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"And they have shot him." Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and candles. "No, no," says Sir Leicester, "I think not. My Lady, do you object to the twilight?" On the contrary, my Lady prefers it. "Volumnia?" Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the dark. "Then take them away," says Sir Leicester. "Tulkinghorn, I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Mr.
Tulkinghorn goes on to say in the fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, "where they wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son." "A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had the becoming taste and perception," observes Sir Leicester, "to decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the sentiments expressed by Mr.
His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.
"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.
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, sergeant." "Take care you do no harm by this."
It is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general way, retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, the steward of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the Dedlocks. Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself?
Lady Dedlock languidly anticipates. "I found him dead." "Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. "I was directed to his lodging a miserable, poverty-stricken place and I found him dead." "You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "I think the less said " "It is quite a story for twilight.
He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself. "How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand. Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My Lady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace.
"My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir I shan't be two minutes, my love!" Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently curious.
Tulkinghorn then remarks coolly. "No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and galling it's it's worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother," to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire, "to know he has got what's wanted and won't give it up. He, not to give it up! HE! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind.
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