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Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit - Part 2
‘The pickled salmon,’ Mrs Prig replied, ‘is quite delicious. I can
partlck’ler recommend it. Don’t have nothink to say to the cold meat,
for it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.’
Mrs Gamp expressed herself much gratified.
‘The physic and them things is on the drawers and mankleshelf,’ said
Mrs Prig, cursorily. ‘He took his last slime draught at seven. The
easy-chair an’t soft enough. You’ll want his piller.’
Mrs Gamp thanked her for these hints, and giving her a friendly good
night, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end
of the gallery. Having thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her
safely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle,
walked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick
chamber.
‘A little dull, but not so bad as might be,’ Mrs Gamp remarked.
‘I’m glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and
chimley-pots to walk upon.’
It will be seen from these remarks that Mrs Gamp was looking out of
window. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair,
which she indignantly declared was ‘harder than a brickbadge.’ Next
she pursued her researches among the physic-bottles, glasses, jugs, and
tea-cups; and when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these
subjects of investigation, she untied her bonnet-strings and strolled up
to the bedside to take a look at the patient.
A young man--dark and not ill-looking--with long black hair, that seemed
the blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly
open, and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the
pillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter words; but
every now and then gave vent to an expression of impatience or fatigue,
sometimes of surprise; and still his restless head--oh, weary, weary
hour!--went to and fro without a moment’s intermission.
Mrs Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him
with her head inclined a little sideways, as a connoisseur might gaze
upon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one
branch of her calling took possession of the woman; and stooping down,
she pinned his wandering arms against his sides, to see how he would
look if laid out as a dead man. Her fingers itched to compose his limbs
in that last marble attitude.
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, walking away from the bed, ‘he’d make a lovely
corpse.’
She now proceeded to unpack her bundle; lighted a candle with the aid
of a fire-box on the drawers; filled a small kettle, as a preliminary
to refreshing herself with a cup of tea in the course of the night;
laid what she called ‘a little bit of fire,’ for the same philanthropic
purpose; and also set forth a small tea-board, that nothing might be
wanting for her comfortable enjoyment. These preparations occupied so
long, that when they were brought to a conclusion it was high time to
think about supper; so she rang the bell and ordered it.
‘I think, young woman,’ said Mrs Gamp to the assistant chambermaid, in a
tone expressive of weakness, ‘that I could pick a little bit of pickled
salmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white
pepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with just a little pat of fresh
butter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing
as a cowcumber in the ‘ouse, will you be so kind as bring it, for I’m
rather partial to ‘em, and they does a world of good in a sick room. If
they draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes THAT ale at night, my
love, it bein’ considered wakeful by the doctors. And whatever you
do, young woman, don’t bring more than a shilling’s-worth of gin and
water-warm when I rings the bell a second time; for that is always my
allowance, and I never takes a drop beyond!’
Having preferred these moderate requests, Mrs Gamp observed that she
would stand at the door until the order was executed, to the end that
the patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time; and
therefore she would thank the young woman to ‘look sharp.’
A tray was brought with everything upon it, even to the cucumber and
Mrs Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good humour. The
extent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that
refreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed
in narrative.
‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling’s-worth,
‘what a blessed thing it is--living in a wale--to be contented! What a
blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never
mind one’s self as long as one can do a service! I don’t believe a finer
cowcumber was ever grow’d. I’m sure I never see one!’
She moralised in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then
administered the patient’s medicine, by the simple process of clutching
his windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his
throat.
‘I a’most forgot the piller, I declare!’ said Mrs Gamp, drawing it away.
‘There! Now he’s comfortable as he can be, I’m sure! I must try to make
myself as much so as I can.’
With this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed
in the easy-chair, with the addition of the next easy one for her feet.
Having formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she
took out of her bundle a yellow night-cap, of prodigious size, in shape
resembling a cabbage; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with
the utmost care, previously divesting herself of a row of bald old
curls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very innocent of
anything approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought
forth a night-jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she
produced a watchman’s coat which she tied round her neck by the sleeves,
so that she become two people; and looked, behind, as if she were in the
act of being embraced by one of the old patrol.
All these arrangements made, she lighted the rush-light, coiled herself
up on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became,
and full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were
gradually hushed; the house was quiet as a sepulchre; the dead of night
was coffined in the silent city.
Oh, weary, weary hour! Oh, haggard mind, groping darkly through the
past; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present; dragging
its heavy chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes
of awful pomp; seeking but a moment’s rest among the long-forgotten
haunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday; and dimly finding
fear and horror everywhere! Oh, weary, weary hour! What were the
wanderings of Cain, to these!
Still, without a moment’s interval, the burning head tossed to and fro.
Still, from time to time, fatigue, impatience, suffering, and surprise,
found utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in
words. At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk;
waiting awfully for answers sometimes; as though invisible companions
were about his bed; and so replying to their speech and questioning
again.
Mrs Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed; presenting on the wall the shadow
of a gigantic night constable, struggling with a prisoner.
‘Come! Hold your tongue!’ she cried, in sharp reproof. ‘Don’t make none
of that noise here.’
There was no alteration in the face, or in the incessant motion of the
head, but he talked on wildly.
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver;
‘I thought I was a-sleepin’ too pleasant to last! The devil’s in the
night, I think, it’s turned so chilly!’
‘Don’t drink so much!’ cried the sick man. ‘You’ll ruin us all. Don’t
you see how the fountain sinks? Look at the mark where the sparkling
water was just now!’
‘Sparkling water, indeed!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I’ll have a sparkling cup o’
tea, I think. I wish you’d hold your noise!’
He burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal
wail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count--fast.
‘One--two--three--four--five--six.’
“One, two, buckle my shoe,”’ said Mrs Gamp, who was now on her knees,
lighting the fire, “three, four, shut the door,”--I wish you’d shut
your mouth, young man--“five, six, picking up sticks.” If I’d got a few
handy, I should have the kettle boiling all the sooner.’
Awaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the
fender (which was a high one) that her nose rested upon it; and for some
time she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and
forwards along the brass top, as far as she could, without changing her
position to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary
upon the wanderings of the man in bed.
‘That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with
the same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window,
and out at the door,’ he cried, anxiously. ‘Look there! Five hundred and
twenty-two--twenty-three--twenty-four. Do you see them?’
‘Ah! I see ‘em,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘all the whole kit of ‘em numbered like
hackney-coaches, an’t they?’
‘Touch me! Let me be sure of this. Touch me!’
‘You’ll take your next draught when I’ve made the kettle bile,’ retorted
Mrs Gamp, composedly, ‘and you’ll be touched then. You’ll be touched up,
too, if you don’t take it quiet.’
‘Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five
hundred and thirty.--Look here!’
‘What’s the matter now?’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘They’re coming four abreast, each man with his arm entwined in the next
man’s, and his hand upon his shoulder. What’s that upon the arm of every
man, and on the flag?’
‘Spiders, p’raps,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Crape! Black crape! Good God! why do they wear it outside?’
‘Would you have ‘em carry black crape in their insides?’ Mrs Gamp
retorted. ‘Hold your noise, hold your noise.’
The fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs Gamp
became silent; gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the
top of the fender; and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the
room ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew:
‘Chuzzlewit!’
The sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonised entreaty,
that Mrs Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to
find the passage filled with people, come to tell her that the house in
the city had taken fire. But the place was empty; not a soul was there.
She opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate
house-tops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient.
Just the same; but silent. Mrs Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off
the watchman’s coat, and fanned herself.
‘It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,’ she said. ‘What could I have
been a-dreaming of? That dratted Chuffey, I’ll be bound.’
The supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and
the song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs Gamp’s
nerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea; made some
buttered toast; and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the
fire.
When once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in
her slumbering ear, these words were shrieked out:
‘Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!’
Mrs Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and
turned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry
had come from the bed.
It was bright morning the next time Mrs Gamp looked out of the window,
and the sun was rising cheerfully. Lighter and lighter grew the sky, and
noisier the streets; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of
newly kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake.
Mrs Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other
patient’s. Mr Westlock came at the same time, but he was not admitted,
the disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook
his head. It was all he could do, under the circumstances, and he did it
well.
‘What sort of a night, nurse?’
‘Restless, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Talk much?’
‘Middling, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Nothing to the purpose, I suppose?’
‘Oh bless you, no, sir. Only jargon.’
‘Well!’ said the doctor, ‘we must keep him quiet; keep the room cool;
give him his draughts regularly; and see that he’s carefully looked to.
That’s all!’
‘And as long as Mrs Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,’
said Mrs Gamp.
‘I suppose,’ observed Mrs Prig, when they had curtseyed the doctor out;
‘there’s nothin’ new?’
‘Nothin’ at all, my dear,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He’s rather wearin’ in his
talk from making up a lot of names; elseways you needn’t mind him.’
‘Oh, I shan’t mind him,’ Mrs Prig returned. ‘I have somethin’ else to
think of.’
‘I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,’
said Mrs Gamp. ‘But, Betsy Prig’--speaking with great feeling, and
laying her hand upon her arm--‘try the cowcumbers, God bless you!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT
The laws of sympathy between beards and birds, and the secret source
of that attraction which frequently impels a shaver of the one to be
a dealer in the other, are questions for the subtle reasoning of
scientific bodies; not the less so, because their investigation would
seem calculated to lead to no particular result. It is enough to know
that the artist who had the honour of entertaining Mrs Gamp as
his first-floor lodger, united the two pursuits of barbering and
bird-fancying; and that it was not an original idea of his, but one in
which he had, dispersed about the by-streets and suburbs of the town, a
host of rivals.
The name of the householder was Paul Sweedlepipe. But he was commonly
called Poll Sweedlepipe; and was not uncommonly believed to have been so
christened, among his friends and neighbours.
With the exception of the staircase, and his lodger’s private apartment,
Poll Sweedlepipe’s house was one great bird’s nest. Gamecocks resided in
the kitchen; pheasants wasted the brightness of their golden plumage on
the garret; bantams roosted in the cellar; owls had possession of the
bedroom; and specimens of all the smaller fry of birds chirrupped and
twittered in the shop. The staircase was sacred to rabbits. There in
hutches of all shapes and kinds, made from old packing-cases, boxes,
drawers, and tea-chests, they increased in a prodigious degree, and
contributed their share towards that complicated whiff which, quite
impartially, and without distinction of persons, saluted every nose that
was put into Sweedlepipe’s easy shaving-shop.
Many noses found their way there, for all that, especially on Sunday
morning, before church-time. Even archbishops shave, or must be shaved,
on a Sunday, and beards WILL grow after twelve o’clock on Saturday
night, though it be upon the chins of base mechanics; who, not being
able to engage their valets by the quarter, hire them by the job, and
pay them--oh, the wickedness of copper coin!--in dirty pence. Poll
Sweedlepipe, the sinner, shaved all comers at a penny each, and cut the
hair of any customer for twopence; and being a lone unmarried man, and
having some connection in the bird line, Poll got on tolerably well.
He was a little elderly man, with a clammy cold right hand, from which
even rabbits and birds could not remove the smell of shaving-soap. Poll
had something of the bird in his nature; not of the hawk or eagle, but
of the sparrow, that builds in chimney-stacks and inclines to human
company. He was not quarrelsome, though, like the sparrow; but peaceful,
like the dove. In his walk he strutted; and, in this respect, he bore
a faint resemblance to the pigeon, as well as in a certain prosiness of
speech, which might, in its monotony, be likened to the cooing of that
bird. He was very inquisitive; and when he stood at his shop-door in the
evening-tide, watching the neighbours, with his head on one side, and
his eye cocked knowingly, there was a dash of the raven in him. Yet
there was no more wickedness in Poll than in a robin. Happily, too, when
any of his ornithological properties were on the verge of going too
far, they were quenched, dissolved, melted down, and neutralised in
the barber; just as his bald head--otherwise, as the head of a shaved
magpie--lost itself in a wig of curly black ringlets, parted on one
side, and cut away almost to the crown, to indicate immense capacity of
intellect.
Poll had a very small, shrill treble voice, which might have led
the wags of Kingsgate Street to insist the more upon his feminine
designation. He had a tender heart, too; for, when he had a good
commission to provide three or four score sparrows for a shooting-match,
he would observe, in a compassionate tone, how singular it was that
sparrows should have been made expressly for such purposes. The
question, whether men were made to shoot them, never entered into Poll’s
philosophy.
Poll wore, in his sporting character, a velveteen coat, a great deal of
blue stocking, ankle boots, a neckerchief of some bright colour, and
a very tall hat. Pursuing his more quiet occupation of barber, he
generally subsided into an apron not over-clean, a flannel jacket, and
corduroy knee-shorts. It was in this latter costume, but with his apron
girded round his waist, as a token of his having shut up shop for
the night, that he closed the door one evening, some weeks after the
occurrences detailed in the last chapter, and stood upon the steps in
Kingsgate Street, listening until the little cracked bell within
should leave off ringing. For until it did--this was Mr Sweedlepipe’s
reflection--the place never seemed quiet enough to be left to itself.
‘It’s the greediest little bell to ring,’ said Poll, ‘that ever was. But
it’s quiet at last.’
He rolled his apron up a little tighter as he said these words, and
hastened down the street. Just as he was turning into Holborn, he ran
against a young gentleman in a livery. This youth was bold, though
small, and with several lively expressions of displeasure, turned upon
him instantly.
‘Now, STOO-PID!’ cried the young gentleman. ‘Can’t you look where you’re
a-going to--eh? Can’t you mind where you’re a-coming to--eh? What do you
think your eyes was made for--eh? Ah! Yes. Oh! Now then!’
The young gentleman pronounced the two last words in a very loud tone
and with frightful emphasis, as though they contained within themselves
the essence of the direst aggravation. But he had scarcely done so, when
his anger yielded to surprise, and he cried, in a milder tone:
‘What! Polly!’
‘Why, it an’t you, sure!’ cried Poll. ‘It can’t be you!’
‘No. It an’t me,’ returned the youth. ‘It’s my son, my oldest one. He’s
a credit to his father, an’t he, Polly?’ With this delicate little
piece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round
in circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the
inconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal
state of spirits with himself.
‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ said Poll. ‘What! You’ve left your old
place, then? Have you?’
‘Have I!’ returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his
hands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering
along at the barber’s side. ‘D’ye know a pair of top-boots when you see
‘em, Polly?--look here!’
‘Beau-ti-ful’ cried Mr Sweedlepipe.
‘D’ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?’ said the youth.
‘Don’t look at mine, if you ain’t a judge, because these lions’ heads
was made for men of taste; not snobs.’
‘Beau-ti-ful!’ cried the barber again. ‘A grass-green frock-coat, too,
bound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!’
‘I should hope so,’ replied the youth. ‘Blow the cockade, though; for,
except that it don’t turn round, it’s like the wentilator that used to
be in the kitchen winder at Todgers’s. You ain’t seen the old lady’s
name in the Gazette, have you?’
‘No,’ returned the barber. ‘Is she a bankrupt?’
‘If she ain’t, she will be,’ retorted Bailey. ‘That bis’ness never can
be carried on without ME. Well! How are you?’
‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘Are you living at this end of the
town, or were you coming to see me? Was that the bis’ness that brought
you to Holborn?’
‘I haven’t got no bis’ness in Holborn,’ returned Bailey, with some
displeasure. ‘All my bis’ness lays at the West End. I’ve got the right
sort of governor now. You can’t see his face for his whiskers, and can’t
see his whiskers for the dye upon ‘em. That’s a gentleman ain’t it? You
wouldn’t like a ride in a cab, would you? Why, it wouldn’t be safe to
offer it. You’d faint away, only to see me a-comin’ at a mild trot round
the corner.’
To convey a slight idea of the effect of this approach, Mr Bailey
counterfeited in his own person the action of a high-trotting horse and
threw up his head so high, in backing against a pump, that he shook his
hat off.
‘Why, he’s own uncle to Capricorn,’ said Bailey, ‘and brother to
Cauliflower. He’s been through the winders of two chaney shops since
we’ve had him, and was sold for killin’ his missis. That’s a horse, I
hope?’
‘Ah! you’ll never want to buy any more red polls, now,’ observed Poll,
looking on his young friend with an air of melancholy. ‘You’ll never
want to buy any more red polls now, to hang up over the sink, will you?’
‘I should think not,’ replied Bailey. ‘Reether so. I wouldn’t have
nothin’ to say to any bird below a Peacock; and HE’d be wulgar. Well,
how are you?’
‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. He answered the question again because
Mr Bailey asked it again; Mr Bailey asked it again, because--accompanied
with a straddling action of the white cords, a bend of the knees, and a
striking forth of the top-boots--it was an easy horse-fleshy, turfy sort
of thing to do.
‘Wot are you up to, old feller?’ added Mr Bailey, with the same graceful
rakishness. He was quite the man-about-town of the conversation, while
the easy-shaver was the child.
‘Why, I am going to fetch my lodger home,’ said Paul.
‘A woman!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘for a twenty-pun’ note!’
The little barber hastened to explain that she was neither a young
woman, nor a handsome woman, but a nurse, who had been acting as a kind
of house-keeper to a gentleman for some weeks past, and left her place
that night, in consequence of being superseded by another and a more
legitimate house-keeper--to wit, the gentleman’s bride.
‘He’s newly married, and he brings his young wife home to-night,’ said
the barber. ‘So I’m going to fetch my lodger away--Mr Chuzzlewit’s,
close behind the Post Office--and carry her box for her.’
‘Jonas Chuzzlewit’s?’ said Bailey.
‘Ah!’ returned Paul: ‘that’s the name sure enough. Do you know him?’
‘Oh, no!’ cried Mr Bailey; ‘not at all. And I don’t know her! Not
neither! Why, they first kept company through me, a’most.’
‘Ah?’ said Paul.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Bailey, with a wink; ‘and she ain’t bad looking mind you.
But her sister was the best. SHE was the merry one. I often used to have
a bit of fun with her, in the hold times!’
Mr Bailey spoke as if he already had a leg and three-quarters in
the grave, and this had happened twenty or thirty years ago. Paul
Sweedlepipe, the meek, was so perfectly confounded by his precocious
self-possession, and his patronizing manner, as well as by his boots,
cockade, and livery, that a mist swam before his eyes, and he saw--not
the Bailey of acknowledged juvenility from Todgers’s Commercial
Boarding House, who had made his acquaintance within a twelvemonth,
by purchasing, at sundry times, small birds at twopence each--but a
highly-condensed embodiment of all the sporting grooms in London; an
abstract of all the stable-knowledge of the time; a something at a
high-pressure that must have had existence many years, and was fraught
with terrible experiences. And truly, though in the cloudy atmosphere
of Todgers’s, Mr Bailey’s genius had ever shone out brightly in this
particular respect, it now eclipsed both time and space, cheated
beholders of their senses, and worked on their belief in defiance of all
natural laws. He walked along the tangible and real stones of Holborn
Hill, an undersized boy; and yet he winked the winks, and thought the
thoughts, and did the deeds, and said the sayings of an ancient man.
