Bleak House
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy after considering a little with his legs
crossed, “he can’t read yet, can he?”
“Read! He’ll never read. He can make all the letters separately, and
he knows most of them separately when he sees them; he has got on
that much, under me; but he can’t put them together. He’s too old to
acquire the knack of it now—and too drunk.”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, “how do
you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?”
“He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye he has
and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things by eye
alone. He imitated it, evidently from the direction of a letter, and
asked me what it meant.”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs again,
“should you say that the original was a man’s writing or a woman’s?”
“A woman’s. Fifty to one a lady’s—slopes a good deal, and the end of
the letter ‘n,’ long and hasty.”
Mr. Guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue,
generally changing the thumb when he has changed the cross leg. As he
is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve. It
takes his attention. He stares at it, aghast.
“Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? Is
there a chimney on fire?”
“Chimney on fire!”
“Ah!” returns Mr. Guppy. “See how the soot’s falling. See here, on my
arm! See again, on the table here! Confound the stuff, it won’t blow
off—smears like black fat!”
They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door, and a
little way upstairs, and a little way downstairs. Comes back and says
it’s all right and all quiet, and quotes the remark he lately made to
Mr. Snagsby about their cooking chops at the Sol’s Arms.
“And it was then,” resumes Mr. Guppy, still glancing with remarkable
aversion at the coat-sleeve, as they pursue their conversation before
the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the table, with their heads
very near together, “that he told you of his having taken the bundle
of letters from his lodger’s portmanteau?”
“That was the time, sir,” answers Tony, faintly adjusting his
whiskers. “Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the Honourable
William Guppy, informing him of the appointment for to-night and
advising him not to call before, Boguey being a slyboots.”
The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually assumed
by Mr. Weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that he abandons that and
his whiskers together, and after looking over his shoulder, appears
to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again.
“You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, and
to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. That’s
the arrangement, isn’t it, Tony?” asks Mr. Guppy, anxiously biting
his thumb-nail.
“You can’t speak too low. Yes. That’s what he and I agreed.”
“I tell you what, Tony—”
“You can’t speak too low,” says Tony once more. Mr. Guppy nods his
sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a whisper.
“I tell you what. The first thing to be done is to make another
packet like the real one so that if he should ask to see the real one
while it’s in my possession, you can show him the dummy.”
“And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it, which with
his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more likely
than not,” suggests Tony.
“Then we’ll face it out. They don’t belong to him, and they never
did. You found that, and you placed them in my hands—a legal friend
of yours—for security. If he forces us to it, they’ll be producible,
won’t they?”
“Ye-es,” is Mr. Weevle’s reluctant admission.
“Why, Tony,” remonstrates his friend, “how you look! You don’t doubt
William Guppy? You don’t suspect any harm?”
“I don’t suspect anything more than I know, William,” returns the
other gravely.
“And what do you know?” urges Mr. Guppy, raising his voice a little;
but on his friend’s once more warning him, “I tell you, you can’t
speak too low,” he repeats his question without any sound at all,
forming with his lips only the words, “What do you know?”
“I know three things. First, I know that here we are whispering in
secrecy, a pair of conspirators.”
“Well!” says Mr. Guppy. “And we had better be that than a pair of
noodles, which we should be if we were doing anything else, for it’s
the only way of doing what we want to do. Secondly?”
“Secondly, it’s not made out to me how it’s likely to be profitable,
after all.”
Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the
mantelshelf and replies, “Tony, you are asked to leave that to the
honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to serve that
friend in those chords of the human mind which—which need not be
called into agonizing vibration on the present occasion—your friend
is no fool. What’s that?”
“It’s eleven o’clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul’s. Listen and
you’ll hear all the bells in the city jangling.”
Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant,
resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various than
their situations. When these at length cease, all seems more
mysterious and quiet than before. One disagreeable result of
whispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence,
haunted by the ghosts of sound—strange cracks and tickings, the
rustling of garments that have no substance in them, and the tread of
dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the winter
snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be that the air is full
of these phantoms, and the two look over their shoulders by one
consent to see that the door is shut.
