It is night in Lincoln's Inn--perplexed and troublous valley of theshadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day--andfat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattleddown the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings atnine o'clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; thegates are shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mightypower of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircasewindows clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with afathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink atthe stars. In dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy littlepatches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman andconveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshesof sheep-skin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to anacre of land. Over which bee-like industry these benefactors oftheir species linger yet, though office-hours be past, that theymay give, for every day, some good account at last.
In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the rag andbottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer andsupper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective sons,engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek,have been lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane forsome hours and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to theconfusion of passengers--Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but nowexchanged congratulations on the children being abed, and theystill linger on a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Krookand his lodger, and the fact of Mr. Krook's being "continually inliquor," and the testamentary prospects of the young man are, asusual, the staple of their conversation. But they have somethingto say, likewise, of the Harmonic Meeting at the Sol's Arms, wherethe sound of the piano through the partly opened windows jinglesout into the court, and where Little Swills, after keeping thelovers of harmony in a roar like a very Yorick, may now be heardtaking the gruff line in a concerted piece and sentimentallyadjuring his friends and patrons to "Listen, listen, listen, tewthe wa-ter fall!" Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper compare opinions onthe subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who assistsat the Harmonic Meetings and who has a space to herself in themanuscript announcement in the window, Mrs. Perkins possessinginformation that she has been married a year and a half, thoughannounced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren, and that herbaby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every night toreceive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. "Soonerthan which, myself," says Mrs. Perkins, "I would get my living byselling lucifers." Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the sameopinion, holding that a private station is better than publicapplause, and thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication,Mrs. Perkins') respectability. By this time the pot-boy of theSol's Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piperaccepts that tankard and retires indoors, first giving a fair goodnight to Mrs. Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand eversince it was fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins beforehe was sent to bed. Now there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; andshooting stars are seen in upper windows, further indicatingretirement to rest. Now, too, the policeman begins to push atdoors; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles; and toadminister his beat, on the hypothesis that every one is eitherrobbing or being robbed.
It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, andthere is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a finesteaming night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesometrades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, andgive the registrar of deaths some extra business. It may besomething in the air--there is plenty in it--or it may be somethingin himself that is in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, isvery ill at ease. He comes and goes between his own room and theopen street door twenty times an hour. He has been doing so eversince it fell dark. Since the Chancellor shut up his shop, whichhe did very early to-night, Mr. Weevle has been down and up, anddown and up (with a cheap tight velvet skull-cap on his head,making his whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener thanbefore.
It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too, forhe always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence ofthe secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which heis a partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsbyhaunts what seems to be its fountain-head--the rag and bottle shopin the court. It has an irresistible attraction for him. Evennow, coming round by the Sol's Arms with the intention of passingdown the court, and out at the Chancery Lane end, and soterminating 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. "AreYOU there?""Aye!" says Weevle, "Here I am, Mr. Snagsby.""Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?" thestationer inquires.
"Why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is, isnot very freshening," Weevle answers, glancing up and down thecourt.
"Very true, sir. Don't you observe," says Mr. Snagsby, pausing tosniff 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'rerather greasy here, sir?""Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavourin the place to-night," Mr. Weevle rejoins. "I suppose it's chopsat the Sol's Arms.""Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?" Mr. Snagsby sniffs andtastes again. "Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say theircook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has beenburning 'em, sir! And I don't think"--Mr. Snagsby sniffs andtastes 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 freshwhen 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 findit 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 andthen falling back a step to look up at the house. "I couldn't livein that room alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety andworried of an evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to cometo the door and stand here sooner than sit there. But then it'svery 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 hiscough of mild persuasion behind his hand. "Mr. Krook ought toconsider 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, butthe law seems to put things up in price. Not," adds Mr. Snagsbywith his apologetic cough, "that I mean to say a word against theprofession I get my living by."Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks atthe stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upwardfor a star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactlyseeing 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 andright eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance onthe button.
"Ah, to be sure!" returns the other as if he were not over-fond ofthe subject. "I thought we had done with him.""I was only going to say it's a curious fact, sir, that he shouldhave come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then thatyou should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Whichthere is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,"says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may haveunpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle,"because I have known writers that have gone into brewers' housesand done really very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable,sir," adds Mr. Snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improvedthe matter.
"It's a curious coincidence, as you say," answers Weevle, once moreglancing 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 afraidI must bid you good night"--Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it made himdesolate to go, though he has been casting about for any means ofescape ever since he stopped to speak--"my little woman will belooking for me else. Good night, sir!"If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble oflooking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. Hislittle woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol's Arms all thistime and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrappedover her head, honourmg Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a searchingglance as she goes past.
"You'll know me again, ma'am, at all events," says Mr. Weevle tohimself; "and I can't compliment you on your appearance, whoeveryou are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow NEVERcoming!"This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds uphis finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the streetdoor. Then they go upstairs, Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. Guppy(for it is he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into theback room, they speak low.
"I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of cominghere," says Tony.
"Why, I said about ten.""You said about ten," Tony repeats. "Yes, so you did say aboutten. But according to my count, it's ten times ten--it's a hundredo'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 herehave I been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I havehad the horrors falling on me as thick as hail. THERE'S a blessed-looking candle!" says Tony, pointing to the heavily burning taperon his table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet.
"That's easily improved," Mr. Guppy observes as he takes thesnuffers in hand.
"IS it?" returns his friend. "Not so easily as you think. It hasbeen 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 onthe table.
"William Guppy," replies the other, "I am in the downs. It's thisunbearably dull, suicidal room--and old Boguey downstairs, Isuppose." Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from himwith his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on thefender, and looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing him, slightlytosses his head and sits down on the other side of the table in aneasy attitude.
"Wasn't that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?""Yes, and he--yes, it was Snagsby," said Mr. Weevle, altering theconstruction of his sentence.
"On business?""No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped toprose.""I thought it was Snagsby," says Mr. Guppy, "and thought it as wellthat he shouldn't see me, so I waited till he was gone.""There we go again, William G.!" cried Tony, looking up for aninstant. "So mysterious and secret! By George, if we were goingto commit a murder, we couldn't have more mystery about it!"Mr. Guppy affects to smile, and with the view of changing theconversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, roundthe room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, terminating hissurvey with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantelshelf, inwhich she is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon theterrace, 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 theprodigious piece of fur, and a bracelet on her arm.
"That's very like Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Guppy. "It's a speakinglikeness.""I wish it was," growls Tony, without changing his position. "Ishould have some fashionable conversation, here, then."Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into amore sociable humour, Mr. Guppy puts about upon the ill-used tackand remonstrates with him.
"Tony," says he, "I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, forno man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than Ido, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man whohas an unrequited image imprinted on his 'eart. But there arebounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question,and I will acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don't think your manneron 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 stronglywhen I use it."Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William Guppyto think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy, however, having gotthe advantage, cannot quite release it without a little moreinjured remonstrance.
"No! Dash it, Tony," says that gentleman, "you really ought to becareful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequitedimage imprinted on his 'eart and who is NOT altogether happy inthose chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony,possess in yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye andallure the taste. It is not--happily for you, perhaps, and I maywish that I could say the same--it is not your character to hoveraround one flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your airypinions carry you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, I amsure, 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. Guppyacquiesces, with the reply, "I never should have taken it up, Tony,of my own accord.""And now," says Tony, stirring ............