There was an old principle within him, and a young surface without. He
became an inexplicable creature; a breeched and booted Sphinx. There was
no course open to the barber, but to go distracted himself, or to take
Bailey for granted; and he wisely chose the latter.
Mr Bailey was good enough to continue to bear him company, and to
entertain him, as they went, with easy conversation on various sporting
topics; especially on the comparative merits, as a general principle, of
horses with white stockings, and horses without. In regard to the style
of tail to be preferred, Mr Bailey had opinions of his own, which he
explained, but begged they might by no means influence his friend’s,
as here he knew he had the misfortune to differ from some excellent
authorities. He treated Mr Sweedlepipe to a dram, compounded agreeably
to his own directions, which he informed him had been invented by a
member of the Jockey Club; and, as they were by this time near the
barber’s destination, he observed that, as he had an hour to spare, and
knew the parties, he would, if quite agreeable, be introduced to Mrs
Gamp.
Paul knocked at Jonas Chuzzlewit’s; and, on the door being opened by
that lady, made the two distinguished persons known to one another. It
was a happy feature in Mrs Gamp’s twofold profession, that it gave her
an interest in everything that was young as well as in everything that
was old. She received Mr Bailey with much kindness.
‘It’s very good, I’m sure, of you to come,’ she said to her landlord,
‘as well as bring so nice a friend. But I’m afraid that I must trouble
you so far as to step in, for the young couple has not yet made
appearance.’
‘They’re late, ain’t they?’ inquired her landlord, when she had
conducted them downstairs into the kitchen.
‘Well, sir, considern’ the Wings of Love, they are,’ said Mrs Gamp.
Mr Bailey inquired whether the Wings of Love had ever won a plate, or
could be backed to do anything remarkable; and being informed that it
was not a horse, but merely a poetical or figurative expression, evinced
considerable disgust. Mrs Gamp was so very much astonished by his
affable manners and great ease, that she was about to propound to her
landlord in a whisper the staggering inquiry, whether he was a man or
a boy, when Mr Sweedlepipe, anticipating her design, made a timely
diversion.
‘He knows Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ said Paul aloud.
‘There’s nothin’ he don’t know; that’s my opinion,’ observed Mrs Gamp.
‘All the wickedness of the world is Print to him.’
Mr Bailey received this as a compliment, and said, adjusting his cravat,
‘reether so.’
‘As you knows Mrs Chuzzlewit, you knows, p’raps, what her chris’en name
is?’ Mrs Gamp observed.
‘Charity,’ said Bailey.
‘That it ain’t!’ cried Mrs Gamp.
‘Cherry, then,’ said Bailey. ‘Cherry’s short for it. It’s all the same.’
‘It don’t begin with a C at all,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, shaking her head.
‘It begins with a M.’
‘Whew!’ cried Mr Bailey, slapping a little cloud of pipe-clay out of his
left leg, ‘then he’s been and married the merry one!’
As these words were mysterious, Mrs Gamp called upon him to explain,
which Mr Bailey proceeded to do; that lady listening greedily to
everything he said. He was yet in the fullness of his narrative when the
sound of wheels, and a double knock at the street door, announced the
arrival of the newly married couple. Begging him to reserve what more he
had to say for her hearing on the way home, Mrs Gamp took up the candle,
and hurried away to receive and welcome the young mistress of the house.
‘Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping
a curtsey as they entered the hall; ‘and you, too, sir. Your lady looks
a little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!’
‘She has bothered enough about it,’ grumbled Mr Jonas. ‘Now, show a
light, will you?’
‘This way, ma’am, if you please,’ said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before
them. ‘Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there’s
many things you’ll have to alter your own self when you gets time
to look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don’t,’ added Mrs Gamp,
internally, ‘you don’t look much like a merry one, I must say!’
It was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal
seemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and
oppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and
corner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged
clerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He
rose and looked at her.
‘So there you are, Mr Chuff,’ said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his
boots; ‘still in the land of the living, eh?’
‘Still in the land of the living, sir,’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘And Mr
Chuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I’ve told him.’
Mr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he
looked round, ‘We don’t want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.’
‘I’m a-going immediate, sir,’ returned the nurse; ‘unless there’s
nothink I can do for you, ma’am. Ain’t there,’ said Mrs Gamp, with
a look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket;
‘ain’t there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?’
‘No,’ said Merry, almost crying. ‘You had better go away, please!’
With a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the
future, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly
spiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar
to her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a
printed card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.
‘Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,’
Mrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, ‘as put that somewheres where you can
keep it in your mind? I’m well beknown to many ladies, and it’s my card.
Gamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin’ quite handy, I will make
so bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and
spirits is, my precious chick!’
And with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys,
all leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential
understanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a
blessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and
curtseyed herself out of the room.
‘But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for
it,’ Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, ‘that she don’t look
much like a merry one at this present moment of time.’
‘Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!’ said Bailey.
‘Hem!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. ‘I will, child.’
They said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr
Sweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards
Kingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin
and progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It
was a pleasant instance of this youth’s precocity, that he fancied Mrs
Gamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her
misplaced attachment.
As the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair,
and felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the
room. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary.
She had thought to see it brightened to receive her.
‘It ain’t good enough for you, I suppose?’ said Jonas, watching her
looks.
‘Why, it IS dull,’ said Merry, trying to be more herself.
‘It’ll be duller before you’re done with it,’ retorted Jonas, ‘if you
give me any of your airs. You’re a nice article, to turn sulky on first
coming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague
me with it. The gal’s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take
my boots off!’
She roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do
what he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on
her arm.
‘You are not married?’ he said eagerly. ‘Not married?’
‘Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?’
He answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear
and wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above
his head, and heard him say:
‘Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!’
It was her welcome--HOME.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN
FALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY
SOMETIMES BE BITTEN.
Mr Bailey, Junior--for the sporting character, whilom of general utility
at Todgers’s, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without
troubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in
the form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills
is without exception the most unreasonable in its charges--Mr Bailey,
Junior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing
indolently at society from beneath the apron of his master’s cab, drove
slowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his
‘Governor.’ The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his
nephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his
high relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with
foam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the
patent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was
complacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, ‘A barrow, good people, a
mere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!’ and on he went,
squaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on
to it by his armpits.
Mr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated
his powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his
practice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful,
if not injurious, expressions, as, ‘Ah! would you!’ ‘Did you think
it, then?’ ‘Where are you going to now?’ ‘No, you won’t, my lad!’ and
similar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk
of the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength
between them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating,
now and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had
already hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.
On the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than
commonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal
confined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his
paces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the
cabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr
Bailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to
bestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown
coal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, ‘Now, young
‘un, who trusted YOU with a cart?’ inquiring of elderly ladies who
wanted to cross, and ran back again, ‘Why they didn’t go to the
workhouse and get an order to be buried?’ tempting boys, with friendly
words, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down;
and the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally
relieve by going round St. James’s Square at a hand gallop, and coming
slowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace
had been a perfect crawl.
It was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the
apple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to
appear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain
house in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out.
It was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every
jerk of Cauliflower’s brother’s head, and every twitch of Cauliflower’s
brother’s nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that
two persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove
rapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds
of yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron
step, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind.
Then, indeed, he became a sight to see; and--standing now on one foot
and now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side,
now on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went
dashing in among the carts and coaches--was from head to heel Newmarket.
The appearance of Mr Bailey’s governor as he drove along fully justified
that enthusiastic youth’s description of him to the wondering Poll. He
had a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks,
upon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were
of the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue,
and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains
and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant
rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a
honey-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in
a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his
outward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down,
and inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though
no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same
Satanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered,
newly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.
Beside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business
looks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the--how
shall it be phrased?--the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David,
tapster at the Lombards’ Arms? Yes. The very man.
‘The secretary’s salary, David,’ said Mr Montague, ‘the office being
now established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent,
coals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course.
Is that enough?’
David smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio
which he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in
question.
‘If that’s enough,’ said Montague, ‘I will propose it at the Board
to-day, in my capacity as chairman.’
The secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said,
rubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:
‘It was a capital thought, wasn’t it?’
‘What was a capital thought, David?’ Mr Montague inquired.
‘The Anglo-Bengalee,’ tittered the secretary.
‘The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is
rather a capital concern, I hope, David,’ said Montague.
‘Capital indeed!’ cried the secretary, with another laugh--’ in one
sense.’
‘In the only important one,’ observed the chairman; ‘which is number
one, David.’
‘What,’ asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, ‘what will be
the paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?’
‘A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get
into the same line,’ replied his friend. ‘Ha, ha!’
At this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking
up his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower’s
brother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr Bailey’s receiving such
a sudden swing, that he held on for a moment quite a young Fame, by one
strap and no legs.
‘What a chap you are!’ exclaimed David admiringly, when this little
alarm had subsided.
‘Say, genius, David, genius.’
‘Well, upon my soul, you ARE a genius then,’ said David. ‘I always knew
you had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were
half the man you are. How could I?’
‘I rise with circumstances, David. That’s a point of genius in itself,’
said Tigg. ‘If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at
this minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly
improbable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.’
It is due to Mr Tigg to say that he had really risen with his
opportunities; and, peculating on a grander scale, he had become a
grander man altogether.
‘Ha, ha,’ cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing
familiarity, upon the chairman’s arm. ‘When I look at you, and think of
your property in Bengal being--ha, ha, ha!--’
The half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr Tigg than to his
friend, for he laughed too, heartily.
‘--Being,’ resumed David, ‘being amenable--your property in Bengal being
amenable--to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think
of that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at
me. Upon my soul you might!’
‘It a devilish fine property,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘to be amenable
to any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money,
David.’
David could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, ‘Oh, what a
chap you are!’ and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe
his eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.
‘A capital idea?’ said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion’s
first remark; ‘no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.’
‘No, no. It was my idea,’ said David. ‘Hang it, let a man have some
credit. Didn’t I say to you that I’d saved a few pounds?--’
‘You said! Didn’t I say to you,’ interposed Tigg, ‘that I had come into
a few pounds?’
‘Certainly you did,’ returned David, warmly, ‘but that’s not the idea.
Who said, that if we put the money together we could furnish an office,
and make a show?’
‘And who said,’ retorted Mr Tigg, ‘that, provided we did it on a
sufficiently large scale, we could furnish an office and make a show,
without any money at all? Be rational, and just, and calm, and tell me
whose idea was that.’
‘Why, there,’ David was obliged to confess, ‘you had the advantage of
me, I admit. But I don’t put myself on a level with you. I only want a
little credit in the business.’
‘All the credit you deserve to have,’ said Tigg.
‘The plain work of the company, David--figures, books, circulars,
advertisements, pen, ink, and paper, sealing-wax and wafers--is
admirably done by you. You are a first-rate groveller. I don’t dispute
it. But the ornamental department, David; the inventive and poetical
department--’
‘Is entirely yours,’ said his friend. ‘No question of it. But with such
a swell turnout as this, and all the handsome things you’ve got about
you, and the life you lead, I mean to say it’s a precious comfortable
department too.’
‘Does it gain the purpose? Is it Anglo-Bengalee?’ asked Tigg.
‘Yes,’ said David.
‘Could you undertake it yourself?’ demanded Tigg.
‘No,’ said David.
‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Tigg. ‘Then be contented with your station and
your profits, David, my fine fellow, and bless the day that made us
acquainted across the counter of our common uncle, for it was a golden
day to you.’
It will have been already gathered from the conversation of these
worthies, that they were embarked in an enterprise of some magnitude, in
which they addressed the public in general from the strong position of
having everything to gain and nothing at all to lose; and which, based
upon this great principle, was thriving pretty comfortably.
The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company started
into existence one morning, not an Infant Institution, but a Grown-up
Company running alone at a great pace, and doing business right and
left: with a ‘branch’ in a first floor over a tailor’s at the west-end
of the town, and main offices in a new street in the City, comprising
the upper part of a spacious house resplendent in stucco and
plate-glass, with wire-blinds in all the windows, and ‘Anglo-Bengalee’
worked into the pattern of every one of them. On the doorpost was
painted again in large letters, ‘offices of the Anglo-Bengalee
Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company,’ and on the door was a
large brass plate with the same inscription; always kept very bright, as
courting inquiry; staring the City out of countenance after office hours
on working days, and all day long on Sundays; and looking bolder than
the Bank. Within, the offices were newly plastered, newly painted,
newly papered, newly countered, newly floor-clothed, newly tabled, newly
chaired, newly fitted up in every way, with goods that were substantial
and expensive, and designed (like the company) to last. Business! Look
at the green ledgers with red backs, like strong cricket-balls beaten
flat; the court-guides directories, day-books, almanacks, letter-boxes,
weighing-machines for letters, rows of fire-buckets for dashing out a
conflagration in its first spark, and saving the immense wealth in notes
and bonds belonging to the company; look at the iron safes, the clock,
the office seal--in its capacious self, security for anything. Solidity!
Look at the massive blocks of marble in the chimney-pieces, and the
gorgeous parapet on the top of the house! Publicity! Why, Anglo-Bengalee
Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance company is painted on the very
coal-scuttles. It is repeated at every turn until the eyes are dazzled
with it, and the head is giddy. It is engraved upon the top of all the
letter paper, and it makes a scroll-work round the seal, and it shines
out of the porter’s buttons, and it is repeated twenty times in every
circular and public notice wherein one David Crimple, Esquire, Secretary
and resident Director, takes the liberty of inviting your attention
to the accompanying statement of the advantages offered by the
Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; and fully
proves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment
must result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus
to yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except
the office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And
this, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you
believe him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by
the Board of Management for its permanence and stability.
This gentleman’s name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as
the word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be
misrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.
Lest with all these proofs and confirmations, any man should be
suspicious of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance
company; should doubt in tiger, cab, or person, Tigg Montague, Esquire,
(of Pall Mall and Bengal), or any other name in the imaginative List of
Directors; there was a porter on the premises--a wonderful creature,
in a vast red waistcoat and a short-tailed pepper-and-salt coat--who
carried more conviction to the minds of sceptics than the whole
establishment without him. No confidences existed between him and the
Directorship; nobody knew where he had served last; no character or
explanation had been given or required. No questions had been asked on
either side. This mysterious being, relying solely on his figure, had
applied for the situation, and had been instantly engaged on his own
terms. They were high; but he knew, doubtless, that no man could carry
such an extent of waistcoat as himself, and felt the full value of his
capacity to such an institution. When he sat upon a seat erected for him
in a corner of the office, with his glazed hat hanging on a peg over his
head, it was impossible to doubt the respectability of the concern.
It went on doubling itself with every square inch of his red waistcoat
until, like the problem of the nails in the horse’s shoes, the total
became enormous. People had been known to apply to effect an insurance
on their lives for a thousand pounds, and looking at him, to beg, before
the form of proposal was filled up, that it might be made two. And yet
he was not a giant. His coat was rather small than otherwise. The whole
charm was in his waistcoat. Respectability, competence, property in
Bengal or anywhere else, responsibility to any amount on the part of the
company that employed him, were all expressed in that one garment.
Rival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself
had beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered ‘Be a Beadle!’ but he
still continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep
rogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he
appeared to believe in the Anglo-Bengalee. He was grave with imaginary
cares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less
to take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties,
and a sense of the treasure in the company’s strong-room, made him a
solemn and a thoughtful man.
As the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed
on the pavement, crying aloud ‘Room for the chairman, room for the
chairman, if you please!’ much to the admiration of the bystanders,
who, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the
Anglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped
gracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time
very distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by
the porter, who cried as he went, ‘By your leave there! by your leave!
The Chairman of the Board, Gentle--MEN! In like manner, but in a still
more stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public
office, where some humble clients were transacting business, into
an awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary
immediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.
The board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of
Tigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office,
garnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table,
set out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean
pens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great
solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter
stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat.
This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little
fiction.
‘Bullamy!’ said Mr Tigg.
‘Sir!’ replied the porter.
‘Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see
him.’
Bullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying ‘The
Chairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave
there! By your leave!’ He soon returned with the gentleman in question;
and at both openings of the board-room door--at his coming in and at
his going out--simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and
stand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that
mysterious chamber.
‘Jobling, my dear friend!’ said Mr Tigg, ‘how are you? Bullamy, wait
outside. Crimple, don’t leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to
see you.’
‘And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?’ said the Medical Officer, throwing
himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the
board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his
black satin waistcoat. ‘How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If
so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing
at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very
wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices
with lunch, Mr Montague.’
The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed
poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs
Gamp’s patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually
added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, ‘I
always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!’
‘Bullamy!’ said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.
‘Sir!’
‘Lunch.’
‘Not on my account, I hope?’ said the doctor. ‘You are very good. Thank
you. I’m quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner,
Mr Montague, I shouldn’t have mentioned it without a fee; for you may
depend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don’t make a point of taking
lunch, you’ll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate
this. In Mr Crimple’s leg--’
The resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the
heat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as
if he were going to take it off, then and there.
‘In Mr Crimple’s leg, you’ll observe,’ pursued the doctor, turning back
his cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, ‘where Mr Crimple’s
knee fits into the socket, here, there is--that is to say, between the
bone and the socket--a certain quantity of animal oil.’
‘What do you pick MY leg out for?’ said Mr Crimple, looking with
something of an anxious expression at his limb. ‘It’s the same with
other legs, ain’t it?’
‘Never you mind, my good sir,’ returned the doctor, shaking his head,
‘whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.’
‘But I do mind,’ said David.
‘I take a particular case, Mr Montague,’ returned the doctor, ‘as
illustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple’s
leg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr
Crimple’s joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very
good. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper
quantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the
consequence? Mr Crimple’s bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and
Mr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!’
The doctor let Mr Crimple’s leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in
that agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked
triumphantly at the chairman.
‘We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,’ said the
doctor. ‘Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the
College for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It’s
extraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where
do you suppose, now’--the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back
smilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which
his two thumbs composed the base--‘where do you suppose Mr Crimple’s
stomach is?’
Mr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately
below his waistcoat.
‘Not at all,’ cried the doctor; ‘not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My
good sir, you’re altogether deceived.’
‘I feel it there, when it’s out of order; that’s all I know,’ said
Crimple.
‘You think you do,’ replied the doctor; ‘but science knows better. There
was a patient of mine once,’ touching one of the many mourning rings
upon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, ‘a gentleman who did
me the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will--“in
testimony,” as he was pleased to say, “of the unremitting zeal, talent,
and attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire,
M.R.C.S.,”--who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life
laboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important
organ, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was
mistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, “Jobling,
God bless you!” Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was
ultimately buried at Brixton.’
