From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Dedlockproperty, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat anddust of London. His manner of coming and going between the twoplaces is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney Woldas if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambersas if he had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neitherchanges his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards.
He melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in thelate twilight, he melts into his own square.
Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasantfields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats intowigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried andfaded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, agedwithout experience of genial youth, and so long used to make hiscramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he hasforgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home. Inthe oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has bakedhimself dryer than usual; and he has in his thirsty mind hismellowed port-wine half a century old.
The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields when that high-priest of noblemysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on thetop step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.
"Is that Snagsby?""Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up,sir, and going home.""Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?""Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of hishead in his deference towards his best customer, "I was wishful tosay a word to you, sir.""Can you say it here?""Perfectly, sir.""Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the ironrailing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighterlighting the court-yard.
"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "itis relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner,sir!"Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "What foreigner?""The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am notacquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from hermanners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainlyforeign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me hadthe honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night.""Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense.""Indeed, sir?" Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behindhis hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreignersin general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that." Mr. Snagsbyappears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design ofrepeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excusehimself.
"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulkinghorn,"about her?""Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication withhis hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness isvery great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure--but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put toofine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And yousee, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into theshop, and hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strongexpression if I could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court--you know it is--now ain't it? I only put it to yourself, sir.
Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws ina cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.
"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel ityourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings whencoupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see,the foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, withquite a native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby thatnight, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got thedirection and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, istimid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner'slooks--which are fierce--and at a grinding manner that she has ofspeaking--which is calculated to alarm a weak mind--gave way to it,instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchenstairs out of one into another, such fits as I do sometimes thinkare never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours.
Consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for mylittle woman, and only me to answer the shop. When she DID saythat Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his employer(which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing aclerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling atmy place until she was let in here. Since then she has been, as Ibegan by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--Mr. Snagsby repeats theword with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. The effects of whichmovement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn't wonder if itmight have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even inthe neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing waspossible) my little woman. Whereas, goodness knows," says Mr.
Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreignfemale, except as being formerly connected with a bunch of broomsand a baby, or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings.
I never had, I do assure you, sir!"Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquireswhen the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?""Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a coughthat plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me.""I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unlessshe is mad," says the lawyer.
"Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it wouldn'tbe a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of aforeign dagger planted in the family.""No," says the other. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. I amsorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send herhere."Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takeshis leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs,saying to himself, "These women were created to give trouble thewhole earth over. The mistress not being enough to deal with,here's the maid now! But I will be short with THIS jade at least!"So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murkyrooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark tosee much of the Allegory over-head there, but that importunateRoman, who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, isat his old work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with muchattention, Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket,unlocks a drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks achest in which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key,with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. Heis going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knockcomes.
"Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at agood time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do youwant?"He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall andtaps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words ofwelcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with herlips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softlycloses the door before replying.
"I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir.""HAVE you!""I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me,he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not foryou.""Quite right, and quite true.""Not true. Lies!"At times there is a suddenness in the manner of MademoiselleHortense ............