Chapter 42

In Mr Tulkinghorn's Chambers

From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the

Dedlock property, Mr Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the

stale heat and dust of London. His manner of coming and

going between the two places, is one of his impenetrabilities. He

walks into Chesney Wold as if it were next door to his chambers,

and returns to his chambers as if he had never been out of

Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neither changes his dress before the

journey, nor talks of it afterwards. He melted out of his turret-

room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he melts into

his own square.

Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these

pleasant fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the

goats into wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-

dried and faded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with

them, aged without experience of genial youth, and so long used to

make his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that

he has forgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering

home. In the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings,

he has baked himself dryer than usual; and he has, in his thirsty

mind, his mellowed 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 noble

mysteries arrives at his own dull courtyard. He ascends the

doorsteps and is gliding into the dusky hall, when he encounters,

on the top 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."

"Ay? What is it? What do you want with me?"

"Well sir," says Mr Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his

head, in his deference towards his best customer. "I was wishful to

say a word to you sir."

"Can you say it here?"

"Perfectly sir."

"Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron

railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting

the courtyard.

"It is relating," says Mr Snagsby, in a mysterious low voice-"it

is 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 not

acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her

manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly

foreign. Her that was upstairs sir, when Mr Bucket and me had

the 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

behind his hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of

foreigners in general, but I have no doubt it would be that." Mr

Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate

design of repeating the name; but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.

"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr

Tulkinghorn, "about her?"

"Well sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication

with his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness

is very 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 too fine

a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a

foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop,

and hovering-I should be the last to make use of a strong

expression, 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

in a 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 it

yourself, and would excuse the reasonableness of my feelings

when coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman.

You see, the foreign female-which you mentioned her name just

now, with quite a native sound I am sure-caught up the word

Snagsby that night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry,

and got the direction and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our

young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the

foreigner's looks-which are fierce-and at a grinding manner

that she has of speaking-which is calculated to alarm a weak

mind-gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it, and

tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such fits

as I do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in any

house but ours. Consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop.

When she did say that Mr Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her

by his Employer (which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign

mode of viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of

continually calling at my place until she was let in here. Since then

she has been, as I began by saying, hovering-Hovering sir," Mr

Snagsby repeats the word with patheticemphasis, "in the court.

The effects of which movement it is impossible to calculate. I

shouldn't wonder if it might have already given rise to the

painfullest mistakes even in the neighbours' minds, not

mentioning (if such a thing was possible) my little woman.

Whereas, Goodness knows," says Mr Snagsby, shaking his head, "I

never had an idea of a foreign female, except as being formerly

connected with a bunch of brooms and a baby, or at the present

time with a tambourine and earrings. I never had, I do assure you

sir!"

Mr Tulkinghorn has listened gravely to this complaint, and

inquires, when the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it,

Snagsby?"

"Why yes sir, that's all," says Mr Snagsby, ending with a cough

that plainly adds, "and it's enough too-for me."

"I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean,

unless she is mad," says the lawyer.

"Even if she was, you know sir," Mr Snagsby pleads, "it

wouldn't be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the

form of a foreign dagger, planted in the family."

"No," says the other. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. I am

sorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send her

here."Mr Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing,

takes his leave, lightened in heart. Mr Tulkinghorn goes upstairs,

saying to himself, "These women were created to give trouble, the

whole 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 murky

rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to see

much of allegory overhead there; but that importunate Roman,

who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old

work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention,

Mr Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a

drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in

which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which

he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. He is going

towards the door with a candle in his hand, when a knock comes.

"Who's this?-Ay, ay, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at a

good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you

want?"

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall,

and taps his dry cheek with the key, as he addresses these words

of welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with

her lips tightly shut, and her eyes looking out at him sideways,

softly closes 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 for

you."

"Quite right, and quite true.""Not true. Lies!"

At times, there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle

Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it, that such

subject involuntarily starts and falls back. It is Mr Tulkinghorn's

case at present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes

almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is only smiling

contemptuously and shaking her head.

"Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon

the chimney-piece. "If you have anything to say, say it, say it."

"Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and

shabby."

"Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose

with the key.

"Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have

attrapped me-catched me-to give you information; you have

asked me to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore

that night, you have prayed me to come in it here to meet that

boy-Say! Is it not?" Mademoiselle Hortense makes another

spring.

