Bleak House
comes and goes between his own room and the open street door twenty
times an hour. He has been doing so ever since it fell dark. Since
the Chancellor shut up his shop, which he did very early to-night,
Mr. Weevle has been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap tight
velvet skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all
proportion), oftener than before.
It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too, for
he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the
secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which he is a
partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsby haunts what
seems to be its fountain-head—the rag and bottle shop in the court.
It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even now, coming round by
the Sol’s Arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out
at the Chancery Lane end, and so terminating his unpremeditated
after-supper stroll of ten minutes’ long from his own door and back
again, Mr. Snagsby approaches.
“What, Mr. Weevle?” says the stationer, stopping to speak. “Are YOU
there?”
“Aye!” says Weevle, “Here I am, Mr. Snagsby.”
“Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?” the stationer
inquires.
“Why, there’s not much air to be got here; and what there is, is not
very freshening,” Weevle answers, glancing up and down the court.
“Very true, sir. Don’t you observe,” says Mr. Snagsby, pausing to
sniff and taste the air a little, “don’t you observe, Mr. Weevle,
that you’re—not to put too fine a point upon it—that you’re rather
greasy here, sir?”
“Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour in
the place to-night,” Mr. Weevle rejoins. “I suppose it’s chops at the
Sol’s Arms.”
“Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?” Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes
again. “Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say their cook at
the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been burning ’em, sir!
And I don’t think”—Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again and then
spits and wipes his mouth—“I don’t think—not to put too fine a
point upon it—that they were quite fresh when they were shown the
gridiron.”
“That’s very likely. It’s a tainting sort of weather.”
“It IS a tainting sort of weather,” says Mr. Snagsby, “and I find it
sinking to the spirits.”
“By George! I find it gives me the horrors,” returns Mr. Weevle.
“Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome room,
with a black circumstance hanging over it,” says Mr. Snagsby, looking
in past the other’s shoulder along the dark passage and then falling
back a step to look up at the house. “I couldn’t live in that room
alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety and worried of an
evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to come to the door and
stand here sooner than sit there. But then it’s very true that you
didn’t see, in your room, what I saw there. That makes a difference.”
“I know quite enough about it,” returns Tony.
“It’s not agreeable, is it?” pursues Mr. Snagsby, coughing his cough
of mild persuasion behind his hand. “Mr. Krook ought to consider it
in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure.”
“I hope he does,” says Tony. “But I doubt it.”
“You find the rent too high, do you, sir?” returns the stationer.
“Rents ARE high about here. I don’t know how it is exactly, but the
law seems to put things up in price. Not,” adds Mr. Snagsby with his
apologetic cough, “that I mean to say a word against the profession I
get my living by.”
Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks at the
stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upward for a
star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly seeing his
way out of this conversation.
“It’s a curious fact, sir,” he observes, slowly rubbing his hands,
“that he should have been—”
“Who’s he?” interrupts Mr. Weevle.
“The deceased, you know,” says Mr. Snagsby, twitching his head and
right eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance on
the button.
“Ah, to be sure!” returns the other as if he were not over-fond of
the subject. “I thought we had done with him.”
“I was only going to say it’s a curious fact, sir, that he should
have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then that
you should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Which
there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,”
says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may have
unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle, “because
I have known writers that have gone into brewers’ houses and done
really very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable, sir,” adds Mr.
Snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improved the matter.
“It’s a curious coincidence, as you say,” answers Weevle, once more
glancing up and down the court.
“Seems a fate in it, don’t there?” suggests the stationer.
“There does.”
“Just so,” observes the stationer with his confirmatory cough. “Quite
a fate in it. Quite a fate. Well, Mr. Weevle, I am afraid I must bid
you good night”—Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it made him desolate to go,
though he has been casting about for any means of escape ever since
he stopped to speak—“my little woman will be looking for me else.
Good night, sir!”
If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble of
looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. His
little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol’s Arms all this
time and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrapped over
her head, honouring Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a searching
glance as she goes past.
“You’ll know me again, ma’am, at all events,” says Mr. Weevle to
himself; “and I can’t compliment you on your appearance, whoever you
are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow NEVER
coming!”
This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds up his
finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the street door.