‘By your leave there!’ cried Bullamy, without. ‘By your leave!
Refreshment for the Board-room!’
‘Ha!’ said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his
chair nearer to the table. ‘The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The
best Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat
and drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?’
The resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification
of replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his
preconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance
of the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white
cloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls,
flanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his
good humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle
of excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked
the repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical
officer.
The lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate,
and china; which seemed to denote that eating and drinking on a showy
scale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee
Directorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more
joyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every
drop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and
to light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.
In certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was,
as we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He
had a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich
huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a
ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy.
His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of
the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and
his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest,
creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands,
or warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a
peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Ah!’ at intervals while
patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It
seemed to express, ‘I know what you’re going to say better than you do;
but go on, go on.’ As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything
to say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was ‘full of
anecdote;’ and his experience and profit from it were considered, for
the same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His
female patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of
his male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, ‘that
whatever Jobling’s professional skill might be (and it could not be
denied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most
comfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!’
Jobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his
connection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly
the sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical
officer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the
company in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary,
or to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help
it. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this
manner:
‘Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information,
you see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in
consideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of
his hire; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT’--[‘classical scholar, Jobling!’ thinks
the patient, ‘well-read man!’)--‘and I receive it regularly. Therefore
I am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the
establishment.’ [‘Nothing can be fairer than Jobling’s conduct,’ thinks
the patient, who has just paid Jobling’s bill himself.) ‘If you put
any question to me, my dear friend,’ says the doctor, ‘touching the
responsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I
have no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of
showing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy--your
amiable lady will agree with me I am sure--should be one of the first
characteristics of a medical man.’ [‘Nothing can be finer or more
gentlemanly than Jobling’s feeling,’ thinks the patient.) ‘Very good,
my dear sir, so the matter stands. You don’t know Mr Montague? I’m sorry
for it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every
respect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging
to him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish
scale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are
perfection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the
company, I’ll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously
report you a healthy subject. If I understand any man’s constitution, it
is yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good,
ma’am,’ says the doctor, turning to the patient’s wife, ‘than if he had
swallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery.
For they ARE nonsense--to tell the honest truth, one half of them are
nonsense--compared with such a constitution as his!’ [‘Jobling is the
most friendly creature I ever met with in my life,’ thinks the patient;
‘and upon my word and honour, I’ll consider of it!’)
‘Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this
morning, eh?’ said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over
some papers brought in by the porter. ‘Well done!’
‘Jobling, my dear friend,’ said Tigg, ‘long life to you.’
‘No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I’ve no right to draw the commission,’
said the doctor, ‘I haven’t really. It’s picking your pocket. I don’t
recommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what
I know, and I tell ‘em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak
side, that’s the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,’ said the
doctor, filling his glass, ‘caution in behalf of other people. Whether I
would repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying
money elsewhere for many years--that’s quite another question.’
He tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he
did it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.
‘Talking of wine,’ said the doctor, ‘reminds me of one of the finest
glasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a
funeral. You have not seen anything of--of THAT party, Mr Montague, have
you?’ handing him a card.
‘He is not buried, I hope?’ said Tigg, as he took it. ‘The honour of his
company is not requested if he is.’
‘Ha, ha!’ laughed the doctor. ‘No; not quite. He was honourably
connected with that very occasion though.’
‘Oh!’ said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the
name. ‘I recollect. No. He has not been here.’
The words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card
to the Medical Officer.
‘Talk of the what’s his name--’ observed the doctor rising.
‘And he’s sure to appear, eh?’ said Tigg.
‘Why, no, Mr Montague, no,’ returned the doctor. ‘We will not say that
in the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.’
‘So much the better,’ retorted Tigg. ‘So much the more adaptable to the
Anglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the
other door. Mr Crimple, business.’
‘Shall I introduce him?’ asked Jobling.
‘I shall be eternally delighted,’ answered Tigg, kissing his hand and
smiling sweetly.
The doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned
with Jonas Chuzzlewit.
‘Mr Montague,’ said Jobling. ‘Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear
friend--our chairman. Now do you know,’ he added checking himself with
infinite policy, and looking round with a smile; ‘that’s a very singular
instance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable
instance of the force of example. I say OUR chairman. Why do I say our
chairman? Because he is not MY chairman, you know. I have no connection
with the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and
reward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any
day to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply
because I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the
involuntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man.
Mr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.’
Pending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and
sonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at
the board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader’s
knowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in
the nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine
furniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.
‘Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,’ said the
doctor, ‘and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are
waiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make
after--after I have taken ‘em. Having had the happiness to introduce you
to each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr
Montague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you:
That gentleman has done more, sir,’ rapping his snuff-box solemnly, ‘to
reconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!’
With these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded
in his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a
sense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and
the great difficulty of getting into the Anglo-Bengalee; by feeling
their pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs,
poking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn’t well know
beforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee
would accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his
friend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious
imitation.
Mr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas
Chuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.
‘I learn from our friend,’ said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas
with a winning ease of manner, ‘that you have been thinking--’
‘Oh! Ecod then he’d no right to say so,’ cried Jonas, interrupting.
‘I didn’t tell HIM my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was
coming here for such or such a purpose, why, that’s his lookout. I don’t
stand committed by that.’
Jonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual
distrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge
himself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion
as he had been unable to withstand their influence.
‘If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to
consider of, I don’t bind myself to anything. Let’s understand that, you
know,’ said Jonas.
‘My dear fellow!’ cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘I applaud
your frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all
possible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you
know so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all
birds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in
serving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining
our own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you’re in our
secret. You’re behind the scenes. We’ll make a merit of dealing plainly
with you, when we know we can’t help it.’
It was remarked, on the first introduction of Mr Jonas into these pages,
that there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of
innocence, and that in all matters involving a faith in knavery, he was
the most credulous of men. If Mr Tigg had preferred any claim to high
and honourable dealing, Jonas would have suspected him though he had
been a very model of probity; but when he gave utterance to Jonas’s own
thoughts of everything and everybody, Jonas began to feel that he was a
pleasant fellow, and one to be talked to freely.
He changed his position in the chair, not for a less awkward, but for a
more boastful attitude; and smiling in his miserable conceit rejoined:
‘You an’t a bad man of business, Mr Montague. You know how to set about
it, I WILL say.’
‘Tut, tut,’ said Tigg, nodding confidentially, and showing his white
teeth; ‘we are not children, Mr Chuzzlewit; we are grown men, I hope.’
Jonas assented, and said after a short silence, first spreading out his
legs, and sticking one arm akimbo to show how perfectly at home he was,
‘The truth is--’
‘Don’t say, the truth,’ interposed Tigg, with another grin. ‘It’s so
like humbug.’
Greatly charmed by this, Jonas began again.
‘The long and the short of it is--’
‘Better,’ muttered Tigg. ‘Much better!’
‘--That I didn’t consider myself very well used by one or two of the old
companies in some negotiations I have had with ‘em--once had, I mean.
They started objections they had no right to start, and put questions
they had no right to put, and carried things much too high for my
taste.’
As he made these observations he cast down his eyes, and looked
curiously at the carpet. Mr Tigg looked curiously at him.
He made so long a pause, that Tigg came to the rescue, and said, in his
pleasantest manner:
‘Take a glass of wine.’
‘No, no,’ returned Jonas, with a cunning shake of the head; ‘none of
that, thankee. No wine over business. All very well for you, but it
wouldn’t do for me.’
‘What an old hand you are, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ said Tigg, leaning back in
his chair, and leering at him through his half-shut eyes.
Jonas shook his head again, as much as to say, ‘You’re right there;’ And
then resumed, jocosely:
‘Not such an old hand, either, but that I’ve been and got married.
That’s rather green, you’ll say. Perhaps it is, especially as she’s
young. But one never knows what may happen to these women, so I’m
thinking of insuring her life. It is but fair, you know, that a man
should secure some consolation in case of meeting with such a loss.’
‘If anything can console him under such heart-breaking circumstances,’
murmured Tigg, with his eyes shut up as before.
‘Exactly,’ returned Jonas; ‘if anything can. Now, supposing I did it
here, I should do it cheap, I know, and easy, without bothering her
about it; which I’d much rather not do, for it’s just in a woman’s way
to take it into her head, if you talk to her about such things, that
she’s going to die directly.’
‘So it is,’ cried Tigg, kissing his hand in honour of the sex. ‘You’re
quite right. Sweet, silly, fluttering little simpletons!’
‘Well,’ said Jonas, ‘on that account, you know, and because offence
has been given me in other quarters, I wouldn’t mind patronizing this
Company. But I want to know what sort of security there is for the
Company’s going on. That’s the--’
‘Not the truth?’ cried Tigg, holding up his jewelled hand. ‘Don’t use
that Sunday School expression, please!’
‘The long and the short of it,’ said Jonas. ‘The long and the short of
it is, what’s the security?’
‘The paid-up capital, my dear sir,’ said Tigg, referring to some papers
on the table, ‘is, at this present moment--’
‘Oh! I understand all about paid-up capitals, you know,’ said Jonas.
‘You do?’ cried Tigg, stopping short.
‘I should hope so.’
He turned the papers down again, and moving nearer to him, said in his
ear:
‘I know you do. I know you do. Look at me!’
It was not much in Jonas’s way to look straight at anybody; but thus
requested, he made shift to take a tolerable survey of the chairman’s
features. The chairman fell back a little, to give him the better
opportunity.
‘You know me?’ he inquired, elevating his eyebrows. ‘You recollect?
You’ve seen me before?’
‘Why, I thought I remembered your face when I first came in,’ said
Jonas, gazing at it; ‘but I couldn’t call to mind where I had seen it.
No. I don’t remember, even now. Was it in the street?’
‘Was it in Pecksniff’s parlour?’ said Tigg
‘In Pecksniff’s parlour!’ echoed Jonas, fetching a long breath. ‘You
don’t mean when--’
‘Yes,’ cried Tigg, ‘when there was a very charming and delightful little
family party, at which yourself and your respected father assisted.’
‘Well, never mind HIM,’ said Jonas. ‘He’s dead, and there’s no help for
it.’
‘Dead, is he!’ cried Tigg, ‘Venerable old gentleman, is he dead! You’re
very like him.’
Jonas received this compliment with anything but a good grace, perhaps
because of his own private sentiments in reference to the personal
appearance of his deceased parent; perhaps because he was not best
pleased to find that Montague and Tigg were one. That gentleman
perceived it, and tapping him familiarly on the sleeve, beckoned him
to the window. From this moment, Mr Montague’s jocularity and flow of
spirits were remarkable.
‘Do you find me at all changed since that time?’ he asked. ‘Speak
plainly.’
Jonas looked hard at his waistcoat and jewels; and said ‘Rather, ecod!’
‘Was I at all seedy in those days?’ asked Montague.
‘Precious seedy,’ said Jonas.
Mr Montague pointed down into the street, where Bailey and the cab were
in attendance.
‘Neat; perhaps dashing. Do you know whose it is?’
‘No.’
‘Mine. Do you like this room?’
‘It must have cost a lot of money,’ said Jonas.
‘You’re right. Mine too. Why don’t you’--he whispered this, and nudged
him in the side with his elbow--‘why don’t you take premiums, instead of
paying ‘em? That’s what a man like you should do. Join us!’
Jonas stared at him in amazement.
‘Is that a crowded street?’ asked Montague, calling his attention to the
multitude without.
‘Very,’ said Jonas, only glancing at it, and immediately afterwards
looking at him again.
‘There are printed calculations,’ said his companion, ‘which will
tell you pretty nearly how many people will pass up and down that
thoroughfare in the course of a day. I can tell you how many of ‘em will
come in here, merely because they find this office here; knowing no more
about it than they do of the Pyramids. Ha, ha! Join us. You shall come
in cheap.’
Jonas looked at him harder and harder.
‘I can tell you,’ said Tigg in his ear, ‘how many of ‘em will buy
annuities, effect insurances, bring us their money in a hundred shapes
and ways, force it upon us, trust us as if we were the Mint; yet know no
more about us than you do of that crossing-sweeper at the corner. Not so
much. Ha, ha!’
Jonas gradually broke into a smile.
‘Yah!’ said Montague, giving him a pleasant thrust in the breast;
‘you’re too deep for us, you dog, or I wouldn’t have told you. Dine with
me to-morrow, in Pall Mall!’
‘I will’ said Jonas.
‘Done!’ cried Montague. ‘Wait a bit. Take these papers with you and look
‘em over. See,’ he said, snatching some printed forms from the table. ‘B
is a little tradesman, clerk, parson, artist, author, any common thing
you like.’
‘Yes,’ said Jonas, looking greedily over his shoulder. ‘Well!’
‘B wants a loan. Say fifty or a hundred pound; perhaps more; no matter.
B proposes self and two securities. B is accepted. Two securities give
a bond. B assures his own life for double the amount, and brings two
friends’ lives also--just to patronize the office. Ha ha, ha! Is that a
good notion?’
‘Ecod, that’s a capital notion!’ cried Jonas. ‘But does he really do
it?’
‘Do it!’ repeated the chairman. ‘B’s hard up, my good fellow, and will
do anything. Don’t you see? It’s my idea.’
‘It does you honour. I’m blest if it don’t,’ said Jonas.
‘I think it does,’ replied the chairman, ‘and I’m proud to hear you say
so. B pays the highest lawful interest--’
‘That an’t much,’ interrupted Jonas.
‘Right! quite right!’ retorted Tigg. ‘And hard it is upon the part
of the law that it should be so confoundedly down upon us unfortunate
victims; when it takes such amazing good interest for itself from all
its clients. But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door.
Well! The law being hard upon us, we’re not exactly soft upon B; for
besides charging B the regular interest, we get B’s premium, and B’s
friends’ premiums, and we charge B for the bond, and, whether we accept
him or not, we charge B for “inquiries” (we keep a man, at a pound a
week, to make ‘em), and we charge B a trifle for the secretary; and in
short, my good fellow, we stick it into B, up hill and down dale, and
make a devilish comfortable little property out of him. Ha, ha, ha! I
drive B, in point of fact,’ said Tigg, pointing to the cabriolet, ‘and a
thoroughbred horse he is. Ha, ha, ha!’
Jonas enjoyed this joke very much indeed. It was quite in his peculiar
vein of humour.
‘Then,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘we grant annuities on the very lowest and
most advantageous terms known in the money market; and the old ladies
and gentlemen down in the country buy ‘em. Ha, ha, ha! And we pay ‘em
too--perhaps. Ha, ha, ha!’
‘But there’s responsibility in that,’ said Jonas, looking doubtful.
‘I take it all myself,’ said Tigg Montague. ‘Here I am responsible for
everything. The only responsible person in the establishment! Ha,
ha, ha! Then there are the Life Assurances without loans; the common
policies. Very profitable, very comfortable. Money down, you know;
repeated every year; capital fun!’
‘But when they begin to fall in,’ observed Jonas. ‘It’s all very well,
while the office is young, but when the policies begin to die--that’s
what I am thinking of.’
‘At the first start, my dear fellow,’ said Montague, ‘to show you how
correct your judgment is, we had a couple of unlucky deaths that brought
us down to a grand piano.’
‘Brought you down where?’ cried Jonas.
‘I give you my sacred word of honour,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘that I
raised money on every other individual piece of property, and was left
alone in the world with a grand piano. And it was an upright-grand too,
so that I couldn’t even sit upon it. But, my dear fellow, we got over
it. We granted a great many new policies that week (liberal allowance
to solicitors, by the bye), and got over it in no time. Whenever they
should chance to fall in heavily, as you very justly observe they may,
one of these days; then--’ he finished the sentence in so low a whisper,
that only one disconnected word was audible, and that imperfectly. But
it sounded like ‘Bolt.’
‘Why, you’re as bold as brass!’ said Jonas, in the utmost admiration.
‘A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he
gets gold in exchange!’ cried the chairman, with a laugh that shook him
from head to foot. ‘You’ll dine with me to-morrow?’
‘At what time?’ asked Jonas.
‘Seven. Here’s my card. Take the documents. I see you’ll join us!’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jonas. ‘There’s a good deal to be looked
into first.’
‘You shall look,’ said Montague, slapping him on the back, ‘into
anything and everything you please. But you’ll join us, I am convinced.
You were made for it. Bullamy!’
Obedient to the summons and the little bell, the waistcoat appeared.
Being charged to show Jonas out, it went before; and the voice within it
cried, as usual, ‘By your leave there, by your leave! Gentleman from the
board-room, by your leave!’
Mr Montague being left alone, pondered for some moments, and then said,
raising his voice:
‘Is Nadgett in the office there?’
‘Here he is, sir.’ And he promptly entered; shutting the board-room door
after him, as carefully as if he were about to plot a murder.
He was the man at a pound a week who made the inquiries. It was no
virtue or merit in Nadgett that he transacted all his Anglo-Bengalee
business secretly and in the closest confidence; for he was born to be
a secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered old man, who seemed to have
secreted his very blood; for nobody would have given him credit for the
possession of six ounces of it in his whole body. How he lived was a
secret; where he lived was a secret; and even what he was, was a secret.
In his musty old pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in some of
which he called himself a coal-merchant, in others a wine-merchant,
in others a commission-agent, in others a collector, in others an
accountant; as if he really didn’t know the secret himself. He was
always keeping appointments in the City, and the other man never seemed
to come. He would sit on ‘Change for hours, looking at everybody who
walked in and out, and would do the like at Garraway’s, and in other
business coffee-rooms, in some of which he would be occasionally seen
drying a very damp pocket-handkerchief before the fire, and still
looking over his shoulder for the man who never appeared. He was
mildewed, threadbare, shabby; always had flue upon his legs and back;
and kept his linen so secretly buttoning up and wrapping over, that he
might have had none--perhaps he hadn’t. He carried one stained beaver
glove, which he dangled before him by the forefinger as he walked or
sat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some people said he had been a
bankrupt, others that he had gone an infant into an ancient Chancery
suit which was still depending, but it was all a secret. He carried bits
of sealing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal in his pocket, and
often secretly indited letters in corner boxes of the trysting-places
before mentioned; but they never appeared to go to anybody, for he would
put them into a secret place in his coat, and deliver them to himself
weeks afterwards, very much to his own surprise, quite yellow. He was
that sort of man that if he had died worth a million of money, or had
died worth twopence halfpenny, everybody would have been perfectly
satisfied, and would have said it was just as they expected. And yet
he belonged to a class; a race peculiar to the City; who are secrets as
profound to one another, as they are to the rest of mankind.
‘Mr Nadgett,’ said Montague, copying Jonas Chuzzlewit’s address upon a
piece of paper, from the card which was still lying on the table, ‘any
information about this name, I shall be glad to have myself. Don’t you
mind what it is. Any you can scrape together, bring me. Bring it to me,
Mr Nadgett.’
