
I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person,
and I thought it possible that you might—just—wish—to—”
Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to
admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.
Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, “I must ask
you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.”
“Not at all,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “You told me, Snagsby, that you
put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to
your wife. That was prudent I think, because it’s not a matter of
such importance that it requires to be mentioned.”
“Well, sir,” returns Mr. Snagsby, “you see, my little woman is—not
to put too fine a point upon it—inquisitive. She’s inquisitive. Poor
little thing, she’s liable to spasms, and it’s good for her to have
her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it—I should
say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it
concerns her or not—especially not. My little woman has a very
active mind, sir.”
Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his
hand, “Dear me, very fine wine indeed!”
“Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?” says Mr.
Tulkinghorn. “And to-night too?”
“Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in—not
to put too fine a point on it—in a pious state, or in what she
considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name
they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a
great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not
quite favourable to his style myself. That’s neither here nor there.
My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to
step round in a quiet manner.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. “Fill your glass, Snagsby.”
“Thank you, sir, I am sure,” returns the stationer with his cough of
deference. “This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!”
“It is a rare wine now,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “It is fifty years
old.”
“Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It
might be—any age almost.” After rendering this general tribute to
the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his
hand for drinking anything so precious.
“Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?” asks Mr.
Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty
smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.
“With pleasure, sir.”
Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer
repeats Jo’s statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On
coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks
off with, “Dear me, sir, I wasn’t aware there was any other gentleman
present!”
Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face
between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a
person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he
himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of
the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not
creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third
person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in
his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener.
He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of
about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he
were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about
him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing.
“Don’t mind this gentleman,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.
“This is only Mr. Bucket.”
“Oh, indeed, sir?” returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that
he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.
“I wanted him to hear this story,” says the lawyer, “because I have
half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very
intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?”
“It’s very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and
he’s not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don’t object to
go down with me to Tom-all-Alone’s and point him out, we can have him
here in less than a couple of hours’ time. I can do it without Mr.
Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.”
“Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby,” says the lawyer in
explanation.
“Is he indeed, sir?” says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in his
clump of hair to stand on end.
“And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the
place in question,” pursues the lawyer, “I shall feel obliged to you
if you will do so.”
In a moment’s hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down
to the bottom of his mind.
“Don’t you be afraid of hurting the boy,” he says. “You won’t do
that. It’s all right as far as the boy’s concerned. We shall only
bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and
he’ll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It’ll be a good
job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent
away all right. Don’t you be afraid of hurting him; you an’t going to
do that.”
“Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!” cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. And
reassured, “Since that’s the case—”
“Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby,” resumes Bucket, taking him aside
by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a
confidential tone. “You’re a man of the world, you know, and a man of
business, and a man of sense. That’s what YOU are.”
“I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” returns
the stationer with his cough of modesty, “but—”
“That’s what YOU are, you know,” says Bucket. “Now, it an’t necessary
to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a
business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his
senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in
your business once)—it an’t necessary to say to a man like you that
it’s the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet.
Don’t you see? Quiet!”
“Certainly, certainly,” returns the other.
“I don’t mind telling YOU,” says Bucket with an engaging appearance
of frankness, “that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be
a doubt whether this dead person wasn’t entitled to a little
property, and whether this female hasn’t been up to some games
respecting that property, don’t you see?”
“Oh!” says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.
“Now, what YOU want,” pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on
the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, “is that every
person should have their rights according to justice. That’s what YOU
want.”
“To be sure,” returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.
“On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a—do you call
it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used
to call it.”
“Why, I generally say customer myself,” replies Mr. Snagsby.
“You’re right!” returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite
affectionately. “—On account of which, and at the same time to
oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in
confidence, to Tom-all-Alone’s and to keep the whole thing quiet ever
afterwards and never mention it to any one. That’s about your
intentions, if I understand you?”
“You are right, sir. You are right,” says Mr. Snagsby.
“Then here’s your hat,” returns his new friend, quite as intimate
with it as if he had made it; “and if you’re ready, I am.”
They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his
unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the
streets.
“You don’t happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of
Gridley, do you?” says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend
the stairs.
“No,” says Mr. Snagsby, considering, “I don’t know anybody of that
name. Why?”
“Nothing particular,” says Bucket; “only having allowed his temper to
get a little the better of him and having been threatening some
respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have
got against him—which it’s a pity that a man of sense should do.”
As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that however
quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some
undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is
going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed
purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply,
at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a
police-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the