"You are a vixen, a vixen!" Mr Tulkinghorn seems to meditate,

as he looks distrustfully at her; then he replies, "Well, wench, well.

I paid you."

"You paid me!" she repeats, with fierce disdain. "Two

sovereign! I have not change them, I ref-use them, I des-pise them,

I throw them from me!" Which she literally does, taking them out

of her bosom as she speaks, and flinging them with such violence

on the floor, that they jerk up again into the light before they roll

away into corners, and slowly settle down there after spinning

vehemently."Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes

again. "You have paid me? Eh, my God, O yes!"

Mr Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key, while she

entertains herself with a sarcastic laugh.

"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to

throw money about in that way!"

"I am rich," she returns, "I am very rich in hate. I hate my

Lady, of all my heart. You know that."

"Know it? How should I know it?"

"Because you have known it perfectly, before you prayed me to

give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that

I was en-r-r-r-raged!" It appears impossible for Mademoiselle to

roll the letter r sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she

assists her energeticdelivery, by clenching both her hands, and

setting all her teeth.

"Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr Tulkinghorn, examining the

wards of the key.

"Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me

because you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her."

Mademoiselle Hortense folds her arms, and throws this last

remark at him over one of her shoulders.

"Having said this, have you anything else to say,

Mademoiselle?"

"I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition!

If you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue

her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you

well, and with a good will. It is what you do. Do I not know that?"

"You appear to know a good deal," Mr Tulkinghorn retorts.

"Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, that I come here in that dress to receive that boy, only to decide a little

bet, a wager?-Eh my God, O yes!" In this reply, down to the word

"wager" inclusive, Mademoiselle has been ironically polite and

tender; then, has suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most

defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment

very nearly shut, and staringly wide open.

"Now let us see," says Mr Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with

the key, and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter

stands."

"Ha! Let us see," Mademoiselle assents, with many angry and

tight nods of her head.

"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which

you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come

again."

"And again," says Mademoiselle, with more tight and angry

nods. "And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In

effect, for ever!"

"And not only here, but you will go to Mr Snagsby's, too,

perhaps? That visit not succeeding either, you will go again

perhaps?"

"And again," repeats Mademoiselle, cataleptic with

determination. "And yet again. And yet again. And many times

again. In effect, for ever!"

"Very well. Now Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend

you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think

you will find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder."

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder, and stands her

ground with folded arms.

"You will not, eh?""No, I will not!"

"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress,

this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of

prisons are larger. In this city, there are houses of correction

(where the treadmills are, for women) the gates of which are very

strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of

your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one

of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you

think?"

"I think," Mademoiselle replies, without any action, and in a

clear obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."

"Probably," returns Mr Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose.

"But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of

the prison."

"Nothing. What does it matter to me?"

"Why it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer,

deliberately putting away his handkerchief, and adjusting his frill,

"the law is so despotic here, that it interferes to prevent any of our

good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits,

against his desire. And, on his complaining that he is so troubled,

it takes hold of the troublesome lady, and shuts her up in prison

under hard discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress."

Illustrating with the cellar key.

"Truly?" returns Mademoiselle, in the same pleasant voice.

"That is droll! But-my faith!-still what does it matter to me!"

"My fair friend," says Mr Tulkinghorn, "make another visit

here, or at Mr Snagsby's, and you shall learn."

"In that case you will send Me to the prison, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."It would be contradictory for one in Mademoiselle's state of

agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish

expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would

make her do it.

"In a word, mistress," says Mr Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be

unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here-or

there-again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is

great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an

ignominious manner; strapped down on a board, my good wench."

"I will prove you," whispers Mademoiselle, stretching out her

hand, "I will try if you dare to do it!"

"And if," pursues the lawyer, without minding her, "I place you

in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some

time before you find yourself at liberty again."

"I will prove you," repeats Mademoiselle in her former whisper.

"And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her,

"you had better go. Think twice, before you come here again."

"Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!"

"You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr Tulkinghorn

observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most

implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new

leaf, and take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I

mean; and what I threaten, I will do, mistress."

She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When

she is gone, he goes down too; and returning with his cobweb-

covered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurelyenjoyment of its

contents: now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair,

catching sight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.
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