Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, fortheir destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields. When the driver stopshis horses, Mr. George alights, and looking in at the window, says,"What, Mr. Tulkinghorn's your man, is he?""Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George?""Why, I have heard of him--seen him too, I think. But I don't knowhim, and he don't know me."There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairs, which is doneto perfection with the trooper's help. He is borne into Mr.
Tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before thefire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but willbe back directly. The occupant of the pew in the hall, having saidthus much, stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warmthemselves.
Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks upat the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books,contemplates the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud thenames on the boxes.
"'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,'" Mr. George reads thoughtfully.
"Ha! 'Manor of Chesney Wold.' Humph!" Mr. George stands lookingat these boxes a long while--as if they were pictures--and comesback to the fire repeating, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, andManor of Chesney Wold, hey?""Worth a mint of money, Mr. George!" whispers GrandfatherSmallweed, rubbing his legs. "Powerfully rich!""Who do you mean? This old gentleman, or the Baronet?""This gentleman, this gentleman.""So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I'll hold a wager. Notbad quarters, either," says Mr. George, looking round again. "Seethe strong-box yonder!"This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn's arrival. There is nochange in him, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles inhis hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, closeand dry. In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind ablind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. Thepeerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers thanMr. Tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known.
"Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!" he says as he comesin. "You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant."As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat,he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooperstands and says within himself perchance, "You'll do, my friend!""Sit down, sergeant," he repeats as he comes to his table, which isset on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. "Cold andraw this morning, cold and raw!" Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before thebars, alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks(from behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sittingin a little semicircle before him.
"Now, I can feel what I am about" (as perhaps he can in twosenses), "Mr. Smallweed." The old gentleman is newly shaken up byJudy to bear his part in the conversation. "You have brought ourgood friend the sergeant, I see.""Yes, sir," returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the lawyer'swealth and influence.
"And what does the sergeant say about this business?""Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed with a tremulous wave ofhis shrivelled hand, "this is the gentleman, sir."Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt uprightand profoundly silent--very forward in his chair, as if the fullcomplement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him.
Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds, "Well, George--I believe your name isGeorge?""It is so, Sir.""What do you say, George?""I ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but I should wishto know what YOU say?""Do you mean in point of reward?""I mean in point of everything, sir."This is so very trying to Mr. Smallweed's temper that he suddenlybreaks out with "You're a brimstone beast!" and as suddenly askspardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of thetongue by saying to Judy, "I was thinking of your grandmother, mydear.""I supposed, sergeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on oneside of his chair and crosses his legs, "that Mr. Smallweed mighthave sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallestcompass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, andwere his attendant in illness, and rendered him many littleservices, and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That isso, is it not?""Yes, sir, that is so," says Mr. George with military brevity.
"Therefore you may happen to have in your possession something--anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders, a letter,anything--in Captain Hawdon's writing. I wish to compare hiswriting with some that I have. If you can give me the opportunity,you shall be rewarded for your trouble. Three, four, five,guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say.""Noble, my dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, screwing uphis eyes.
"If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, youcan demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing,against your inclination--though I should prefer to have it."Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at thepainted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible Mr.
Smallweed scratches the air.
"The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued,uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon'swriting?""First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon's writing, sir,"repeats Mr. George.
"Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?""Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it,sir," repeats Mr. George.
"Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all likethat," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets ofwritten paper tied together.
"Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so," repeats Mr.
George.
All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical manner,looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as glanceat the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been given tohim for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), butcontinues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.
"Well?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "What do you say?""Well, sir," replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking immense,"I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do withthis."Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, "Why not?""Why, sir," returns the trooper. "Except on military compulsion, Iam not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call inScotland a ne'er-do-weel. I have no head for papers, sir. I canstand any fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentionedto Mr. Smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that when I come intothings of this kind I feel as if I was being smothered. And thatis my sensation," says Mr. George, looking round upon the company,"at the present moment."With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers onthe lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his formerstation, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at theground and now at the painted ceillhg, with his hands behind him asif to prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.
Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed's favourite adjective ofdisparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words"my dear friend" with the monosyllable "brim," thus converting thepossessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impedimentin his speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts hisdear friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do whatso eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace,confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable.
Mr. Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as, "You arethe best judge of your own interest, sergeant." "Take care you dono harm by this." "Please yourself, please yourself." "If youknow what you mean, that's quite enough." These he utters with anappearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers onhis table and prepares to write a letter.
Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to theground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr.
Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted ceiling again,often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests.
"I do assure you, sir," says Mr. George, "not to say itoffensively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really ambeing smothered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not amatch for you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask why you want tosee the captain's hand, in the case that I could find any specimenof it?"Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. "No. If you were a manof business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that thereare confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for manysuch wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you areafraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mindat rest about that.""Aye! He is dead, sir.""IS he?" Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.
"Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after anotherdisconcerted pause, "I am sorry not to have given you moresatisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one that Ishould be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothingto do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head forbusiness than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing toconsult with him. I--I really am so completely smothered myself atpresent," says Mr. George, passing his hand hopelessly across hisbrow, "that I don't know but what it might be a satisfaction tome."Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, sostrongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counselwith him, and particularly informing him of its being a question offive guineas or more, that Mr. George engages to go and see him.
Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.
"I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir," says thetrooper, "and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with thefinal answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wishto be carried downstairs--""In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let mespeak half a word with this gentleman in private?""Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account." The trooperretires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curiousinspection of the boxes, strong and otherwise.
"If I wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir," whispersGrandfather Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by thelapel of his coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out ofhis angry eyes, "I'd tear the writing away from him. He's got itbuttoned in his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him putit there. Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there!"This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such athrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength,and he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn withhim, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.
"Violence will not do for me, my friend," Mr. Tulkinghorn thenremarks coolly.
"No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and galling--it's--it's worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother,"to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire, "to know hehas got what's wanted and won't give it up. He, not to give it up!
HE! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the most, hehas only his own way for a little while. I have him periodicallyin a vice. I'll twist him, sir. I'll screw him, sir. If he won'tdo it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one, sir!
Now, my dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, winking atthe lawyer hideously as he releases him, "I am ready for your kindassistance, my excellent friend!"Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifestingitself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug withhis back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweedand acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod.
It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. Georgefinds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when heis replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subjectof the guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button--having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and robhim--that some degree of force is necessary on the trooper's partto effect a separation. It is accomplished at last, and heproceeds alone in quest of his adviser.
By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without aglance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem to be something inhis way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, Mr.
George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewherein that ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets fromthe bridges of London, centring in the far-famed elephant who haslost his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to astronger iron monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meatany day he dares. To one of the little shops in this street, whichis a musician's shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and somePan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongatedscraps of music, Mr. George directs his massive tread. And haltingat a few paces from it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, withher outer skirts tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, andin that tub commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin ofthe pavement, Mr. George say............