“Yes, Tony?” says Mr. Guppy, drawing nearer to the fire and biting
his unsteady thumb-nail. “You were going to say, thirdly?”
“It’s far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in
the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it.”
“But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony.”
“May be not, still I don’t like it. Live here by yourself and see how
YOU like it.”
“As to dead men, Tony,” proceeds Mr. Guppy, evading this proposal,
“there have been dead men in most rooms.”
“I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and—and
they let you alone,” Tony answers.
The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried remark to
the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service, that he
hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevle, by stirring
the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy start as if his heart had been
stirred instead.
“Fah! Here’s more of this hateful soot hanging about,” says he. “Let
us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It’s too close.”
He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half in
and half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near to
admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and looking
up, but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the rolling of
distant carriages, and the new expression that there is of the stir
of men, they find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy, noiselessly tapping
on the window-sill, resumes his whispering in quite a light-comedy
tone.
“By the by, Tony, don’t forget old Smallweed,” meaning the younger of
that name. “I have not let him into this, you know. That grandfather
of his is too keen by half. It runs in the family.”
“I remember,” says Tony. “I am up to all that.”
“And as to Krook,” resumes Mr. Guppy. “Now, do you suppose he really
has got hold of any other papers of importance, as he has boasted to
you, since you have been such allies?”
Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know. Can’t imagine. If we get through
this business without rousing his suspicions, I shall be better
informed, no doubt. How can I know without seeing them, when he don’t
know himself? He is always spelling out words from them, and chalking
them over the table and the shop-wall, and asking what this is and
what that is; but his whole stock from beginning to end may easily be
the waste-paper he bought it as, for anything I can say. It’s a
monomania with him to think he is possessed of documents. He has been
going to learn to read them this last quarter of a century, I should
judge, from what he tells me.”
“How did he first come by that idea, though? That’s the question,”
Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic
meditation. “He may have found papers in something he bought, where
papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into his shrewd
head from the manner and place of their concealment that they are
worth something.”
“Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or he may
have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he HAS got,
and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor’s Court and
hearing of documents for ever,” returns Mr. Weevle.
Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and balancing
all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to tap
it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he hastily
draws his hand away.
“What, in the devil’s name,” he says, “is this! Look at my fingers!”
A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the touch
and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, sickening oil
with some natural repulsion in it that makes them both shudder.
“What have you been doing here? What have you been pouring out of
window?”
“I pouring out of window! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I have been
here!” cries the lodger.
And yet look here—and look here! When he brings the candle here,
from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps away
down the bricks, here lies in a little thick nauseous pool.
“This is a horrible house,” says Mr. Guppy, shutting down the window.
“Give me some water or I shall cut my hand off.”
He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, that he
has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stood
silently before the fire when Saint Paul’s bell strikes twelve and
all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various
heights in the dark air, and in their many tones. When all is quiet
again, the lodger says, “It’s the appointed time at last. Shall I
go?”
Mr. Guppy nods and gives him a “lucky touch” on the back, but not
with the washed hand, though it is his right hand.
He goes downstairs, and Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself before the
fire for waiting a long time. But in no more than a minute or two the
stairs creak and Tony comes swiftly back.
“Have you got them?”
“Got them! No. The old man’s not there.”
He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval that his
terror seizes the other, who makes a rush at him and asks loudly,
“What’s the matter?”
“I couldn’t make him hear, and I softly opened the door and looked
in. And the burning smell is there—and the soot is there, and the
oil is there—and he is not there!” Tony ends this with a groan.
Mr. Guppy takes the light. They go down, more dead than alive, and
holding one another, push open the door of the back shop. The cat has
retreated close to it and stands snarling, not at them, at something
on the ground before the fire. There is a very little fire left in
the grate, but there is a smouldering, suffocating vapour in the room
and a dark, greasy coating on the walls and ceiling. The chairs and
table, and the bottle so rarely absent from the table, all stand as
usual. On one chair-back hang the old man’s hairy cap and coat.
“Look!” whispers the lodger, pointing his friend’s attention to these
objects with a trembling finger. “I told you so. When I saw him last,
he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of old letters, hung
his cap on the back of the chair—his coat was there already, for he