More Old Soldiers Than One
Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon
the box, for their destination is Lincoln’s
Inn Fields. When the driver stops his 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 know him, and
he don’t know me.”
There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairs,
which is done to perfection with the trooper’s
help. He is borne into Mr. Tulkinghorn’s
great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before the
fire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present
moment but will be back directly. The occupant
of the pew in the hall, having said thus much, stirs
the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves.
Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room.
He looks 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?”
“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 drest, with his spectacles in his hand, and
their 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 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 trooper stands and says within
himself perchance, “You’ll do, my friend!”
“Sit down, sergeant,” 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.