Nadgett put on his spectacles, and read the name attentively; then
looked at the chairman over his glasses, and bowed; then took them off,
and put them in their case; and then put the case in his pocket. When he
had done so, he looked, without his spectacles, at the paper as it lay
before him, and at the same time produced his pocket-book from somewhere
about the middle of his spine. Large as it was, it was very full of
documents, but he found a place for this one; and having clasped it
carefully, passed it by a kind of solemn legerdemain into the same
region as before.
He withdrew with another bow and without a word; opening the door
no wider than was sufficient for his passage out; and shutting it as
carefully as before. The chairman of the board employed the rest of the
morning in affixing his sign-manual of gracious acceptance to various
new proposals of annuity-purchase and assurance. The Company was looking
up, for they flowed in gayly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MR MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME
There were many powerful reasons for Jonas Chuzzlewit being strongly
prepossessed in favour of the scheme which its great originator had so
boldly laid open to him; but three among them stood prominently forward.
Firstly, there was money to be made by it. Secondly, the money had the
peculiar charm of being sagaciously obtained at other people’s cost.
Thirdly, it involved much outward show of homage and distinction: a
board being an awful institution in its own sphere, and a director a
mighty man. ‘To make a swingeing profit, have a lot of chaps to order
about, and get into regular good society by one and the same means, and
them so easy to one’s hand, ain’t such a bad look-out,’ thought
Jonas. The latter considerations were only second to his avarice; for,
conscious that there was nothing in his person, conduct, character, or
accomplishments, to command respect, he was greedy of power, and was, in
his heart, as much a tyrant as any laureled conqueror on record.
But he determined to proceed with cunning and caution, and to be very
keen on his observation of the gentility of Mr Montague’s private
establishment. For it no more occurred to this shallow knave that
Montague wanted him to be so, or he wouldn’t have invited him while his
decision was yet in abeyance, than the possibility of that genius being
able to overreach him in any way, pierced through his self-deceit by the
inlet of a needle’s point. He had said, in the outset, that Jonas
was too sharp for him; and Jonas, who would have been sharp enough to
believe him in nothing else, though he had solemnly sworn it, believed
him in that, instantly.
It was with a faltering hand, and yet with an imbecile attempt at a
swagger, that he knocked at his new friend’s door in Pall Mall when the
appointed hour arrived. Mr Bailey quickly answered to the summons. He
was not proud and was kindly disposed to take notice of Jonas; but Jonas
had forgotten him.
‘Mr Montague at home?’
‘I should hope he wos at home, and waiting dinner, too,’ said Bailey,
with the ease of an old acquaintance. ‘Will you take your hat up along
with you, or leave it here?’
Mr Jonas preferred leaving it there.
‘The hold name, I suppose?’ said Bailey, with a grin.
Mr Jonas stared at him in mute indignation.
‘What, don’t you remember hold mother Todgers’s?’ said Mr Bailey, with
his favourite action of the knees and boots. ‘Don’t you remember my
taking your name up to the young ladies, when you came a-courting there?
A reg’lar scaly old shop, warn’t it? Times is changed ain’t they. I say
how you’ve growed!’
Without pausing for any acknowledgement of this compliment, he ushered
the visitor upstairs, and having announced him, retired with a private
wink.
The lower story of the house was occupied by a wealthy tradesman, but
Mr Montague had all the upper portion, and splendid lodging it was. The
room in which he received Jonas was a spacious and elegant apartment,
furnished with extreme magnificence; decorated with pictures, copies
from the antique in alabaster and marble, china vases, lofty mirrors,
crimson hangings of the richest silk, gilded carvings, luxurious
couches, glistening cabinets inlaid with precious woods; costly toys of
every sort in negligent abundance. The only guests besides Jonas
were the doctor, the resident Director, and two other gentlemen, whom
Montague presented in due form.
‘My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Jobling you know, I
believe?’
‘I think so,’ said the doctor pleasantly, as he stepped out of the
circle to shake hands. ‘I trust I have the honour. I hope so. My dear
sir, I see you well. Quite well? THAT’S well!’
‘Mr Wolf,’ said Montague, as soon as the doctor would allow him to
introduce the two others, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit. Mr Pip, Mr Chuzzlewit.’
Both gentlemen were exceedingly happy to have the honour of making Mr
Chuzzlewit’s acquaintance. The doctor drew Jonas a little apart, and
whispered behind his hand:
‘Men of the world, my dear sir--men of the world. Hem! Mr Wolf--literary
character--you needn’t mention it--remarkably clever weekly paper--oh,
remarkably clever! Mr Pip--theatrical man--capital man to know--oh,
capital man!’
‘Well!’ said Wolf, folding his arms and resuming a conversation which
the arrival of Jonas had interrupted. ‘And what did Lord Nobley say to
that?’
‘Why,’ returned Pip, with an oath. ‘He didn’t know what to say. Same,
sir, if he wasn’t as mute as a poker. But you know what a good fellow
Nobley is!’
‘The best fellow in the world!’ cried Wolf. ‘It as only last week that
Nobley said to me, “By Gad, Wolf, I’ve got a living to bestow, and if
you had but been brought up at the University, strike me blind if I
wouldn’t have made a parson of you!”’
‘Just like him,’ said Pip with another oath. ‘And he’d have done it!’
‘Not a doubt of it,’ said Wolf. ‘But you were going to tell us--’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Pip. ‘To be sure. So I was. At first he was dumb--sewn
up, dead, sir--but after a minute he said to the Duke, “Here’s Pip.
Ask Pip. Pip’s our mutual friend. Ask Pip. He knows.” “Damme!” said the
Duke, “I appeal to Pip then. Come, Pip. Bandy or not bandy? Speak out!”
“Bandy, your Grace, by the Lord Harry!” said I. “Ha, ha!” laughed the
Duke. “To be sure she is. Bravo, Pip. Well said Pip. I wish I may die
if you’re not a trump, Pip. Pop me down among your fashionable visitors
whenever I’m in town, Pip.” And so I do, to this day.’
The conclusion of this story gave immense satisfaction, which was in
no degree lessened by the announcement of dinner. Jonas repaired to the
dining room, along with his distinguished host, and took his seat at the
board between that individual and his friend the doctor. The rest fell
into their places like men who were well accustomed to the house; and
dinner was done full justice to, by all parties.
It was a good a one as money (or credit, no matter which) could produce.
The dishes, wines, and fruits were of the choicest kind. Everything was
elegantly served. The plate was gorgeous. Mr Jonas was in the midst of
a calculation of the value of this item alone, when his host disturbed
him.
‘A glass of wine?’
‘Oh!’ said Jonas, who had had several glasses already. ‘As much of that
as you like! It’s too good to refuse.’
‘Well said, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ cried Wolf.
‘Tom Gag, upon my soul!’ said Pip.
‘Positively, you know, that’s--ha, ha, ha!’ observed the doctor, laying
down his knife and fork for one instant, and then going to work again,
pell-mell--‘that’s epigrammatic; quite!’
‘You’re tolerably comfortable, I hope?’ said Tigg, apart to Jonas.
‘Oh! You needn’t trouble your head about ME,’ he replied, ‘Famous!’
‘I thought it best not to have a party,’ said Tigg. ‘You feel that?’
‘Why, what do you call this?’ retorted Jonas. ‘You don’t mean to say you
do this every day, do you?’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders, ‘every day of
my life, when I dine at home. This is my common style. It was of no use
having anything uncommon for you. You’d have seen through it. “You’ll
have a party?” said Crimple. “No, I won’t,” I said, “he shall take us in
the rough!”
‘And pretty smooth, too, ecod!’ said Jonas, glancing round the table.
‘This don’t cost a trifle.’
‘Why, to be candid with you, it does not,’ returned the other. ‘But I
like this sort of thing. It’s the way I spend my money.’
Jonas thrust his tongue into his cheek, and said, ‘Was it?’
‘When you join us, you won’t get rid of your share of the profits in the
same way?’ said Tigg.
‘Quite different,’ retorted Jonas.
‘Well, and you’re right,’ said Tigg, with friendly candour. ‘You
needn’t. It’s not necessary. One of a Company must do it to hold
the connection together; but, as I take a pleasure in it, that’s my
department. You don’t mind dining expensively at another man’s expense,
I hope?’
‘Not a bit,’ said Jonas.
‘Then I hope you’ll often dine with me?’
‘Ah!’ said Jonas, ‘I don’t mind. On the contrary.’
‘And I’ll never attempt to talk business to you over wine, I take my
oath,’ said Tigg. ‘Oh deep, deep, deep of you this morning! I must tell
‘em that. They’re the very men to enjoy it. Pip, my good fellow, I’ve
a splendid little trait to tell you of my friend Chuzzlewit who is
the deepest dog I know; I give you my sacred word of honour he is the
deepest dog I know, Pip!’
Pip swore a frightful oath that he was sure of it already; and
the anecdote, being told, was received with loud applause, as an
incontestable proof of Mr Jonas’s greatness. Pip, in a natural spirit of
emulation, then related some instances of his own depth; and Wolf not
to be left behind-hand, recited the leading points of one or two vastly
humorous articles he was then preparing. These lucubrations being of
what he called ‘a warm complexion,’ were highly approved; and all the
company agreed that they were full of point.
‘Men of the world, my dear sir,’ Jobling whispered to Jonas; ‘thorough
men of the world! To a professional person like myself it’s
quite refreshing to come into this kind of society. It’s not only
agreeable--and nothing CAN be more agreeable--but it’s philosophically
improving. It’s character, my dear sir; character!’
It is so pleasant to find real merit appreciated, whatever its
particular walk in life may be, that the general harmony of the company
was doubtless much promoted by their knowing that the two men of the
world were held in great esteem by the upper classes of society, and
by the gallant defenders of their country in the army and navy, but
particularly the former. The least of their stories had a colonel in it;
lords were as plentiful as oaths; and even the Blood Royal ran in the
muddy channel of their personal recollections.
‘Mr Chuzzlewit didn’t know him, I’m afraid,’ said Wolf, in reference to
a certain personage of illustrious descent, who had previously figured
in a reminiscence.
‘No,’ said Tigg. ‘But we must bring him into contact with this sort of
fellows.’
‘He was very fond of literature,’ observed Wolf.
‘Was he?’ said Tigg.
‘Oh, yes; he took my paper regularly for many years. Do you know he
said some good things now and then? He asked a certain Viscount, who’s
a friend of mine--Pip knows him--“What’s the editor’s name, what’s the
editor’s name?” “Wolf.” “Wolf, eh? Sharp biter, Wolf. We must keep the
Wolf from the door, as the proverb says.” It was very well. And being
complimentary, I printed it.’
‘But the Viscount’s the boy!’ cried Pip, who invented a new oath for
the introduction of everything he said. ‘The Viscount’s the boy! He came
into our place one night to take Her home; rather slued, but not much;
and said, “Where’s Pip? I want to see Pip. Produce Pip!”--“What’s the
row, my lord?”--“Shakspeare’s an infernal humbug, Pip! What’s the good
of Shakspeare, Pip? I never read him. What the devil is it all about,
Pip? There’s a lot of feet in Shakspeare’s verse, but there an’t any
legs worth mentioning in Shakspeare’s plays, are there, Pip? Juliet,
Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, and all the rest of ‘em, whatever their names
are, might as well have no legs at all, for anything the audience know
about it, Pip. Why, in that respect they’re all Miss Biffins to the
audience, Pip. I’ll tell you what it is. What the people call dramatic
poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be
lectured? No, Pip. If I wanted that, I’d go to church. What’s the
legitimate object of the drama, Pip? Human nature. What are legs? Human
nature. Then let us have plenty of leg pieces, Pip, and I’ll stand by
you, my buck!” and I am proud to say,’ added Pip, ‘that he DID stand by
me, handsomely.’
The conversation now becoming general, Mr Jonas’s opinion was requested
on this subject; and as it was in full accordance with the sentiments of
Mr Pip, that gentleman was extremely gratified. Indeed, both himself and
Wolf had so much in common with Jonas, that they became very amicable;
and between their increasing friendship and the fumes of wine, Jonas
grew talkative.
It does not follow in the case of such a person that the more talkative
he becomes, the more agreeable he is; on the contrary, his merits show
to most advantage, perhaps, in silence. Having no means, as he thought,
of putting himself on an equality with the rest, but by the assertion
of that depth and sharpness on which he had been complimented, Jonas
exhibited that faculty to the utmost; and was so deep and sharp that
he lost himself in his own profundity, and cut his fingers with his own
edge-tools.
It was especially in his way and character to exhibit his quality at his
entertainer’s expense; and while he drank of his sparkling wines, and
partook of his monstrous profusion, to ridicule the extravagance which
had set such costly fare before him. Even at such a wanton board, and in
such more than doubtful company, this might have proved a disagreeable
experiment, but that Tigg and Crimple, studying to understand their man
thoroughly, gave him what license he chose: knowing that the more
he took, the better for their purpose. And thus while the blundering
cheat--gull that he was, for all his cunning--thought himself rolled
up hedgehog fashion, with his sharpest points towards them, he was,
in fact, betraying all his vulnerable parts to their unwinking
watchfulness.
Whether the two gentlemen who contributed so much to the doctor’s
philosophical knowledge (by the way, the doctor slipped off quietly,
after swallowing his usual amount of wine) had had their cue distinctly
from the host, or took it from what they saw and heard, they acted
their parts very well. They solicited the honour of Jonas’s better
acquaintance; trusted that they would have the pleasure of introducing
him into that elevated society in which he was so well qualified to
shine; and informed him, in the most friendly manner that the advantages
of their respective establishments were entirely at his control. In a
word, they said ‘Be one of us!’ And Jonas said he was infinitely obliged
to them, and he would be; adding within himself, that so long as they
‘stood treat,’ there was nothing he would like better.
After coffee, which was served in the drawing-room, there was a short
interval (mainly sustained by Pip and Wolf) of conversation; rather
highly spiced and strongly seasoned. When it flagged, Jonas took it up
and showed considerable humour in appraising the furniture; inquiring
whether such an article was paid for; what it had originally cost, and
the like. In all of this, he was, as he considered, desperately hard on
Montague, and very demonstrative of his own brilliant parts.
Some Champagne Punch gave a new though temporary fillip to the
entertainments of the evening. For after leading to some noisy
proceedings, which were not intelligible, it ended in the unsteady
departure of the two gentlemen of the world, and the slumber of Mr Jonas
upon one of the sofas.
As he could not be made to understand where he was, Mr Bailey received
orders to call a hackney-coach, and take him home; which that young
gentleman roused himself from an uneasy sleep in the hall to do. It
being now almost three o’clock in the morning.
‘Is he hooked, do you think?’ whispered Crimple, as himself and partner
stood in a distant part of the room observing him as he lay.
‘Aye!’ said Tigg, in the same tone. ‘With a strong iron, perhaps. Has
Nadgett been here to-night?’
‘Yes. I went out to him. Hearing you had company, he went away.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘He said he would come back early in the morning, before you were out of
bed.’
‘Tell them to be sure and send him up to my bedside. Hush! Here’s the
boy! Now Mr Bailey, take this gentleman home, and see him safely in.
Hallo, here! Why Chuzzlewit, halloa!’
They got him upright with some difficulty, and assisted him downstairs,
where they put his hat upon his head, and tumbled him into the coach.
Mr Bailey, having shut him in, mounted the box beside the coachman, and
smoked his cigar with an air of particular satisfaction; the undertaking
in which he was engaged having a free and sporting character about it,
which was quite congenial to his taste.
Arriving in due time at the house in the City, Mr Bailey jumped down,
and expressed the lively nature of his feelings in a knock the like of
which had probably not been heard in that quarter since the great fire
of London. Going out into the road to observe the effect of this feat,
he saw that a dim light, previously visible at an upper window, had been
already removed and was travelling downstairs. To obtain a foreknowledge
of the bearer of this taper, Mr Bailey skipped back to the door again,
and put his eye to the keyhole.
It was the merry one herself. But sadly, strangely altered! So careworn
and dejected, so faltering and full of fear; so fallen, humbled,
broken; that to have seen her quiet in her coffin would have been a less
surprise.
She set the light upon a bracket in the hall, and laid her hand upon her
heart; upon her eyes; upon her burning head. Then she came on towards
the door with such a wild and hurried step that Mr Bailey lost his
self-possession, and still had his eye where the keyhole had been, when
she opened it.
‘Aha!’ said Mr Bailey, with an effort. ‘There you are, are you? What’s
the matter? Ain’t you well, though?’
In the midst of her astonishment as she recognized him in his altered
dress, so much of her old smile came back to her face that Bailey was
glad. But next moment he was sorry again, for he saw tears standing in
her poor dim eyes.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Bailey. ‘There ain’t nothing the matter.
I’ve brought home Mr Chuzzlewit. He ain’t ill. He’s only a little
swipey, you know.’ Mr Bailey reeled in his boots, to express
intoxication.
‘Have you come from Mrs Todgers’s?’ asked Merry, trembling.
‘Todgers’s, bless you! No!’ cried Mr Bailey. ‘I haven’t got nothin, to
do with Todgers’s. I cut that connection long ago. He’s been a-dining
with my governor at the west-end. Didn’t you know he was a-coming to see
us?’
‘No,’ she said, faintly.
‘Oh yes! We’re heavy swells too, and so I tell you. Don’t you come out,
a-catching cold in your head. I’ll wake him!’ Mr Bailey expressing in
his demeanour a perfect confidence that he could carry him in with ease,
if necessary, opened the coach door, let down the steps, and giving
Jonas a shake, cried ‘We’ve got home, my flower! Tumble up, then!’
He was so far recovered as to be able to respond to this appeal, and
to come stumbling out of the coach in a heap, to the great hazard of Mr
Bailey’s person. When he got upon the pavement, Mr Bailey first butted
at him in front, and then dexterously propped him up behind; and having
steadied him by these means, he assisted him into the house.
‘You go up first with the light,’ said Bailey to Mr Jonas, ‘and we’ll
foller. Don’t tremble so. He won’t hurt you. When I’ve had a drop too
much, I’m full of good natur myself.’
She went on before; and her husband and Bailey, by dint of tumbling
over each other, and knocking themselves about, got at last into the
sitting-room above stairs, where Jonas staggered into a seat.
‘There!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘He’s all right now. You ain’t got nothing to
cry for, bless you! He’s righter than a trivet!’
The ill-favoured brute, with dress awry, and sodden face, and rumpled
hair, sat blinking and drooping, and rolling his idiotic eyes about,
until, becoming conscious by degrees, he recognized his wife, and shook
his fist at her.
‘Ah!’ cried Mr Bailey, squaring his arms with a sudden emotion. ‘What,
you’re wicious, are you? Would you though! You’d better not!’
