bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第103章
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up at the painted ceiling； looks round at the old law…books；
contemplates the portraits of the great clients； reads aloud the
names on the boxes。
“‘Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet；’” Mr George reads
thoughtfully。 “Ha！ ‘Manor of Chesney Wold。’ Humph！” Mr George
stands looking at these boxes a long while—as if they were
pictures—and comes back to the fire repeating； “Sir Leicester
Dedlock； Baronet； and Manor of Chesney Wold； hey？”
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“Worth a mint of money； Mr George！” whispers Grandfather
Smallweed； 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。
Not bad quarters； either；” says Mr George； looking round again。
“See the strong box； yonder！”
This reply is cut short by Mr Tulkinghorn’s arrival。 There is no
change in him； of course。 Rustily dressed； with his spectacles in
his hand； and the very case worn threadbare。 In manner； close and
dry。 In voice； husky and low。 In face； watchful behind a blind；
habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps。 The
peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers
than Mr Tulkinghorn； after all； if everything were known。
“Good morning； Mr Smallweed； good morning！” he says as he
comes in。 “You have brought the serjeant； I see。 Sit down；
serjeant。”
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
trooper stands； and says within himself perchance； “You’ll do； my
friend！”
“Sit down； serjeant；” he repeats as he comes to his table； which
is set on one side of the fire； and takes his easy chair。 “Cold and
raw this morning； cold and raw！” Mr Tulkinghorn warms before
the bars； alternately； the palms and knuckles of his hands； and
looks （from behind that blind which is always down） at the trio
sitting in a little semicircle before him。
“Now； I can feel what I am about！” （as perhaps he can in two
senses） “Mr Smallweed。” The old gentleman is newly shaken up
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by Judy； to bear his part in the conversation。 “You have brought
our good friend the serjeant； I see。”
“Yes； sir；” returns Mr Smallweed； very servile to the lawyer’s
wealth and influence。
“And what does the serjeant say about this business？”
“Mr George；” says Grandfather Smallweed； with a tremulous
wave of his shrivelled hand； “this is the gentleman； sir。”
Mr George salutes the gentleman； but otherwise sits bolt
upright and profoundly silent—very forward in his chair； as if the
full complement of regulation appendages for a field day hung
about him。
Mr Tulkinghorn proceeds： “Well； George？—I believe your
name is George？”
“It is so； sir。”
“What do you say； George？”
“I ask your pardon； sir；” returns the trooper； “but I should wish
to 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
suddenly breaks out with “You’re a brimstone beast！” and as
suddenly asks pardon of Mr Tulkinghorn； excusing himself for this
slip of the tongue； by saying to Judy； “I was thinking of your
grandmother； my dear。”
“I supposed； serjeant；” Mr Tulkinghorn resumes； as he leans on
one side of his chair and crosses his legs； “that Mr Smallweed
might have sufficiently explained the matter。 It lies in the smallest
compass； however。 You served under Captain Hawdon at one
time； and were his attendant in illness； and rendered him many
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little services； and were rather in his confidence； I am told。 That is
so； 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 his writing 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 up his eyes。
“If not； say how much more； in your conscience as a soldier； you
can 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
the ground； looks at the painted ceiling； and says never a word。
The irascible Mr Smallweed scratches the air。
“The question is；” says Mr Tulkinghorn in his methodical；
subdued； uninteresting way； “first； whether you have any of
Captain Hawdon’s writing？”
“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 like
that；” says Mr Tulkinghorn； suddenly handing him some sheets of
written paper tied together。
“Whether it is at all like that； sir。 Just so；” repeats Mr George。
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All three repetitions Mr George pronounces in a mechanical
manner； looking straight at Mr Tulkinghorn； nor does he so much
as glance at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce； that has been
given to him for his inspection （though he still holds it in his
hand）； but continues 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
with this。”
Mr Tulkinghorn； outwardly quite undisturbed； demands “Why
not？”
“Why； sir；” returns the trooper。 “Except on military
compulsion； I am not a man of business。 Among civilians I am
what they call in Scotland a ne’er…do…weel。 I have no head for
papers； sir。 I can stand any fire better than a fire of cross
questions。 I mentioned to Mr Smallweed； only an hour or so ago；
that when I come into things of this kind I feel as if I was being
smothered。 And this is my sensation；” says Mr George； looking
around upon the company； “at the present moment。”
With that； he takes three strides forward； to replace the papers
on the lawyer’s table； and three strides backward to resume his
former station： where he stands perfectly upright； now looking at
the ground； and now at the painted ceiling； with his hands behind
him as if to prevent himself from accepting any other document
whatever。
Under this provocation； Mr Smallweed’s favourite adjective of
disparagement is so close to his tongue； that he begins the word
“my dear friend” with the monosyllable “Brim；” thus converting
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the possessive pronoun into Brimmy； and appearing to have an
impediment in his speech。 Once past this difficulty； however； he
exhorts his dear friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash； but
to do what so 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 are the best judge of your own interest； serjeant。”
“Take care you do no harm by this。”
“Please yourself； please yourself。”
“If you know what you mean； that’s quite enough。” These he
utters with an appearance of perfect indifference； as he looks over
the papers on his table； and prepares to write a letter。
Mr George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the
ground； 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 it offensively；
that between you and Mr Smallweed here； I really am being
smothered fifty times over。 I really am； sir。 I am not a match for
you gentlemen。 Will you allow me to ask； why you want to see the
captain’s hand； in the case that I could find any specimen of it？”
Mr Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head。 “No。 If you were a
man of business； serjeant； you would not need to be informed that
there are confidential reasons； very harmless in themselves； for
many such wants； in the profession t
