Bleak House
seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm’s length, brings
it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his left
hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that
side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannot satisfy
himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, and
thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt before it
every now and then to come upon it with a fresh eye. Even that won’t
do. “Is it,” Mr. George still muses, “blank cartridge or ball?”
Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in the
distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march time
and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back again to
the girl he left behind him.
“Phil!” The trooper beckons as he calls him.
Phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if he were
going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commander like a
bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in high relief upon
his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with the handle of the
brush.
“Attention, Phil! Listen to this.”
“Steady, commander, steady.”
“‘Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity for
my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months’ date
drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted, for the
sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will become
due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take up the same
on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.’ What do you make of that,
Phil?”
“Mischief, guv’ner.”
“Why?”
“I think,” replies Phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle
in his forehead with the brush-handle, “that mischeevious
consequences is always meant when money’s asked for.”
“Lookye, Phil,” says the trooper, sitting on the table. “First and
last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principal in
interest and one thing and another.”
Phil intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a very
unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the
transaction as being made more promising by this incident.
“And lookye further, Phil,” says the trooper, staying his premature
conclusions with a wave of his hand. “There has always been an
understanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. And it
has been renewed no end of times. What do you say now?”
“I say that I think the times is come to a end at last.”
“You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself.”
“Joshua Smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?”
“The same.”
“Guv’ner,” says Phil with exceeding gravity, “he’s a leech in his
dispositions, he’s a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in his
twistings, and a lobster in his claws.”
Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod, after
waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of
him, gets back by his usual series of movements to the target he has
in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical medium
that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. George,
having folded the letter, walks in that direction.
“There IS a way, commander,” says Phil, looking cunningly at him, “of
settling this.”
“Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could.”
Phil shakes his head. “No, guv’ner, no; not so bad as that. There IS
a way,” says Phil with a highly artistic turn of his brush; “what I’m
a-doing at present.”
“Whitewashing.”
Phil nods.
“A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would become of the
Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to pay off my
old scores? YOU’RE a moral character,” says the trooper, eyeing him
in his large way with no small indignation; “upon my life you are,
Phil!”
Phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting
earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb,
that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not so much
as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy family when
steps are audible in the long passage without, and a cheerful voice
is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil, with a look at
his master, hobbles up, saying, “Here’s the guv’ner, Mrs. Bagnet!
Here he is!” and the old girl herself, accompanied by Mr. Bagnet,
appears.
The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the
year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very
clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so
interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe from
another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an
umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of
the old girl’s presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in
this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a
metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model
of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a
pair of spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious
capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article
long associated with the British army. The old girl’s umbrella is of
a flabby habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays—an
appearance that is possibly referable to its having served through a
series of years at home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet
bag. She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her
well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the
instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or
bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of
tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a
sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad.
Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest
sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs.
Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George’s Shooting
Gallery.
“Well, George, old fellow,” says she, “and how do YOU do, this
sunshiny morning?”
Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a long
breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a
faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such
positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench,
unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms,
and looks perfectly comfortable.
Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and
with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod
and smile.
“Now, George,” said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, “here we are, Lignum and
myself”—she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on
account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old
regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment
to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy—“just
looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that
security. Give him the new bill to sign, George, and he’ll sign it
like a man.”
“I was coming to you this morning,” observes the trooper reluctantly.
“Yes, we thought you’d come to us this morning, but we turned out
early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and
came to you instead—as you see! For Lignum, he’s tied so close now,
and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But what’s
the matter, George?” asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk.
“You don’t look yourself.”
“I am not quite myself,” returns the trooper; “I have been a little
put out, Mrs. Bagnet.”
Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. “George!” holding up
her forefinger. “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong about that
security of Lignum’s! Don’t do it, George, on account of the
children!”
The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.
“George,” says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and
occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. “If you
have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum’s, and
if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of
being sold up—and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as
print—you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly.
I tell you, cruelly, George. There!”
Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, puts his
large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it from
a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.
“George,” says that old girl, “I wonder at you! George, I am ashamed
of you! George, I couldn’t have believed you would have done it! I
always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I
never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was
for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know what a
hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebec and Malta
and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, or could, have had
the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!” Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her
cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner, “How could you do
it?”
Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head as if
the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr. George, who
has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak and
straw bonnet.
“Mat,” says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but still
looking at his wife, “I am sorry you take it so much to heart,
because I do hope it’s not so bad as that comes to. I certainly have,
this morning, received this letter”—which he reads aloud—“but I
hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone, why, what you
say is true. I AM a rolling stone, and I never rolled in anybody’s
way, I fully believe, that I rolled the least good to. But it’s
impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and family
better than I like ’em, Mat, and I trust you’ll look upon me as
forgivingly as you can. Don’t think I’ve kept anything from you. I
haven’t had the letter more than a quarter of an hour.”
“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, “will you tell
him my opinion?”
“Oh! Why didn’t he marry,” Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and
half crying, “Joe Pouch’s widder in North America? Then he wouldn’t
have got himself into these troubles.”
“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “puts it correct—why didn’t you?”
“Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope,” returns the
trooper. “Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, NOT married to Joe
Pouch’s widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about me.
It’s not mine; it’s yours. Give the word, and I’ll sell off every
morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum
wanted, I’d have sold all long ago. Don’t believe that I’ll leave you
or yours in the lurch, Mat. I’d sell myself first. I only wish,” says
the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, “that I
knew of any one who’d buy such a second-hand piece of old stores.”
“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet, “give him another bit of my mind.”
“George,” says the old girl, “you are not so much to be blamed, on
full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the
means.”
“And that was like me!” observes the penitent trooper, shaking his
head. “Like me, I know.”
“Silence! The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “is correct—in her way of
giving my opinions—hear me out!”
“That was when you never ought to have asked for the security,
George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things
considered. But what’s done can’t be undone. You are always an
honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your power,