‘Pray, go away!’ said Merry. ‘Bailey, my good boy, go home. Jonas!’ she
said; timidly laying her hand upon his shoulder, and bending her head
down over him. ‘Jonas!’
‘Look at her!’ cried Jonas, pushing her off with his extended arm. ‘Look
here! Look at her! Here’s a bargain for a man!’
‘Dear Jonas!’
‘Dear Devil!’ he replied, with a fierce gesture. ‘You’re a pretty clog
to be tied to a man for life, you mewling, white-faced cat! Get out of
my sight!’
‘I know you don’t mean it, Jonas. You wouldn’t say it if you were
sober.’
With affected gayety she gave Bailey a piece of money, and again
implored him to be gone. Her entreaty was so earnest, that the boy had
not the heart to stay there. But he stopped at the bottom of the stairs,
and listened.
‘I wouldn’t say it if I was sober!’ retorted Jonas. ‘You know better.
Have I never said it when I was sober?’
‘Often, indeed!’ she answered through her tears.
‘Hark ye!’ cried Jonas, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘You made me
bear your pretty humours once, and ecod I’ll make you bear mine now. I
always promised myself I would. I married you that I might. I’ll know
who’s master, and who’s slave!’
‘Heaven knows I am obedient!’ said the sobbing girl. ‘Much more so than
I ever thought to be!’
Jonas laughed in his drunken exultation. ‘What! you’re finding it out,
are you! Patience, and you will in time! Griffins have claws, my girl.
There’s not a pretty slight you ever put upon me, nor a pretty trick you
ever played me, nor a pretty insolence you ever showed me, that I won’t
pay back a hundred-fold. What else did I marry you for? YOU, too!’ he
said, with coarse contempt.
It might have softened him--indeed it might--to hear her turn a little
fragment of a song he used to say he liked; trying, with a heart so
full, to win him back.
‘Oho!’ he said, ‘you’re deaf, are you? You don’t hear me, eh? So much
the better for you. I hate you. I hate myself, for having, been fool
enough to strap a pack upon my back for the pleasure of treading on it
whenever I choose. Why, things have opened to me, now, so that I might
marry almost where I liked. But I wouldn’t; I’d keep single. I ought to
be single, among the friends I know. Instead of that, here I am, tied
like a log to you. Pah! Why do you show your pale face when I come home?
Am I never to forget you?’
‘How late it is!’ she said cheerfully, opening the shutter after an
interval of silence. ‘Broad day, Jonas!’
‘Broad day or black night, what do I care!’ was the kind rejoinder.
‘The night passed quickly, too. I don’t mind sitting up, at all.’
‘Sit up for me again, if you dare!’ growled Jonas.
‘I was reading,’ she proceeded, ‘all night long. I began when you went
out, and read till you came home again. The strangest story, Jonas! And
true, the book says. I’ll tell it you to-morrow.’
‘True, was it?’ said Jonas, doggedly.
‘So the book says.’
‘Was there anything in it, about a man’s being determined to conquer his
wife, break her spirit, bend her temper, crush all her humours like so
many nut-shells--kill her, for aught I know?’ said Jonas.
‘No. Not a word,’ she answered quickly.
‘Oh!’ he returned. ‘That’ll be a true story though, before long; for all
the book says nothing about it. It’s a lying book, I see. A fit book for
a lying reader. But you’re deaf. I forgot that.’
There was another interval of silence; and the boy was stealing away,
when he heard her footstep on the floor, and stopped. She went up to
him, as it seemed, and spoke lovingly; saying that she would defer to
him in everything and would consult his wishes and obey them, and they
might be very happy if he would be gentle with her. He answered with an
imprecation, and--
Not with a blow? Yes. Stern truth against the base-souled villain; with
a blow.
No angry cries; no loud reproaches. Even her weeping and her sobs were
stifled by her clinging round him. She only said, repeating it in agony
of heart, how could he, could he, could he--and lost utterance in tears.
Oh woman, God beloved in old Jerusalem! The best among us need deal
lightly with thy faults, if only for the punishment thy nature will
endure, in bearing heavy evidence against us, on the Day of Judgment!
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IN WHICH SOME PEOPLE ARE PRECOCIOUS, OTHERS PROFESSIONAL, AND OTHERS
MYSTERIOUS; ALL IN THEIR SEVERAL WAYS
It may have been the restless remembrance of what he had seen and heard
overnight, or it may have been no deeper mental operation than the
discovery that he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on the
following afternoon, to feel particularly disposed for agreeable
society, and prompted him to pay a visit to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.
On the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor’s approach (for
Mr Bailey came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much sound out of
the bell as possible), Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from the contemplation
of a favourite owl, and gave his young friend hearty welcome.
‘Why, you look smarter by day,’ said Poll, ‘than you do by candle-light.
I never see such a tight young dasher.’
‘Reether so, Polly. How’s our fair friend, Sairah?’
‘Oh, she’s pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘She’s at home.’
‘There’s the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,’ observed Mr
Bailey, with genteel indifference.
‘Oh!’ thought Poll, ‘he’s old. He must be very old!’
‘Too much crumb, you know,’ said Mr Bailey; ‘too fat, Poll. But there’s
many worse at her time of life.’
‘The very owl’s a-opening his eyes!’ thought Poll. ‘I don’t wonder at it
in a bird of his opinions.’
He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying open
in a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing at these
preparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared to
occur to him.
‘Poll,’ he said, ‘I ain’t as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being
here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.’
The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his
neck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity
and confidence in life. There was no resisting his manner. The evidence
of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as smooth as a
new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn’t
have ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish
rabbi.
‘Go WITH the grain, Poll, all round, please,’ said Mr Bailey, screwing
up his face for the reception of the lather. ‘You may do wot you like
with the bits of whisker. I don’t care for ‘em.’
The meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-dish
in his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous uncertainty,
as if he were disabled by some fascination from beginning. At last he
made a dash at Mr Bailey’s cheek. Then he stopped again, as if the
ghost of a beard had suddenly receded from his touch; but receiving mild
encouragement from Mr Bailey, in the form of an adjuration to ‘Go in and
win,’ he lathered him bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in
his satisfaction. ‘Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the
pimples!’
Poll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with
particular care. Mr Bailey squinted at every successive dab, as it
was deposited on a cloth on his left shoulder, and seemed, with a
microscopic eye, to detect some bristles in it; for he murmured more
than once ‘Reether redder than I could wish, Poll.’ The operation being
concluded, Poll fell back and stared at him again, while Mr Bailey,
wiping his face on the jack-towel, remarked, ‘that arter late hours
nothing freshened up a man so much as a easy shave.’
He was in the act of tying his cravat at the glass, without his coat,
and Poll had wiped his razor, ready for the next customer, when Mrs
Gamp, coming downstairs, looked in at the shop-door to give the barber
neighbourly good day. Feeling for her unfortunate situation, in having
conceived a regard for himself which it was not in the nature of things
that he could return, Mr Bailey hastened to soothe her with words of
kindness.
‘Hallo!’ he said, ‘Sairah! I needn’t ask you how you’ve been this long
time, for you’re in full bloom. All a-blowin and a-growin; ain’t she,
Polly?’
‘Why, drat the Bragian boldness of that boy!’ cried Mrs Gamp, though
not displeased. ‘What a imperent young sparrow it is! I wouldn’t be that
creetur’s mother not for fifty pound!’
Mr Bailey regarded this as a delicate confession of her attachment,
and a hint that no pecuniary gain could recompense her for its being
rendered hopeless. He felt flattered. Disinterested affection is always
flattering.
‘Ah, dear!’ moaned Mrs Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, ‘that there
blessed Bull, Mr Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me. Of
all the trying inwalieges in this walley of the shadder, that one beats
‘em black and blue.’
It was the practice of Mrs Gamp and her friends in the profession, to
say this of all the easy customers; as having at once the effect of
discouraging competitors for office, and accounting for the necessity of
high living on the part of the nurses.
‘Talk of constitooshun!’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘A person’s constitooshun
need be made of bricks to stand it. Mrs Harris jestly says to me, but
t’other day, “Oh! Sairey Gamp,” she says, “how is it done?” “Mrs Harris,
ma’am,” I says to her, “we gives no trust ourselves, and puts a deal
o’trust elsevere; these is our religious feelins, and we finds ‘em
answer.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, “sech is life. Vich likeways is the
hend of all things!”’
The barber gave a soft murmur, as much as to say that Mrs Harris’s
remark, though perhaps not quite so intelligible as could be desired
from such an authority, did equal honour to her head and to her heart.
‘And here,’ continued Mrs Gamp, ‘and here am I a-goin twenty mile in
distant, on as wentersome a chance as ever any one as monthlied ever
run, I do believe. Says Mrs Harris, with a woman’s and a mother’s
art a-beatin in her human breast, she says to me, “You’re not a-goin,
Sairey, Lord forgive you!” “Why am I not a-goin, Mrs Harris?” I replies.
“Mrs Gill,” I says, “wos never wrong with six; and is it likely,
ma’am--I ast you as a mother--that she will begin to be unreg’lar now?
Often and often have I heerd him say,” I says to Mrs Harris, meaning Mr
Gill, “that he would back his wife agen Moore’s almanack, to name the
very day and hour, for ninepence farden. IS it likely, ma’am,” I says,
“as she will fail this once?” Says Mrs Harris “No, ma’am, not in the
course of natur. But,” she says, the tears a-fillin in her eyes, “you
knows much betterer than me, with your experienge, how little puts us
out. A Punch’s show,” she says, “a chimbley sweep, a newfundlan dog, or
a drunkin man a-comin round the corner sharp may do it.” So it may, Mr
Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘there’s no deniging of it; and though my
books is clear for a full week, I takes a anxious art along with me, I
do assure you, sir.’
‘You’re so full of zeal, you see!’ said Poll. ‘You worrit yourself so.’
‘Worrit myself!’ cried Mrs Gamp, raising her hands and turning up her
eyes. ‘You speak truth in that, sir, if you never speaks no more ‘twixt
this and when two Sundays jines together. I feels the sufferins of other
people more than I feels my own, though no one mayn’t suppoge it. The
families I’ve had,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘if all was knowd and credit done
where credit’s doo, would take a week to chris’en at Saint Polge’s
fontin!’
‘Where’s the patient goin?’ asked Sweedlepipe.
‘Into Har’fordshire, which is his native air. But native airs nor native
graces neither,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘won’t bring HIM round.’
‘So bad as that?’ inquired the wistful barber. ‘Indeed!’
Mrs Gamp shook her head mysteriously, and pursed up her lips. ‘There’s
fevers of the mind,’ she said, ‘as well as body. You may take your slime
drafts till you flies into the air with efferwescence; but you won’t
cure that.’
‘Ah!’ said the barber, opening his eyes, and putting on his raven
aspect; ‘Lor!’
‘No. You may make yourself as light as any gash balloon,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘But talk, when you’re wrong in your head and when you’re in your sleep,
of certain things; and you’ll be heavy in your mind.’
‘Of what kind of things now?’ inquired Poll, greedily biting his nails
in his great interest. ‘Ghosts?’
Mrs Gamp, who perhaps had been already tempted further than she had
intended to go, by the barber’s stimulating curiosity, gave a sniff of
uncommon significance, and said, it didn’t signify.
‘I’m a-goin down with my patient in the coach this arternoon,’ she
proceeded. ‘I’m a-goin to stop with him a day or so, till he gets a
country nuss (drat them country nusses, much the orkard hussies knows
about their bis’ness); and then I’m a-comin back; and that’s my trouble,
Mr Sweedlepipes. But I hope that everythink’ll only go on right and
comfortable as long as I’m away; perwisin which, as Mrs Harris says, Mrs
Gill is welcome to choose her own time; all times of the day and night
bein’ equally the same to me.’
During the progress of the foregoing remarks, which Mrs Gamp had
addressed exclusively to the barber, Mr Bailey had been tying his
cravat, getting on his coat, and making hideous faces at himself in the
glass. Being now personally addressed by Mrs Gamp, he turned round, and
mingled in the conversation.
‘You ain’t been in the City, I suppose, sir, since we was all three
there together,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘at Mr Chuzzlewit’s?’
‘Yes, I have, Sairah. I was there last night.’
‘Last night!’ cried the barber.
‘Yes, Poll, reether so. You can call it this morning, if you like to be
particular. He dined with us.’
‘Who does that young Limb mean by “hus?”’ said Mrs Gamp, with most
impatient emphasis.
‘Me and my Governor, Sairah. He dined at our house. We wos very merry,
Sairah. So much so, that I was obliged to see him home in a hackney
coach at three o’clock in the morning.’ It was on the tip of the boy’s
tongue to relate what had followed; but remembering how easily it might
be carried to his master’s ears, and the repeated cautions he had had
from Mr Crimple ‘not to chatter,’ he checked himself; adding, only, ‘She
was sitting up, expecting him.’
‘And all things considered,’ said Mrs Gamp sharply, ‘she might have
know’d better than to go a-tirin herself out, by doin’ anythink of the
sort. Did they seem pretty pleasant together, sir?’
‘Oh, yes,’ answered Bailey, ‘pleasant enough.’
‘I’m glad on it,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a second sniff of significance.
‘They haven’t been married so long,’ observed Poll, rubbing his hands,
‘that they need be anything but pleasant yet awhile.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a third significant signal.
‘Especially,’ pursued the barber, ‘when the gentleman bears such a
character as you gave him.’
‘I speak; as I find, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Forbid it should
be otherways! But we never knows wot’s hidden in each other’s hearts;
and if we had glass winders there, we’d need keep the shetters up, some
on us, I do assure you!’
‘But you don’t mean to say--’ Poll Sweedlepipe began.
‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, cutting him very short, ‘I don’t. Don’t think I do.
The torters of the Imposition shouldn’t make me own I did. All I says
is,’ added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl about her, ‘that
the Bull’s a-waitin, and the precious moments is a-flyin’ fast.’
The little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to see
Mrs Gamp’s patient, proposed to Mr Bailey that they should accompany
her to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach. That young
gentleman assenting, they all went out together.
Arriving at the tavern, Mrs Gamp (who was full-dressed for the journey,
in her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to entertain
themselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick room, where her
fellow-labourer Mrs Prig was dressing the invalid.
He was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when they
moved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally large. He
lay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than living; and rolled
his languid eyes towards the door when Mrs Gamp appeared, as painfully
as if their weight alone were burdensome to move.
‘And how are we by this time?’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘We looks charming.’
‘We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,’ returned Mrs Prig, a
little chafed in her temper. ‘We got out of bed back’ards, I think, for
we’re as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn’t have
been washed, if he’d had his own way.’
‘She put the soap in my mouth,’ said the unfortunate patient feebly.
‘Couldn’t you keep it shut then?’ retorted Mrs Prig. ‘Who do you think’s
to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one’s eyes out with all
manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you
wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin’.’
‘Oh dear me!’ cried the patient, ‘oh dear, dear!’
‘There!’ said Mrs Prig, ‘that’s the way he’s been a-conductin of
himself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you’ll believe it.’
‘Instead of being grateful,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘for all our little
ways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!’
Here Mrs Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his
unhappy head with a hair-brush.
‘I suppose you don’t like that, neither!’ she observed, stopping to look
at him.
It was just possible that he didn’t for the brush was a specimen of
the hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his very
eyelids were red with the friction. Mrs Prig was gratified to observe
the correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly ‘she know’d as
much.’
When his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs Prig and
Mrs Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with great
nicety, so that the starched points should also invade those organs, and
afflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His waistcoat and coat
were next arranged; and as every button was wrenched into a wrong
button-hole, and the order of his boots was reversed, he presented on
the whole rather a melancholy appearance.
‘I don’t think it’s right,’ said the poor weak invalid. ‘I feel as if I
was in somebody else’s clothes. I’m all on one side; and you’ve made one
of my legs shorter than the other. There’s a bottle in my pocket too.
What do you make me sit upon a bottle for?’
‘Deuce take the man!’ cried Mrs Gamp, drawing it forth. ‘If he ain’t
been and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard of his coat
when it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it, Betsey. You’ll find a
ingun or two, and a little tea and sugar in his t’other pocket, my dear,
if you’ll just be good enough to take ‘em out.’
Betsey produced the property in question, together with some other
articles of general chandlery; and Mrs Gamp transferred them to her own
pocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment then arrived
in the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and a basin of
beef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at an end when John
Westlock appeared.
‘Up and dressed!’ cried John, sitting down beside him. ‘That’s brave.
How do you feel?’
‘Much better. But very weak.’
‘No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change
of scene,’ said John, ‘will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,’
he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man’s garments, ‘you
have odd notions of a gentleman’s dress!’
‘Mr Lewsome an’t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,’ Mrs Gamp
replied with dignity; ‘as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord
Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!’
John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the
act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned,
when he said in a whisper:
‘Mr Westlock! I don’t wish to be overheard. I have something very
particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful
weight on my mind, through this long illness.’
Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to
leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.
‘Not now. I’ve not the strength. I’ve not the courage. May I tell it
when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?’
‘May you!’ cried John. ‘Why, Lewsome, what is this!’
‘Don’t ask me what it is. It’s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think
of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in.
Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and
don’t ask me what it is!’
At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very
much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with
fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or
despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an
opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping
him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected
in his mind.
‘Oh bless you, no!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He hates his nusses to this hour.
They always does it, sir. It’s a certain sign. If you could have heerd
the poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey Prig, not half an
hour ago, you would have wondered how it is we don’t get fretted to the
tomb.’
This almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had
passed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful manner,
and assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome downstairs
to the coach; just then upon the point of starting. Poll Sweedlepipe
was at the door with his arms tight folded and his eyes wide open, and
looked on with absorbing interest, while the sick man was slowly
moved into the vehicle. His bony hands and haggard face impressed Poll
wonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey in confidence, that he wouldn’t
have missed seeing him for a pound. Mr Bailey, who was of a different
constitution, remarked that he would have stayed away for five
shillings.
It was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp’s luggage to her
satisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the
inconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself, and
to have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for heavy
damages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella with the
circular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and several times
thrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper crevices and chinks,
to the great terror of the other passengers. Indeed, in her intense
anxiety to find a haven of refuge for this chattel, Mrs Gamp so often
moved it, in the course of five minutes, that it seemed not one umbrella
but fifty. At length it was lost, or said to be; and for the next five
minutes she was face to face with the coachman, go wherever he might,
protesting that it should be ‘made good,’ though she took the question
to the House of Commons.
At last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and everything
else, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of Poll and Mr
Bailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted as from a
cherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.
‘Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,’ Mrs Gamp observed,
‘and good places. It won’t be long, I hope, afore we works together, off
and on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin’ be at a large family’s,
where they all takes it reg’lar, one from another, turn and turn about,
and has it business-like.’