Then they go upstairs, Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. Guppy (for it is
he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into the back room, they
speak low.
“I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of coming here,”
says Tony.
“Why, I said about ten.”
“You said about ten,” Tony repeats. “Yes, so you did say about ten.
But according to my count, it’s ten times ten—it’s a hundred
o’clock. I never had such a night in my life!”
“What has been the matter?”
“That’s it!” says Tony. “Nothing has been the matter. But here have I
been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I have had the
horrors falling on me as thick as hail. THERE’S a blessed-looking
candle!” says Tony, pointing to the heavily burning taper on his
table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet.
“That’s easily improved,” Mr. Guppy observes as he takes the snuffers
in hand.
“IS it?” returns his friend. “Not so easily as you think. It has been
smouldering like that ever since it was lighted.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Tony?” inquires Mr. Guppy, looking
at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on the
table.
“William Guppy,” replies the other, “I am in the downs. It’s this
unbearably dull, suicidal room—and old Boguey downstairs, I
suppose.” Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him with
his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on the fender,
and looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing him, slightly tosses his
head and sits down on the other side of the table in an easy
attitude.
“Wasn’t that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?”
“Yes, and he—yes, it was Snagsby,” said Mr. Weevle, altering the
construction of his sentence.
“On business?”
“No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped to prose.”
“I thought it was Snagsby,” says Mr. Guppy, “and thought it as well
that he shouldn’t see me, so I waited till he was gone.”
“There we go again, William G.!” cried Tony, looking up for an
instant. “So mysterious and secret! By George, if we were going to
commit a murder, we couldn’t have more mystery about it!”
Mr. Guppy affects to smile, and with the view of changing the
conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, round the
room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, terminating his survey
with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantelshelf, in which she
is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon the terrace, and a
vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase, and a prodigious
piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on the prodigious piece of
fur, and a bracelet on her arm.
“That’s very like Lady Dedlock,” says Mr. Guppy. “It’s a speaking
likeness.”
“I wish it was,” growls Tony, without changing his position. “I
should have some fashionable conversation, here, then.”
Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into a
more sociable humour, Mr. Guppy puts about upon the ill-used tack and
remonstrates with him.
“Tony,” says he, “I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for
no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than I
do, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man who
has an unrequited image imprinted on his ’eart. But there are bounds
to these things when an unoffending party is in question, and I will
acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don’t think your manner on the
present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly.”
“This is strong language, William Guppy,” returns Mr. Weevle.
“Sir, it may be,” retorts Mr. William Guppy, “but I feel strongly
when I use it.”
Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William Guppy
to think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy, however, having got the
advantage, cannot quite release it without a little more injured
remonstrance.
“No! Dash it, Tony,” says that gentleman, “you really ought to be
careful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequited
image imprinted on his ’eart and who is NOT altogether happy in those
chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony, possess in
yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye and allure the
taste. It is not—happily for you, perhaps, and I may wish that I
could say the same—it is not your character to hover around one
flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your airy pinions carry
you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, I am sure, to wound
even your feelings without a cause!”
Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued, saying
emphatically, “William Guppy, drop it!” Mr. Guppy acquiesces, with
the reply, “I never should have taken it up, Tony, of my own accord.”
“And now,” says Tony, stirring the fire, “touching this same bundle
of letters. Isn’t it an extraordinary thing of Krook to have
appointed twelve o’clock to-night to hand ’em over to me?”
“Very. What did he do it for?”
“What does he do anything for? HE don’t know. Said to-day was his
birthday and he’d hand ’em over to-night at twelve o’clock. He’ll
have drunk himself blind by that time. He has been at it all day.”
“He hasn’t forgotten the appointment, I hope?”
“Forgotten? Trust him for that. He never forgets anything. I saw him
to-night, about eight—helped him to shut up his shop—and he had got
the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it off and showed ’em
me. When the shop was closed, he took them out of his cap, hung his
cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them over before the fire. I
heard him a little while afterwards, through the floor here, humming
like the wind, the only song he knows—about Bibo, and old Charon,
and Bibo being drunk when he died, or something or other. He has been
as quiet since as an old rat asleep in his hole.”
“And you are to go down at twelve?”
“At twelve. And as I tell you, when you came it seemed to me a
hundred.”