bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第174章
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years； would be too absurdly unfortunate！” Allan takes the
opportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicines；
and obtaining them near at hand； soon returns to find the trooper
walking up and down the gallery and to fall into step and walk
with him。
“I take it； sir；” says Mr George； “that you know Miss
Summerson pretty well？”
Yes； it appears。
“Not related to her； sir？”
No； it appears。
“Excuse the apparent curiosity；” says Mr George。 “It seemed to
me probable that you might take more than a common interest in
this poor creature； because Miss Summerson had taken that
unfortunate interest in him。 ’Tis my case； sir； I assure you。”
“And mine； Mr George。”
The trooper looks sideways at Allan’s sunburnt cheek and
bright dark eye； rapidly measures his height and build； and seems
to approve of him。
“Since you have been out； sir； I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln’s Inn Fields； where
Bucket took the lad； according to his account。 Though he is not
acquainted with the name； I can help you to it。 It’s Tulkinghorn。
That’s what it is。”
Allan looks at him inquiringly； repeating the name。
“Tulkinghorn。 That’s the name； sir。 I know the man； and know
him to have been in communication with Bucket before；
respecting a deceased person who had given him offence。 I know
the man； sir。 To my sorrow。”
Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is？
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“What kind of man。 Do you mean to look at？”
“I think I know that much of him。 I mean to deal with。
Generally； what kind of man？”
“Why； then I’ll tell you； sir；” returns the trooper； stopping short；
and folding his arms on his square chest； so angrily； that his face
fires and flushes all over； “he is a confoundedly bad kind of man。
He is a slow…torturing kind of man。 He is no more like flesh and
blood； than a rusty old carbine is。 He is a kind of man—by
George！—that has caused me more restlessness； and more
uneasiness； and more dissatisfaction with myself； than all other
men put together。 That’s the kind of man Mr Tulkinghorn is！”
“I am sorry；” says Allan； “to have touched so sore a place。”
“Sore？” The trooper plants his legs wider apart； wets the palm
of his broad right hand； and lays it on his imaginary moustache。
“It’s no fault of yours； sir； but you shall judge。 He has got a power
over me。 He is the man I spoke of just now； as being able to tumble
me out of this place neck and crop。 He keeps me on a constant see…
saw。 He won’t hold off； and he won’t come on。 If I have a payment
to make him； or time to ask him for； or anything to go to him
about； he don’t see me； don’t hear me—passes me on to
Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn； Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn
passes me back again to him—he keeps me prowling and dangling
about him； as if I was made of the same stone as himself。 Why； I
spend half my life now； pretty well loitering and dodging about his
door。 What does he care？ Nothing。 Just as much as the rusty old
carbine I have compared him to。 He chafes and goads me； till—
Bah！ nonsense—I am forgetting myself。 Mr Woodcourt；” the
trooper resumes his march； “all I say is； he is an old man； but I am
glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse；
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and riding at him in a fair field。 For if I had that chance； in one of
the humours he drives me into—he’d go down； sir！”
Mr George has been so excited； that he finds it necessary to
wipe his forehead on his shirt…sleeve。 Even while he whistles his
impetuosity away with the National Anthem； some involuntary
shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind；
not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of
his open shirt…collar； as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent
his being troubled by a choking sensation。 In short； Allan
Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr
Tulkinghorn on the field referred to。
Jo and his conductor presently return； and Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Phil； to whom； after due administration of
medicine by his own hands； Allan confides all needful means and
instructions。 The morning is by this time getting on apace。 He
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast； and then； without
seeking rest； goes away to Mr Jarndyce to communicate his
discovery。
With him Mr Jarndyce returns alone； confidentially telling him
that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed；
and showing a serious interest in it。 To Mr Jarndyce； Jo repeats in
substance what he said in the morning； without any material
variation。 Only； that cart of his is heavier to draw； and draws with
a hollower sound。
“Let me lay here quiet； and not be chivied no more；” falters Jo；
“and be so kind any person as is a…passin’ nigh where I used fur to
sweep； as jist to say to Mr Snagsby that Jo； wot he known once； is
a…moving on right forards with his duty； and I’ll be wery thankful。
I’d be more thankful than I am aready； if it wos any ways possible
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for an unfortnet to be it。”
He makes so many of these references to the law…stationer in
the course of a day or two； that Allan； after conferring with Mr
Jarndyce； good…naturedly resolves to call in Cook’s Court； the
rather； as the cart seems to be breaking down。
To Cook’s Court； therefore； he repairs。 Mr Snagsby is behind
his counter in his grey coat and sleeves； inspecting an Indenture of
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser’s； an
immense desert of law…hand and parchment； with here and there a
resting…place of a few large letters to break the awful monotony；
and save the traveller from despair。 Mr Snagsby puts up at one of
these inky wells； and greets the stranger with his cough of general
preparation for business。
“You don’t remember me； Mr Snagsby？”
The stationer’s heart begins to thump heavily； for his old
apprehensions have never abated。 It is as much as he can do to
answer； “No； sir； I can’t say I do。 I should have considered—not to
put too fine a point upon it—that I never saw you before； sir。”
“Twice before；” says Allan Woodcourt。 “Once at a poor bedside；
and once—”
“It’s come at last！” thinks the afflicted stationer； as recollection
breaks upon him。 “It’s got to a head now； and is going to burst！”
But； he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into
the little counting…house； and to shut the door。
“Are you a married man； sir？”
“No； I am not。”
“Would you make the attempt； though single；” says Mr Snagsby
in a melancholy whisper； “to speak as low as you can？ For my
little woman is a listening somewheres； or I’ll forfeit the business
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and five hundred pound！”
In deep dejection Mr Snagsby sits down on his stool； with his
back against his desk； protesting：
“I never had a secret of my own； sir。 I can’t charge my memory
with ever having once attempted to deceive my little woman on
my own account； since she named the day。 I wouldn’t have done it；
sir。 Not to put too fine a point upon it； I couldn’t have done it； I
durstn’t have done it。 Whereas； and nevertheless； I find myself
wrapped round with secrecy and mystery； till my life is a burden
to me。”
His visitor professes his regret to hear it； and asks him does he
remember Jo？ Mr Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan。 O
don’t he！
“You couldn’t name an individual human being—except
myself—that my little woman is more set and determined against
than Jo；” says Mr Snagsby。
Allan asks why？
“Why？” repeats Mr Snagsby； in his desperation clutching at the
clump of hair at the back of his bald head； “How should I know
why？ But you are a single person； sir； and may you long be spared
to ask a married person such a question！”
With this beneficent wish； Mr Snagsby coughs a cough of
dismal resignation； and submits himself to hear what the visitor
has to communicate。
“There again！” says Mr Snagsby； who； between the earnestness
of his feelings； and the suppressed tones of his voice； is
discoloured in the face。 “At it again； in a new direction！ A certain
person charges me； in the solemnest way； not to talk of Jo to any
one； even my little woman。 Then comes another certain person； in
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the person of yourself； and charges me； in an equally solemn way；
not to mention Jo to that other certain person above all other
persons。 Why； this is a private asylum！ Why； not to put too fine a