‘I don’t care how soon it is,’ said Mrs Prig; ‘nor how many weeks it
lasts.’
Mrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the coach,
when she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were passing
along the footway.
‘Take care, take care here!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Halloo! My dear! Why,
it’s Mrs Gamp!’
‘What, Mr Mould!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘And Mrs Mould! who would have
thought as we should ever have a meetin’ here, I’m sure!’
‘Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?’ cried Mould. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’
‘It IS unusual, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But only for a day or two at most.
The gent,’ she whispered, ‘as I spoke about.’
‘What, in the coach!’ cried Mould. ‘The one you thought of recommending?
Very odd. My dear, this will interest you. The gentleman that Mrs Gamp
thought likely to suit us is in the coach, my love.’
Mrs Mould was greatly interested.
‘Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,’ said Mould, ‘and take
a look at him. Ha! There he is. Where’s my glass? Oh! all right. I’ve
got it. Do you see him, my dear?’
‘Quite plain,’ said Mrs Mould.
‘Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,’ said
Mould, quite delighted. ‘This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn’t
have missed on any account. It tickles one. It’s interesting. It’s
almost a little play, you know. Ah! There he is! To be sure. Looks
poorly, Mrs M., don’t he?’
Mrs Mould assented.
‘He’s coming our way, perhaps, after all,’ said Mould. ‘Who knows! I
feel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He don’t
seem a stranger to me. I’m very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.’
‘He’s looking hard this way,’ said Mrs Mould.
‘Then I will!’ cried Mould. ‘How d’ye do, sir! I wish you good day. Ha!
He bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I
have no doubt. This is very singular, my dear--and very pleasant. I am
not superstitious, but it really seems as if one was destined to pay him
those little melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar line of
business. There can be no kind of objection to your kissing your hand to
him, my dear.’
Mrs Mould did so.
‘Ha!’ said Mould. ‘He’s evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite
glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!’ waving his hand. ‘There he
goes; there he goes!’
So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr and Mrs
Mould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired
with Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little time
elapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground, owing to
the impression wrought upon the barber’s nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he
pronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent
charms.
When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus
dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-room,
looking wistfully up at the clock--as if the man who never appeared were
a little behind his time.
CHAPTER THIRTY
PROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT
MR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR
As the surgeon’s first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the
arteries the cruel knife has severed, so it is the duty of this history,
which in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its
right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its
various ramifications it got on without her.
And first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for
his youngest daughter that choicest of blessings, a tender and indulgent
husband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental heart by
establishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading
the plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all
kinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after
giving their daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate
themselves on having no other business on their hands but to die
immediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do
it. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage and practical class,
appeared to think that his immediate business was to live; and having
deprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.
But however much inclined the good man was to be jocose and playful, and
in the garden of his fancy to disport himself (if one may say so) like
an architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to
him. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which
far from softening down or wearing out, rankled and festered in her
heart--the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war
against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for
want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that
dog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard
as Mr Pecksniff’s with his gentle child.
The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had
retired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having
cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red
indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.
‘Cherry,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘what is amiss between us? My child, why
are we disunited?’
Miss Pecksniff’s answer was scarcely a response to this gush of
affection, for it was simply, ‘Bother, Pa!’
‘Bother!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.
‘Oh! ‘tis too late, Pa,’ said his daughter, calmly ‘to talk to me like
this. I know what it means, and what its value is.’
‘This is hard!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. ‘This
is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore
shapeless worsted shoes--I might say, mufflers--many years ago!’
‘You needn’t taunt me with that, Pa,’ retorted Cherry, with a spiteful
look. ‘I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she
IS married to your friend!’
‘Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!’ said Mr Pecksniff,
shaking his head at human nature, as if he didn’t belong to it. ‘To
think that this discord should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh
dear!’
‘From such a cause indeed!’ cried Cherry. ‘State the real cause, Pa, or
I’ll state it myself. Mind! I will!’
Perhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that
may be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for
one of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:
‘You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no
decency; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to
Mr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.’
‘Myself!’ cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. ‘Oh indeed! I don’t mind
that.’
‘Me, too, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
His daughter answered with a scornful laugh.
‘And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
rolling his head portentously, ‘let me tell you that I won’t allow it.
None of your nonsense, Miss! I won’t permit it to be done.’
‘I shall do,’ said Charity, rocking her chair backwards and forwards,
and raising her voice to a high pitch, ‘I shall do, Pa, what I please
and what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend
upon it. I’ve been more shamefully used than anybody ever was in
this world,’ here she began to cry and sob, ‘and may expect the worse
treatment from you, I know. But I don’t care for that. No, I don’t!’
Mr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke,
that, after looking about him in frantic uncertainty for some means of
softening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental bow of hair
upon her head nodded like a plume. She was so very much astonished by
this assault, that it really had the desired effect.
‘I’ll do it again!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and
fetched his breath, ‘if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do
you mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in
preference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I
to do with it?’
‘Wasn’t I made a convenience of? Weren’t my feelings trifled with?
Didn’t he address himself to me first?’ sobbed Cherry, clasping her
hands; ‘and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!’
‘You’ll live to be shaken again,’ returned her parent, ‘if you drive
me to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble roof. You
surprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn’t care
for you, how could you wish to have him?’
‘I wish to have him!’ exclaimed Cherry. ‘I wish to have him, Pa!’
‘Then what are you making all this piece of work for,’ retorted her
father, ‘if you didn’t wish to have him?’
‘Because I was treated with duplicity,’ said Cherry; ‘and because my own
sister and my own father conspired against me. I am not angry with HER,’
said Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. ‘I pity her. I’m sorry
for her. I know the fate that’s in store for her, with that Wretch.’
‘Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,’
said Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; ‘but call him what you
like and make an end of it.’
‘Not an end, Pa,’ said Charity. ‘No, not an end. That’s not the only
point on which we’re not agreed. I won’t submit to it. It’s better you
should know that at once. No; I won’t submit to it indeed, Pa! I am
not quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won’t
submit to it.’
Whatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame attempt to
seem composed was melancholy in the last degree. His anger changed to
meekness, and his words were mild and fawning.
‘My dear,’ he said; ‘if in the short excitement of an angry moment I
resorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak
calculated to injure you as well as myself--it’s possible I may have
done so; perhaps I did--I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of
his child,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is, I believe, a spectacle to soften the
most rugged nature.’
But it didn’t at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature
was not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over
and over again, that she wasn’t quite a fool, and wasn’t blind, and
wouldn’t submit to it.
‘You labour under some mistake, my child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but
I will not ask you what it is; I don’t desire to know. No, pray!’ he
added, holding out his hand and colouring again, ‘let us avoid the
subject, my dear, whatever it is!’
‘It’s quite right that the subject should be avoided between us,
sir,’ said Cherry. ‘But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and
consequently must beg you to provide me with a home.’
Mr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, ‘A home, my child!’
‘Another home, papa,’ said Cherry, with increasing stateliness ‘Place me
at Mrs Todgers’s or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not
live here, if such is to be the case.’
It is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers’s a vision
of enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration at her feet. It is
possible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility, saw, in the
suggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving
himself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness.
It is undoubtedly a fact that in the attentive ears of Mr Pecksniff, the
proposition did not sound quite like the dismal knell of all his hopes.
But he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed
his pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands--as such men
always do, especially when they are observed. ‘One of my birds,’ Mr
Pecksniff said, ‘has left me for the stranger’s breast; the other would
take wing to Todgers’s! Well, well, what am I? I don’t know what I am,
exactly. Never mind!’
Even this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in
the middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid, and
inflexible.
‘But I have ever,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sacrificed my children’s
happiness to my own--I mean my own happiness to my children’s--and I
will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you
can be happier at Mrs Todgers’s than in your father’s house, my dear, go
to Mrs Todgers’s! Do not think of me, my girl!’ said Mr Pecksniff with
emotion; ‘I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.’
Miss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of
the proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the
terms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that
another difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to
ensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and
the storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity’s idea was so agreeable
to both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an
amicable agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project
should be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry’s not being well,
and needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should
form the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of
whom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises
agreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing, with all the dignity of
a self-denying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself
with the reflection that virtue is its own reward. Thus they were
reconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night,
when Mr Jonas, repudiating the elder, had confessed his passion for the
younger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted him on moral grounds.
But how happened it--in the name of an unexpected addition to that small
family, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may
be, how happened it--that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about
to part? How happened it that their mutual relations were so greatly
altered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous to have it understood that
she was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn’t bear it? It is not
possible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that
his daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed his design!
Let us inquire into this.
Mr Pecksniff, as a man without reproach, from whom the breath of slander
passed like common breath from any other polished surface, could afford
to do what common men could not. He knew the purity of his own motives;
and when he had a motive worked at it as only a very good man (or a very
bad one) can. Did he set before himself any strong and palpable motives
for taking a second wife? Yes; and not one or two of them, but a
combination of very many.
Old Martin Chuzzlewit had gradually undergone an important change. Even
upon the night when he made such an ill-timed arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s
house, he was comparatively subdued and easy to deal with. This Mr
Pecksniff attributed, at the time, to the effect his brother’s death had
had upon him. But from that hour his character seemed to have modified
by regular degrees, and to have softened down into a dull indifference
for almost every one but Mr Pecksniff. His looks were much the same as
ever, but his mind was singularly altered. It was not that this or that
passion stood out in brighter or in dimmer hues; but that the colour of
the whole man was faded. As one trait disappeared, no other trait sprung
up to take its place. His senses dwindled too. He was less keen of
sight; was deaf sometimes; took little notice of what passed before him;
and would be profoundly taciturn for days together. The process of this
alteration was so easy that almost as soon as it began to be observed
it was complete. But Mr Pecksniff saw it first, and having Anthony
Chuzzlewit fresh in his recollection, saw in his brother Martin the same
process of decay.
To a gentleman of Mr Pecksniff’s tenderness, this was a very mournful
sight. He could not but foresee the probability of his respected
relative being made the victim of designing persons, and of his riches
falling into worthless hands. It gave him so much pain that he resolved
to secure the property to himself; to keep bad testamentary suitors at a
distance; to wall up the old gentleman, as it were, for his own use. By
little and little, therefore, he began to try whether Mr Chuzzlewit gave
any promise of becoming an instrument in his hands, and finding that he
did, and indeed that he was very supple in his plastic fingers, he made
it the business of his life--kind soul!--to establish an ascendancy over
him; and every little test he durst apply meeting with a success beyond
his hopes, he began to think he heard old Martin’s cash already chinking
in his own unworldly pockets.
But when Mr Pecksniff pondered on this subject (as, in his zealous
way, he often did), and thought with an uplifted heart of the train of
circumstances which had delivered the old gentleman into his hands for
the confusion of evil-doers and the triumph of a righteous nature, he
always felt that Mary Graham was his stumbling-block. Let the old man
say what he would, Mr Pecksniff knew he had a strong affection for her.
He knew that he showed it in a thousand little ways; that he liked to
have her near him, and was never quite at ease when she was absent
long. That he had ever really sworn to leave her nothing in his will, Mr
Pecksniff greatly doubted. That even if he had, there were many ways by
which he could evade the oath and satisfy his conscience, Mr Pecksniff
knew. That her unprotected state was no light burden on the old man’s
mind, he also knew, for Mr Chuzzlewit had plainly told him so. ‘Then,’
said Mr Pecksniff ‘what if I married her! What,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff,
sticking up his hair and glancing at his bust by Spoker; ‘what
if, making sure of his approval first--he is nearly imbecile, poor
gentleman--I married her!’
Mr Pecksniff had a lively sense of the Beautiful; especially in women.
His manner towards the sex was remarkable for its insinuating character.
It is recorded of him in another part of these pages, that he embraced
Mrs Todgers on the smallest provocation; and it was a way he had; it was
a part of the gentle placidity of his disposition. Before any thought of
matrimony was in his mind, he had bestowed on Mary many little tokens of
his spiritual admiration. They had been indignantly received, but that
was nothing. True, as the idea expanded within him, these had become
too ardent to escape the piercing eye of Cherry, who read his scheme at
once; but he had always felt the power of Mary’s charms. So Interest and
Inclination made a pair, and drew the curricle of Mr Pecksniff’s plan.
As to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent
expressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more
effectually from any hope of reconciliation with his grandfather, Mr
Pecksniff was much too meek and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring
it. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that
in her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were
both against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a
case, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff’s moral code; for he knew what a
good man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter
having broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr
Pecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and
by the craftiest approaches.
‘Well, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the
garden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the
fancy took him; ‘and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?’
‘Do you mean me?’ asked the old man.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any
one else, my dear sir?’
‘You might have meant Mary,’ said the old man.
‘Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear
friend, I hope?’ observed Mr Pecksniff.
‘I hope so,’ returned old Martin. ‘I think she deserves it.’
‘Think!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘think, Mr Chuzzlewit!’
‘You are speaking, I know,’ returned Martin, ‘but I don’t catch what you
say. Speak up!’
‘He’s getting deafer than a flint,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I was saying, my
dear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.’
‘What has SHE been doing?’ asked the old man.
‘He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!’ muttered Mr
Pecksniff. ‘He’s a child to-day.’ After which he added, in a mild roar:
‘She hasn’t been doing anything, my dear friend.’
‘What are you going to part with her for?’ demanded Martin.
‘She hasn’t her health by any means,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘She misses
her sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I
think of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir,
if I find she likes it.’
‘Quite right,’ cried Martin. ‘It’s judicious.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in
this dull part, while she’s away?’ said Mr Pecksniff.
‘I have no intention of removing from it,’ was Martin’s answer.
‘Then why,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man’s arm in his, and
walking slowly on; ‘Why, my good sir, can’t you come and stay with me?
I am sure I could surround you with more comforts--lowly as is my
Cot--than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon
me, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon,
however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the
worthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.’
Martin mused a moment; and then said, as he shook him by the hand:
‘No. You’re quite right; it is not.’
‘The very sight of skittles,’ Mr Pecksniff eloquently pursued, ‘is far
from being congenial to a delicate mind.’
‘It’s an amusement of the vulgar,’ said old Martin, ‘certainly.’
‘Of the very vulgar,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. ‘Then why not bring Miss
Graham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas
Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my
daughter’s chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I
hope!’
‘We are not likely to do that,’ said Martin.
Mr Pecksniff pressed his hand. ‘We understand each other, my dear sir,
I see!--I can wind him,’ he thought, with exultation, ‘round my little
finger.’
‘You leave the recompense to me?’ said the old man, after a minute’s
silence.
‘Oh! do not speak of recompense!’ cried Pecksniff.
‘I say,’ repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, ‘you
leave the recompense to me. Do you?’
‘Since you desire it, my good sir.’
‘I always desire it,’ said the old man. ‘You know I always desire it. I
wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a
balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.’
The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear
upon his patron’s hand, but couldn’t find one in his dry distillery.
‘May that day be very distant!’ was his pious exclamation. ‘Ah, sir! If
I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to
our beautiful young friend.’
‘True,’ he answered. ‘True. She need have some one interested in her.
I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would
have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When
she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my
whim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done
her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no
protector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that
any dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in
need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!’
‘If her position could be altered and defined, sir?’ Mr Pecksniff
hinted.
‘How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a
governess?’
‘Heaven forbid!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘My dear sir, there are other ways.
There are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and
would rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit
me to resume it at another time.’
‘You are not unwell?’ asked Martin anxiously.
‘No, no!’ cried Pecksniff. ‘No. Permit me to resume it at another time.
I’ll walk a little. Bless you!’
Old Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned
away, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing
after him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in
any other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery
for feeling Martin’s pulse. The change in the old man found such a
slight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him,
could not help saying to himself:
‘And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!’
Old Martin happening to turn his head, saluted him affectionately. Mr
Pecksniff returned the gesture.
‘Why, the time was,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and not long ago, when he
wouldn’t look at me! How soothing is this change. Such is the delicate
texture of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being
softened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my
little finger. Only think!’
In sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff
might not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr
Pecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done.
Martin had escaped so many snares from needy fortune-hunters, and had
withered in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years,
but to become the good man’s tool and plaything. With the happiness of
this conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth upon his
morning walk.
The summer weather in his bosom was reflected in the breast of Nature.
Through deep green vistas where the boughs arched overhead, and showed
the sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern
from which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by
mantled pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling
among last year’s leaves whose scent woke memory of the past; the placid
Pecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses;
and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as
a man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil
meditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do;
the idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and
expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before
him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds
made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds,
so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr
Pecksniff paid HIS homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he
walked along.
Chancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old
tree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before
him. It startled him to see the embodied image of his thoughts not far
ahead. Mary herself. And alone.
At first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding
her; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace;
caroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence that he only
wanted feathers and wings to be a bird.
Hearing notes behind her, not belonging to the songsters of the grove,
she looked round. Mr Pecksniff kissed his hand, and was at her side
immediately.
‘Communing with nature?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘So am I.’
She said the morning was so beautiful that she had walked further than
she intended, and would return. Mr Pecksniff said it was exactly his
case, and he would return with her.
‘Take my arm, sweet girl,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
Mary declined it, and walked so very fast that he remonstrated. ‘You
were loitering when I came upon you,’ Mr Pecksniff said. ‘Why be so
cruel as to hurry now? You would not shun me, would you?’
‘Yes, I would,’ she answered, turning her glowing cheek indignantly
upon him, ‘you know I would. Release me, Mr Pecksniff. Your touch is
disagreeable to me.’
His touch! What? That chaste patriarchal touch which Mrs Todgers--surely
a discreet lady--had endured, not only without complaint, but with
apparent satisfaction! This was positively wrong. Mr Pecksniff was sorry
to hear her say it.
‘If you have not observed,’ said Mary, ‘that it is so, pray take
assurance from my lips, and do not, as you are a gentleman, continue to
offend me.’
‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘I feel that I might consider
this becoming in a daughter of my own, and why should I object to it
in one so beautiful! It’s harsh. It cuts me to the soul,’ said Mr
Pecksniff; ‘but I cannot quarrel with you, Mary.’
She tried to say she was sorry to hear it, but burst into tears. Mr
Pecksniff now repeated the Todgers performance on a comfortable scale,
as if he intended it to last some time; and in his disengaged hand,
catching hers, employed himself in separating the fingers with his own,
and sometimes kissing them, as he pursued the conversation thus:
‘I am glad we met. I am very glad we met. I am able now to ease my
bosom of a heavy load, and speak to you in confidence. Mary,’ said Mr
Pecksniff in his tenderest tones, indeed they were so very tender that
he almost squeaked: ‘My soul! I love you!’
A fantastic thing, that maiden affectation! She made believe to shudder.
