The interval between that time and supper Wemmick devoted to showing me his collection of curiosities. They were mostly of a felonious character; comprising the pen with which a celebrated forgery had been committed, a distinguished razor or two, some locks of hair, and several manuscript confessions written under condemnation,—upon which Mr. Wemmick set particular value as being, to use his own words, “every one of ’em Lies, sir.” These were agreeably dispersed among small specimens of china and glass, various neat trifles made by the proprietor of the museum, and some tobacco-stoppers carved by the Aged. They were all displayed in that chamber of the Castle into which I had been first inducted, and which served, not only as the general sitting-room but as the kitchen too, if I might judge from a saucepan on the hob, and a brazen bijou over the fireplace designed for the suspension of a roasting-jack.
There was a neat little girl in attendance,who looked after the Aged in the day.When she had laid the supper-cloth,the bridge was lowered to give her means of egress,and she withdrew for the night.The supper was excellent;and though the Castle was rather subject to dry-rot insomuch that it tasted like a bad nut, and though the pig might have been farther off, I was heartily pleased with my whole entertainment. Nor was there any drawback on my little turret bedroom, beyond there being such a very thin ceiling between me and the flagstaff, that when I lay down on my back in bed, it seemed as if I had to balance that pole on my forehead all night.
Wemmick was up early in the morning,and I am afraid I heard him cleaning my boots.After that, he fell to gardening,and I saw him from my gothic window pretending to employ the Aged,and nodding at him in a most devoted manner.Our breakfast was as good as the supper,and at half-past eight precisely we started for Little Britain.By degrees, Wemmick got dryer and harder as we went along,and his mouth tightened into a post-office again.At last, when we got to his place of business and he pulled out his key from his coat-collar, he looked as unconscious of his Walworth property as if the Castle and the drawbridge and the arbour and the lake and the fountain and the Aged, had all been blown into space together by the last discharge of the Stinger.
Chapter XXVI.
It fell out as Wemmick had told me it would,that I had an early opportunity of comparing my guardian’s establishment with that of his cashier and clerk. My guardian was in his room, washing his hands with his scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he called me to him, and gave me the invitation for myself and friends which Wemmick had prepared me to receive. “No ceremony,” he stipulated, “and no dinner dress, and say to-morrow.” I asked him where we should come to (for I had no idea where he lived), and I believe it was in his general objection to make anything like an admission, that he replied, “Come here, and I’ll take you home with me.” I embrace this opportunity of remarking that he washed his clients off, as if he were a surgeon or a dentist. He had a closet in his room, fitted up for the purpose, which smelt of the scented soap like a perfumer’s shop. It had an unusually large jack-towel on a roller inside the door, and he would wash his hands, and wipe them and dry them all over this towel, whenever he came in from a police court or dismissed a client from his room. When I and my friends repaired to him at six o’clock next day, he seemed to have been engaged on a case of a darker complexion than usual, for we found him with his head butted into this closet, not only washing his hands, but laving his face and gargling his throat. And even when he had done all that, and had gone all round the jack-towel, he took out his penknife and scraped the case out of his nails before he put his coat on.
There were some people slinking about as usual when we passed out into the street, who were evidently anxious to speak with him; but there was something so conclusive in the halo of scented soap which encircled his presence, that they gave it up for that day. As we walked along westward, he was recognised ever and again by some face in the crowd of the streets, and whenever that happened he talked louder to me; but he never otherwise recognised anybody, or took notice that anybody recognised him.
He conducted us to Gerrard Street, Soho,to a house on the south side of that street.Rather a stately house of its kind,but dolefully in want of painting,and with dirty windows.He took out his key and opened the door,and we all went into a stone hall, bare, gloomy,and little used. So,up a dark brown staircase into a series of three dark brown rooms on the first floor. There were carved garlands on the panelled walls, and as he stood among them giving us welcome, I know what kind of loops I thought they looked like.
Dinner was laid in the best of these rooms;the second was his dressing-room; the third,his bedroom. He told us that he held the whole house,but rarely used more of it than we saw.The table was comfortably laid—no silver in the service,of course—and at the side of his chair was a capacious dumb-waiter,with a variety of bottles and decanters on it,and four dishes of fruit for dessert.I noticed throughout,that he kept everything under his own hand,and distributed everything himself.
There was a bookcase in the room;I saw from the backs of the books,that they were about evidence, criminal law,criminal biography, trials, acts of Parliament,and such things. The furniture was all very solid and good,like his watch-chain. It had an official look, however,and there was nothing merely ornamental to be seen.In a corner was a little table of papers with a shaded lamp:so that he seemed to bring the office home with him in that respect too,and to wheel it out of an evening and fall to work.
As he had scarcely seen my three companions until now,—for he and I had walked together,—he stood on the hearth-rug, after ringing the bell,and took a searching look at them. To my surprise,he seemed at once to be principally if not solely interested in Drummle.
“Pip,” said he, putting his large hand on my shoulder and moving me to the window, “I don’t know one from the other. Who’s the Spider?”
“The spider?” said I.
“The blotchy, sprawly, sulky fellow.”
“That’s Bentley Drummle,” I replied;“the one with the delicate face is Startop.”
Not making the least account of “the one with the delicate face,” he returned, “Bentley Drummle is his name, is it?I like the look of that fellow.”
He immediately began to talk to Drummle:not at all deterred by his replying in his heavy reticent way,but apparently led on by it to screw discourse out of him.I was looking at the two,when there came between me and them the housekeeper,with the first dish for the table.
She was a woman of about forty, I supposed,—but I may have thought her younger than she was.Rather tall, of a lithe nimble figure, extremely pale,with large faded eyes,and a quantity of streaming hair.I cannot say whether any diseased affection of the heart caused her lips to be parted as if she were panting, and her face to bear a curious expression of suddenness and flutter; but I know that I had been to see Macbeth at the theatre, a night or two before, and that her face looked to me as if it were all disturbed by fiery air, like the faces I had seen rise out of the Witches’ caldron.