‘I love you,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘my gentle life, with a devotion which
is quite surprising, even to myself. I did suppose that the sensation
was buried in the silent tomb of a lady, only second to you in qualities
of the mind and form; but I find I am mistaken.’
She tried to disengage her hand, but might as well have tried to free
herself from the embrace of an affectionate boa-constrictor; if anything
so wily may be brought into comparison with Pecksniff.
‘Although I am a widower,’ said Mr Pecksniff, examining the rings upon
her fingers, and tracing the course of one delicate blue vein with his
fat thumb, ‘a widower with two daughters, still I am not encumbered,
my love. One of them, as you know, is married. The other, by her own
desire, but with a view, I will confess--why not?--to my altering my
condition, is about to leave her father’s house. I have a character,
I hope. People are pleased to speak well of me, I think. My person
and manner are not absolutely those of a monster, I trust. Ah! naughty
Hand!’ said Mr Pecksniff, apostrophizing the reluctant prize, ‘why did
you take me prisoner? Go, go!’
He slapped the hand to punish it; but relenting, folded it in his
waistcoat to comfort it again.
‘Blessed in each other, and in the society of our venerable friend, my
darling,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we shall be happy. When he is wafted to a
haven of rest, we will console each other. My pretty primrose, what do
you say?’
‘It is possible,’ Mary answered, in a hurried manner, ‘that I ought to
feel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I cannot say that I do,
but I am willing to suppose you may deserve my thanks. Take them; and
pray leave me, Mr Pecksniff.’
The good man smiled a greasy smile; and drew her closer to him.
‘Pray, pray release me, Mr Pecksniff. I cannot listen to your proposal.
I cannot receive it. There are many to whom it may be acceptable, but it
is not so to me. As an act of kindness and an act of pity, leave me!’
Mr Pecksniff walked on with his arm round her waist, and her hand in
his, as contentedly as if they had been all in all to each other, and
were joined in the bonds of truest love.
‘If you force me by your superior strength,’ said Mary, who finding that
good words had not the least effect upon him, made no further effort to
suppress her indignation; ‘if you force me by your superior strength
to accompany you back, and to be the subject of your insolence upon the
way, you cannot constrain the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in
the deepest abhorrence. I know your real nature and despise it.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sweetly. ‘No, no, no!’
‘By what arts or unhappy chances you have gained your influence over
Mr Chuzzlewit, I do not know,’ said Mary; ‘it may be strong enough to
soften even this, but he shall know of this, trust me, sir.’
Mr Pecksniff raised his heavy eyelids languidly, and let them fall
again. It was saying with perfect coolness, ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’
‘Is it not enough,’ said Mary, ‘that you warp and change his nature,
adapt his every prejudice to your bad ends, and harden a heart naturally
kind by shutting out the truth and allowing none but false and distorted
views to reach it; is it not enough that you have the power of doing
this, and that you exercise it, but must you also be so coarse, so
cruel, and so cowardly to me?’
Still Mr Pecksniff led her calmly on, and looked as mild as any lamb
that ever pastured in the fields.
‘Will nothing move you, sir?’ cried Mary.
‘My dear,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, with a placid leer, ‘a habit of
self-examination, and the practice of--shall I say of virtue?’
‘Of hypocrisy,’ said Mary.
‘No, no,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully,
‘of virtue--have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it
is really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is
difficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,’
said Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp ‘that SHE
could! How little did she know his heart!’
Little, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would
have preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent--nay, the
hug of a bear--to the endearments of Mr Pecksniff.
‘Come, come,’ said that good gentleman, ‘a word or two will set this
matter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am
not angry, my love.’
‘YOU angry!’
‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I am not. I say so. Neither are you.’
There was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story
though.
‘I am sure you are not,’ said Mr Pecksniff: ‘and I will tell you why.
There are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger
to one might have a serious effect--who knows!--upon the other. You
wouldn’t wish to hurt him, would you?’
She trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that
he turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in
spite of his better self.
‘A passive quarrel, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘may be changed into
an active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited
young man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it.
Ah, how easy! HAVE I influence with our venerable friend, do you think?
Well, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’
He raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was
charming.
‘No,’ he continued, thoughtfully. ‘Upon the whole, my sweet, if I were
you I’d keep my secret to myself. I am not at all sure--very far from
it--that it would surprise our friend in any way, for he and I have had
some conversation together only this morning, and he is anxious, very
anxious, to establish you in some more settled manner. But whether he
was surprised or not surprised, the consequence of your imparting
it might be the same. Martin junior might suffer severely. I’d have
compassion on Martin junior, do you know?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a
persuasive smile. ‘Yes. He don’t deserve it, but I would.’
She wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed, that he thought it
prudent to unclasp her waist, and hold her only by the hand.
‘As to our own share in the precious little mystery,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
‘we will keep it to ourselves, and talk of it between ourselves, and
you shall think it over. You will consent, my love; you will consent,
I know. Whatever you may think; you will. I seem to remember to have
heard--I really don’t know where, or how’--he added, with bewitching
frankness, ‘that you and Martin junior, when you were children, had a
sort of childish fondness for each other. When we are married, you shall
have the satisfaction of thinking that it didn’t last to ruin him, but
passed away to do him good; for we’ll see then what we can do to put
some trifling help in Martin junior’s way. HAVE I any influence with our
venerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’
The outlet from the wood in which these tender passages occurred, was
close to Mr Pecksniff’s house. They were now so near it that he stopped,
and holding up her little finger, said in playful accents, as a parting
fancy:
‘Shall I bite it?’
Receiving no reply he kissed it instead; and then stooping down,
inclined his flabby face to hers--he had a flabby face, although he
WAS a good man--and with a blessing, which from such a source was quite
enough to set her up in life, and prosper her from that time forth
permitted her to leave him.
Gallantry in its true sense is supposed to ennoble and dignify a
man; and love has shed refinements on innumerable Cymons. But Mr
Pecksniff--perhaps because to one of his exalted nature these were mere
grossnesses--certainly did not appear to any unusual advantage, now that
he was left alone. On the contrary, he seemed to be shrunk and reduced;
to be trying to hide himself within himself; and to be wretched at not
having the power to do it. His shoes looked too large; his sleeve looked
too long; his hair looked too limp; his features looked too mean; his
exposed throat looked as if a halter would have done it good. For a
minute or two, in fact, he was hot, and pale, and mean, and shy, and
slinking, and consequently not at all Pecksniffian. But after that, he
recovered himself, and went home with as beneficent an air as if he had
been the High Priest of the summer weather.
‘I have arranged to go, Papa,’ said Charity, ‘to-morrow.’
‘So soon, my child!’
‘I can’t go too soon,’ said Charity, ‘under the circumstances. I have
written to Mrs Todgers to propose an arrangement, and have requested her
to meet me at the coach, at all events. You’ll be quite your own master
now, Mr Pinch!’
Mr Pecksniff had just gone out of the room, and Tom had just come into
it.
‘My own master!’ repeated Tom.
‘Yes, you’ll have nobody to interfere with you,’ said Charity. ‘At least
I hope you won’t. Hem! It’s a changing world.’
‘What! are YOU going to be married, Miss Pecksniff?’ asked Tom in great
surprise.
‘Not exactly,’ faltered Cherry. ‘I haven’t made up my mind to be. I
believe I could be, if I chose, Mr Pinch.’
‘Of course you could!’ said Tom. And he said it in perfect good faith.
He believed it from the bottom of his heart.
‘No,’ said Cherry, ‘I am not going to be married. Nobody is, that I know
of. Hem! But I am not going to live with Papa. I have my reasons, but
it’s all a secret. I shall always feel very kindly towards you, I assure
you, for the boldness you showed that night. As to you and me, Mr Pinch,
WE part the best friends possible!’
Tom thanked her for her confidence, and for her friendship, but there
was a mystery in the former which perfectly bewildered him. In his
extravagant devotion to the family, he had felt the loss of Merry more
than any one but those who knew that for all the slights he underwent he
thought his own demerits were to blame, could possibly have understood.
He had scarcely reconciled himself to that when here was Charity about
to leave them. She had grown up, as it were, under Tom’s eye.
The sisters were a part of Pecksniff, and a part of Tom; items in
Pecksniff’s goodness, and in Tom’s service. He couldn’t bear it; not two
hours’ sleep had Tom that night, through dwelling in his bed upon these
dreadful changes.
When morning dawned he thought he must have dreamed this piece of
ambiguity; but no, on going downstairs he found them packing trunks
and cording boxes, and making other preparations for Miss Charity’s
departure, which lasted all day long. In good time for the evening
coach, Miss Charity deposited her housekeeping keys with much ceremony
upon the parlour table; took a gracious leave of all the house; and
quitted her paternal roof--a blessing for which the Pecksniffian servant
was observed by some profane persons to be particularly active in the
thanksgiving at church next Sunday.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MR
PECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY
The closing words of the last chapter lead naturally to the commencement
of this, its successor; for it has to do with a church. With the church,
so often mentioned heretofore, in which Tom Pinch played the organ for
nothing.
One sultry afternoon, about a week after Miss Charity’s departure for
London, Mr Pecksniff being out walking by himself, took it into his head
to stray into the churchyard. As he was lingering among the tombstones,
endeavouring to extract an available sentiment or two from the
epitaphs--for he never lost an opportunity of making up a few moral
crackers, to be let off as occasion served--Tom Pinch began to practice.
Tom could run down to the church and do so whenever he had time to
spare; for it was a simple little organ, provided with wind by the
action of the musician’s feet; and he was independent, even of a
bellows-blower. Though if Tom had wanted one at any time, there was
not a man or boy in all the village, and away to the turnpike (tollman
included), but would have blown away for him till he was black in the
face.
Mr Pecksniff had no objection to music; not the least. He was tolerant
of everything; he often said so. He considered it a vagabond kind of
trifling, in general, just suited to Tom’s capacity. But in regard
to Tom’s performance upon this same organ, he was remarkably lenient,
singularly amiable; for when Tom played it on Sundays, Mr Pecksniff
in his unbounded sympathy felt as if he played it himself, and were a
benefactor to the congregation. So whenever it was impossible to devise
any other means of taking the value of Tom’s wages out of him, Mr
Pecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this instrument. For which mark of
his consideration Tom was very grateful.
The afternoon was remarkably warm, and Mr Pecksniff had been strolling
a long way. He had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but he
knew when it had a tranquilizing influence on his soul; and that was the
case now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore. He approached
the church, and looking through the diamond lattice of a window near the
porch, saw Tom, with the curtains in the loft drawn back, playing away
with great expression and tenderness.
The church had an inviting air of coolness. The old oak roof supported
by cross-beams, the hoary walls, the marble tablets, and the cracked
stone pavement, were refreshing to look at. There were leaves of ivy
tapping gently at the opposite windows; and the sun poured in through
only one; leaving the body of the church in tempting shade. But the
most tempting spot of all, was one red-curtained and soft-cushioned pew,
wherein the official dignitaries of the place (of whom Mr Pecksniff was
the head and chief) enshrined themselves on Sundays. Mr Pecksniff’s seat
was in the corner; a remarkably comfortable corner; where his very large
Prayer-Book was at that minute making the most of its quarto self upon
the desk. He determined to go in and rest.
He entered very softly; in part because it was a church; in part because
his tread was always soft; in part because Tom played a solemn tune; in
part because he thought he would surprise him when he stopped. Unbolting
the door of the high pew of state, he glided in and shut it after him;
then sitting in his usual place, and stretching out his legs upon the
hassocks, he composed himself to listen to the music.
It is an unaccountable circumstance that he should have felt drowsy
there, where the force of association might surely have been enough
to keep him wide awake; but he did. He had not been in the snug little
corner five minutes before he began to nod. He had not recovered himself
one minute before he began to nod again. In the very act of opening his
eyes indolently, he nodded again. In the very act of shutting them, he
nodded again. So he fell out of one nod into another until at last he
ceased to nod at all, and was as fast as the church itself.
He had a consciousness of the organ, long after he fell asleep, though
as to its being an organ he had no more idea of that than he had of
its being a bull. After a while he began to have at intervals the same
dreamy impressions of voices; and awakening to an indolent curiosity
upon the subject, opened his eyes.
He was so indolent, that after glancing at the hassocks and the pew, he
was already half-way off to sleep again, when it occurred to him that
there really were voices in the church; low voices, talking earnestly
hard by; while the echoes seemed to mutter responses. He roused himself,
and listened.
Before he had listened half a dozen seconds, he became as broad awake as
ever he had been in all his life. With eyes, and ears, and mouth,
wide open, he moved himself a very little with the utmost caution, and
gathering the curtain in his hand, peeped out.
Tom Pinch and Mary. Of course. He had recognized their voices, and
already knew the topic they discussed. Looking like the small end of a
guillotined man, with his chin on a level with the top of the pew, so
that he might duck down immediately in case of either of them turning
round, he listened. Listened with such concentrated eagerness, that his
very hair and shirt-collar stood bristling up to help him.
‘No,’ cried Tom. ‘No letters have ever reached me, except that one from
New York. But don’t be uneasy on that account, for it’s very likely
they have gone away to some far-off place, where the posts are neither
regular nor frequent. He said in that very letter that it might be so,
even in that city to which they thought of travelling--Eden, you know.’
‘It is a great weight upon my mind,’ said Mary.
‘Oh, but you mustn’t let it be,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a true saying that
nothing travels so fast as ill news; and if the slightest harm had
happened to Martin, you may be sure you would have heard of it long
ago. I have often wished to say this to you,’ Tom continued with an
embarrassment that became him very well, ‘but you have never given me an
opportunity.’
‘I have sometimes been almost afraid,’ said Mary, ‘that you might
suppose I hesitated to confide in you, Mr Pinch.’
‘No,’ Tom stammered, ‘I--I am not aware that I ever supposed that. I
am sure that if I have, I have checked the thought directly, as an
injustice to you. I feel the delicacy of your situation in having to
confide in me at all,’ said Tom, ‘but I would risk my life to save you
from one day’s uneasiness; indeed I would!’
Poor Tom!
‘I have dreaded sometimes,’ Tom continued, ‘that I might have displeased
you by--by having the boldness to try and anticipate your wishes now and
then. At other times I have fancied that your kindness prompted you to
keep aloof from me.’
‘Indeed!’
‘It was very foolish; very presumptuous and ridiculous, to think
so,’ Tom pursued; ‘but I feared you might suppose it possible that
I--I--should admire you too much for my own peace; and so denied
yourself the slight assistance you would otherwise have accepted from
me. If such an idea has ever presented itself to you,’ faltered Tom,
‘pray dismiss it. I am easily made happy; and I shall live contented
here long after you and Martin have forgotten me. I am a poor, shy,
awkward creature; not at all a man of the world; and you should think no
more of me, bless you, than if I were an old friar!’
If friars bear such hearts as thine, Tom, let friars multiply; though
they have no such rule in all their stern arithmetic.
‘Dear Mr Pinch!’ said Mary, giving him her hand; ‘I cannot tell you how
your kindness moves me. I have never wronged you by the lightest doubt,
and have never for an instant ceased to feel that you were all--much
more than all--that Martin found you. Without the silent care and
friendship I have experienced from you, my life here would have been
unhappy. But you have been a good angel to me; filling me with gratitude
of heart, hope, and courage.’
‘I am as little like an angel, I am afraid,’ replied Tom, shaking his
head, ‘as any stone cherubim among the grave-stones; and I don’t think
there are many real angels of THAT pattern. But I should like to know
(if you will tell me) why you have been so very silent about Martin.’
‘Because I have been afraid,’ said Mary, ‘of injuring you.’
‘Of injuring me!’ cried Tom.
‘Of doing you an injury with your employer.’
The gentleman in question dived.
‘With Pecksniff!’ rejoined Tom, with cheerful confidence. ‘Oh dear, he’d
never think of us! He’s the best of men. The more at ease you were, the
happier he would be. Oh dear, you needn’t be afraid of Pecksniff. He is
not a spy.’
Many a man in Mr Pecksniff’s place, if he could have dived through the
floor of the pew of state and come out at Calcutta or any inhabited
region on the other side of the earth, would have done it instantly. Mr
Pecksniff sat down upon a hassock, and listening more attentively than
ever, smiled.
Mary seemed to have expressed some dissent in the meanwhile, for Tom
went on to say, with honest energy:
‘Well, I don’t know how it is, but it always happens, whenever I express
myself in this way to anybody almost, that I find they won’t do justice
to Pecksniff. It is one of the most extraordinary circumstances that
ever came within my knowledge, but it is so. There’s John Westlock, who
used to be a pupil here, one of the best-hearted young men in the world,
in all other matters--I really believe John would have Pecksniff flogged
at the cart’s tail if he could. And John is not a solitary case,
for every pupil we have had in my time has gone away with the same
inveterate hatred of him. There was Mark Tapley, too, quite in another
station of life,’ said Tom; ‘the mockery he used to make of Pecksniff
when he was at the Dragon was shocking. Martin too: Martin was worse
than any of ‘em. But I forgot. He prepared you to dislike Pecksniff, of
course. So you came with a prejudice, you know, Miss Graham, and are not
a fair witness.’
Tom triumphed very much in this discovery, and rubbed his hands with
great satisfaction.
‘Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘you mistake him.’
‘No, no!’ cried Tom. ‘YOU mistake him. But,’ he added, with a rapid
change in his tone, ‘what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is the
matter?’
Mr Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, his
hair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a bench
beside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending over
her.
‘What is the matter?’ cried Tom. ‘Have I said anything to hurt you? Has
any one said anything to hurt you? Don’t cry. Pray tell me what it is.
I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was so
surprised and grieved in all my life!’
Mr Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it now
for nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.
‘I wouldn’t have told you, Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘if I could have helped
it; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that we
should be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and to
that end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternative
is left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I should
have wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to the
object of my coming.’
Tom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, ‘What else?’ But he
said not a word.
‘That person whom you think the best of men,’ said Mary, looking up, and
speaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.
‘Lord bless me!’ muttered Tom, staggering back. ‘Wait a moment. That
person whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course.
Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don’t speak without
authority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?’
‘The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, most
sordid, most shameless,’ said the trembling girl--trembling with her
indignation.
Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.
‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who receiving me in his house as his guest;
his unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone
I am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had a
brother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?’
‘He is a scoundrel!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Whoever he may be, he is a
scoundrel.’
Mr Pecksniff dived again.
‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who, when my only friend--a dear and kind one,
too--was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was
spurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving
spirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl
about him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every base
and wicked purpose, and not for one--not one--that’s true or good?’
‘I say he is a scoundrel!’ answered Tom.
‘But what is he--oh, Mr Pinch, what IS he--who, thinking he could
compass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with the
coward’s argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought so
much misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; and
if I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes my
very constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself and
wrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt a
head I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruel
snares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue and
a smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, in
his embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,’ pursued the agitated girl,
extending it, ‘which I would have struck off, if with it I could lose
the shame and degradation of his touch?’
‘I say,’ cried Tom, in great excitement, ‘he is a scoundrel and a
villain! I don’t care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and most
intolerable villain!’
Covering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which had
sustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelming
sense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.
Any sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but this
especially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He tried
to comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homely
eloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, though
he loved her from his soul with such a self-denying love as woman seldom
wins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the rich
Indies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover’s name.
When she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man she
had described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word and
phrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what had
passed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of high
gratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see and
his dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew,
and coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch’s Show,
who avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she had
concluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant and
unconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and had
thanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in the
burial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.
And now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushing
upon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, in
a moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom’s Pecksniff, had
ceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom would
have had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in this
discovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For,
as Tom’s blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so was
his restored sight. HIS Pecksniff could never have worked the wickedness
of which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and the
Pecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had been
doing anything and everything except the right thing, all through his
career. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol it
was tumbled down headlong, and
Not all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men,
Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.
Legions of Titans couldn’t have got him out of the mud; and serve him
right! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass was
broken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts were
gone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.
Mr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined the
purpose of Tom’s ruminations, and was curious to see how he conducted
himself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a man
demented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over;
then he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully with
skulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had ever
seen, although at other times he held it in unspeakable contempt; then
he sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up into
the organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed,
their music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom drooped
his head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.
‘I wouldn’t have cared,’ said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool and
looking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, ‘I
wouldn’t have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I have
tried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and have
never been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn’t have
minded, Pecksniff,’ Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, ‘if
you had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses for
that; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone on
respecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem!
Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, to
have had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!’
Mr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, while
Tom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause he
heard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringing
his eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock the
door.
Mr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for through
the windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, and
sometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were a
mourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, Mr
Pecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that in
his restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length he
issued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry;
where he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he could
release himself by merely stepping out.
He was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry to
go, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, which
prompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the
parson’s little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair
was rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and
arranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but
he shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a
black and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very
much the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging
themselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a
port-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helped
himself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, in
a very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise
employed.
He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting
back the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the
churchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked
straight home.
‘Is Mr Pinch indoors?’ asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.
‘Just come in, sir.’
‘Just come in, eh?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. ‘And gone
upstairs, I suppose?’
‘Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?’
‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘no. You needn’t call him, Jane. Thank you,
Jane. How are your relations, Jane?’
‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’
‘I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr
Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s in the parlour, reading.’
‘He’s in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very
well. Then I think I’ll go and see him, Jane.’
Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!
But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as
Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for
Mr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with
writing materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was
not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved;
he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man’s side, two
tears--not tears like those with which recording angels blot their
entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their
ink--stole down his meritorious cheeks.
‘What is the matter?’ asked old Martin. ‘Pecksniff, what ails you, man?’
‘I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for
the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.’
‘You are deceived!’
‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, ‘deceived in the tenderest
point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most
unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.’
‘Oh! bad, bad, bad!’ said Martin, laying down his book. ‘Very bad! I
hope not. Are you certain?’
‘Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn’t have
believed it otherwise. I wouldn’t have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a
Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I
would have said,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘that the Serpent lied. Such was
my faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into
the Serpent’s teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am
not a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is
left me.’
Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear
such unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon
what subject Mr Pinch’s treachery had been developed.
‘That is almost the worst of all, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, ‘on a
subject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
looking upward, ‘that these blows must fall on me, but must they also
hit my friends!’
‘You alarm me,’ cried the old man, changing colour. ‘I am not so strong
as I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!’
‘Cheer up, my noble sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, ‘and we
will do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall
be righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to
discharge, which I owe to society.’
He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. ‘Send Mr Pinch here, if you please,
Jane.’
Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected,
visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.
The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say
‘You see!’ and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:
‘Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the
favour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to
me!’
‘The vestry-window, sir?’ cried Tom.
‘You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,’ returned his patron. ‘Yes, Mr
Pinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church
after a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,’ he
emphasised that word, ‘of a dialogue between two parties; and one of
them locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave
it myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that
vestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.’
No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom’s
face when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of
reproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong
emotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying
one word, good or bad, withdrew.
‘Pecksniff,’ cried Martin, in a tremble, ‘what does all this mean? You
are not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!’
‘No, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, ‘No. But I have a duty to
discharge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend,
at any cost!’
Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always
owed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when
will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy
neglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition
in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose
duty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and
death, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the
hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon’s dock, and throwing but
ajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to
society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these
bad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go
before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy
homilies to other tarriers for dead men’s shoes, whose duty to society
has not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a
squire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and
the mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth,
a corps of yeomanry full-grown!
Mr Pecksniff’s duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The
interval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a
close conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found
the two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above,
whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to
entreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be
spared.
When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr
Pecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was
his pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little
heap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it
was his own salary for the current quarter.
‘Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.’
Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the
organ-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it
as he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom’s; a kind
companion to him, many and many a day.
‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, shaking his head; ‘oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder
you can look me in the face!’
Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as
stooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.
‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt
that he should want it soon, ‘I will not dwell upon the past. I will
spare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.’
Tom’s was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when
he looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:
‘Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.’
‘The present is enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, ‘and
the sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss
you without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite
justifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of
hurry, and I will not do it; for I am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down
another penny, ‘perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you,
what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.’
Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving
of Mr Pecksniff’s sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them
in no other way.
‘From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just
now, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘between yourself and Miss Graham--I say
fragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you,
when I was roused by your voices--and from what I saw, I ascertained (I
would have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that
you, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the
sacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate
of this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned
professions of attachment and proposals of love.’
Tom looked at him steadily.
‘Do you deny it, sir?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and
fourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.
‘No, sir,’ replied Tom. ‘I do not.’
‘You do not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. ‘Oblige
me by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this
receipt. You do not?’
No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having
overheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his
contempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means
of getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He
saw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing
so and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against
Martin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been
mistaken in his ‘fragments.’ Deny it! No.
‘You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.
‘Quite correct, sir,’ answered Tom.
‘A person is waiting in the kitchen,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to carry
your luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and are
strangers from this time.’
Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken
gratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom’s
gentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff’s in
that carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved the
compromise of one he loved, he couldn’t have denounced the very shape
and figure of the man. Not even then.
‘I will not say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, ‘what a blow this
is. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature;
how it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure as
well as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope,
Mr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, that
this deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may not
impair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, my
Pinions. I hope it will not; I don’t think it will. It may be a comfort
to you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavour
not to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what has
passed between us. Farewell!’
Tom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, which
he had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearing
this, and said:
‘I think you left something in the church, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I am not aware that I did.’
‘This is your double eye-glass, I believe?’ said Tom.
‘Oh!’ cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. ‘I am obliged to
you. Put it down, if you please.’
‘I found it,’ said Tom, slowly--‘when I went to bolt the
vestry-window--in the pew.’
So he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up and
down, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it.
Going back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, and
wondering very much from what part, Tom’s attention was caught by the
door of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass.
And thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the information
that he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead of
overhearing fragments of the conversation, he must have rejoiced in
every word of it.
‘I am glad he’s gone,’ said Martin, drawing a long breath when Tom had
left the room.
‘It IS a relief,’ assented Mr Pecksniff. ‘It is a great relief. But
having discharged--I hope with tolerable firmness--the duty which I owed
to society, I will now, my dear sir, if you will give me leave, retire
to shed a few tears in the back garden, as an humble individual.’
Tom went upstairs; cleared his shelf of books; packed them up with his
music and an old fiddle in his trunk; got out his clothes (they were not
so many that they made his head ache); put them on the top of his books;
and went into the workroom for his case of instruments. There was a
ragged stool there, with the horsehair all sticking out of the top like
a wig: a very Beast of a stool in itself; on which he had taken up his
daily seat, year after year, during the whole period of his service.
They had grown older and shabbier in company. Pupils had served their
time; seasons had come and gone. Tom and the worn-out stool had held
together through it all. That part of the room was traditionally called
‘Tom’s Corner.’ It had been assigned to him at first because of its
being situated in a strong draught, and a great way from the fire; and
he had occupied it ever since. There were portraits of him on the walls,
with all his weak points monstrously portrayed. Diabolical sentiments,
foreign to his character, were represented as issuing from his mouth in
fat balloons. Every pupil had added something, even unto fancy portraits
of his father with one eye, and of his mother with a disproportionate
nose, and especially of his sister; who always being presented as
extremely beautiful, made full amends to Tom for any other jokes. Under
less uncommon circumstances, it would have cut Tom to the heart to leave
these things and think that he saw them for the last time; but it didn’t
now. There was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff; and all
his other griefs were swallowed up in that.
So, when he returned into the bedroom, and, having fastened his box and
a carpet-bag, put on his walking gaiters, and his great-coat, and his
hat, and taken his stick in his hand, looked round it for the last time.
Early on summer mornings, and by the light of private candle-ends on
winter nights, he had read himself half blind in this same room. He had
tried in this same room to learn the fiddle under the bedclothes, but
yielding to objections from the other pupils, had reluctantly abandoned
the design. At any other time he would have parted from it with a pang,
thinking of all he had learned there, of the many hours he had passed
there; for the love of his very dreams. But there was no Pecksniff;
there never had been a Pecksniff, and the unreality of Pecksniff
extended itself to the chamber, in which, sitting on one particular
bed, the thing supposed to be that Great Abstraction had often preached
morality with such effect that Tom had felt a moisture in his eyes,
while hanging breathless on the words.
The man engaged to bear his box--Tom knew him well: a Dragon man--came
stamping up the stairs, and made a roughish bow to Tom (to whom in
common times he would have nodded with a grin) as though he were aware
of what had happened, and wished him to perceive it made no difference
to HIM. It was clumsily done; he was a mere waterer of horses; but Tom
liked the man for it, and felt it more than going away.
Tom would have helped him with the box, but he made no more of it,
though it was a heavy one, than an elephant would have made of a
castle; just swinging it on his back and bowling downstairs as if, being
naturally a heavy sort of fellow, he could carry a box infinitely better
than he could go alone. Tom took the carpet-bag, and went downstairs
along with him. At the outer door stood Jane, crying with all her might;
and on the steps was Mrs Lupin, sobbing bitterly, and putting out her
hand for Tom to shake.
‘You’re coming to the Dragon, Mr Pinch?’
‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no. I shall walk to Salisbury to-night. I couldn’t stay
here. For goodness’ sake, don’t make me so unhappy, Mrs Lupin.’
‘But you’ll come to the Dragon, Mr Pinch. If it’s only for tonight. To
see me, you know; not as a traveller.’
‘God bless my soul!’ said Tom, wiping his eyes. ‘The kindness of people
is enough to break one’s heart! I mean to go to Salisbury to-night, my
dear good creature. If you’ll take care of my box for me till I write
for it, I shall consider it the greatest kindness you can do me.’
‘I wish,’ cried Mrs Lupin, ‘there were twenty boxes, Mr Pinch, that I
might have ‘em all.’
‘Thank’ee,’ said Tom. ‘It’s like you. Good-bye. Good-bye.’
There were several people, young and old, standing about the door, some
of whom cried with Mrs Lupin; while others tried to keep up a stout
heart, as Tom did; and others were absorbed in admiration of Mr
Pecksniff--a man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting
at a sheet of paper; and others were divided between that feeling and
sympathy with Tom. Mr Pecksniff had appeared on the top of the steps,
simultaneously with his old pupil, and while Tom was talking with Mrs
Lupin kept his hand stretched out, as though he said ‘Go forth!’ When
Tom went forth, and had turned the corner Mr Pecksniff shook his head,
shut his eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, shut the door. On which, the
best of Tom’s supporters said he must have done some dreadful deed, or
such a man as Mr Pecksniff never could have felt like that. If it had
been a common quarrel (they observed), he would have said something, but
when he didn’t, Mr Pinch must have shocked him dreadfully.
Tom was out of hearing of their shrewd opinions, and plodded on as
steadily as he could go, until he came within sight of the turnpike
where the tollman’s family had cried out ‘Mr Pinch!’ that frosty
morning, when he went to meet young Martin. He had got through the
village, and this toll-bar was his last trial; but when the infant
toll-takers came screeching out, he had half a mind to run for it, and
make a bolt across the country.
‘Why, deary Mr Pinch! oh, deary sir!’ cried the tollman’s wife. ‘What an
unlikely time for you to be a-going this way with a bag!’
‘I am going to Salisbury,’ said Tom.
‘Why, goodness, where’s the gig, then?’ cried the tollman’s wife,
looking down the road, as if she thought Tom might have been upset
without observing it.
‘I haven’t got it,’ said Tom. ‘I--’ he couldn’t evade it; he felt she
would have him in the next question, if he got over this one. ‘I have
left Mr Pecksniff.’
The tollman--a crusty customer, always smoking solitary pipes in a
Windsor chair, inside, set artfully between two little windows that
looked up and down the road, so that when he saw anything coming up he
might hug himself on having toll to take, and when he saw it going down,
might hug himself on having taken it--the tollman was out in an instant.
‘Left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman.
‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘left him.’
The tollman looked at his wife, uncertain whether to ask her if she had
anything to suggest, or to order her to mind the children. Astonishment
making him surly, he preferred the latter, and sent her into the
toll-house with a flea in her ear.
‘You left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman, folding his arms, and
spreading his legs. ‘I should as soon have thought of his head leaving
him.’
‘Aye!’ said Tom, ‘so should I, yesterday. Good night!’
If a heavy drove of oxen hadn’t come by immediately, the tollman would
have gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. As
things turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into his
confidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and they
went to bed--metaphorically--in the dark. But several times that night,
when a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver asked
the tollkeeper ‘What news?’ he looked at the man by the light of his
lantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, and
then said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:
‘You’ve heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?’
‘Ah! sure-ly!’
‘And of his young man Mr Pinch, p’raps?’
‘Ah!’
‘They’ve parted.’
After every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into his
house again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in great
amazement.
But this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his face
towards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening was
beautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and the
rain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wet
through, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcome
precincts of the city.
He went to the inn where he had waited for Martin, and briefly answering
their inquiries after Mr Pecksniff, ordered a bed. He had no heart for
tea or supper, meat or drink of any kind, but sat by himself before
an empty table in the public room while the bed was getting ready,
revolving in his mind all that had happened that eventful day, and
wondering what he could or should do for the future. It was a great
relief when the chambermaid came in, and said the bed was ready.
It was a low four-poster, shelving downward in the centre like a trough,
and the room was crowded with impracticable tables and exploded chests
of drawers, full of damp linen. A graphic representation in oil of a
remarkably fat ox hung over the fireplace, and the portrait of some
former landlord (who might have been the ox’s brother, he was so like
him) stared roundly in, at the foot of the bed. A variety of queer
smells were partially quenched in the prevailing scent of very old
lavender; and the window had not been opened for such a long space of
time that it pleaded immemorial usage, and wouldn’t come open now.
These were trifles in themselves, but they added to the strangeness of
the place, and did not induce Tom to forget his new position. Pecksniff
had gone out of the world--had never been in it--and it was as much
as Tom could do to say his prayers without him. But he felt happier
afterwards, and went to sleep, and dreamed about him as he Never Was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TREATS OF TODGER’S AGAIN; AND OF ANOTHER BLIGHTED PLANT BESIDES THE
PLANTS UPON THE LEADS
Early on the day next after that on which she bade adieu to the halls
of her youth and the scenes of her childhood, Miss Pecksniff, arriving
safely at the coach-office in London, was there received, and conducted
to her peaceful home beneath the shadow of the Monument, by Mrs Todgers.
M. Todgers looked a little worn by cares of gravy and other such
solicitudes arising out of her establishment, but displayed her usual
earnestness and warmth of manner.
‘And how, my sweet Miss Pecksniff,’ said she, ‘how is your princely pa?’
Miss Pecksniff signified (in confidence) that he contemplated the
introduction of a princely ma; and repeated the sentiment that she
wasn’t blind, and wasn’t quite a fool, and wouldn’t bear it.
Mrs Todgers was more shocked by the intelligence than any one could have
expected. She was quite bitter. She said there was no truth in man and
that the warmer he expressed himself, as a general principle, the falser
and more treacherous he was. She foresaw with astonishing clearness that
the object of Mr Pecksniff’s attachment was designing, worthless, and
wicked; and receiving from Charity the fullest confirmation of these
views, protested with tears in her eyes that she loved Miss Pecksniff
like a sister, and felt her injuries as if they were her own.
‘Your real darling sister, I have not seen her more than once since her
marriage,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and then I thought her looking poorly. My
sweet Miss Pecksniff, I always thought that you was to be the lady?’
‘Oh dear no!’ cried Cherry, shaking her head. ‘Oh no, Mrs Todgers. Thank
you. No! not for any consideration he could offer.’
‘I dare say you are right,’ said Mrs Todgers with a sigh. ‘I feared
it all along. But the misery we have had from that match, here among
ourselves, in this house, my dear Miss Pecksniff, nobody would believe.’
‘Lor, Mrs Todgers!’
‘Awful, awful!’ repeated Mrs Todgers, with strong emphasis. ‘You
recollect our youngest gentleman, my dear?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Cherry.
‘You might have observed,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘how he used to watch your
sister; and that a kind of stony dumbness came over him whenever she was
in company?’
‘I am sure I never saw anything of the sort,’ said Cherry, in a peevish
manner. ‘What nonsense, Mrs Todgers!’
‘My dear,’ returned that lady in a hollow voice, ‘I have seen him again
and again, sitting over his pie at dinner, with his spoon a perfect
fixture in his mouth, looking at your sister. I have seen him standing
in a corner of our drawing-room, gazing at her, in such a lonely,
melancholy state, that he was more like a Pump than a man, and might
have drawed tears.’
‘I never saw it!’ cried Cherry; ‘that’s all I can say.’
‘But when the marriage took place,’ said Mrs Todgers, proceeding
with her subject, ‘when it was in the paper, and was read out here at
breakfast, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, I did indeed.
The violence of that young man, my dear Miss Pecksniff; the frightful
opinions he expressed upon the subject of self-destruction; the
extraordinary actions he performed with his tea; the clenching way in
which he bit his bread and butter; the manner in which he taunted Mr
Jinkins; all combined to form a picture never to be forgotten.’
‘It’s a pity he didn’t destroy himself, I think,’ observed Miss
Pecksniff.
‘Himself!’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘it took another turn at night. He was for
destroying other people then. There was a little chaffing going on--I
hope you don’t consider that a low expression, Miss Pecksniff; it is
always in our gentlemen’s mouths--a little chaffing going on, my dear,
among ‘em, all in good nature, when suddenly he rose up, foaming with
his fury, and but for being held by three would have had Mr Jinkins’s
life with a bootjack.’
Miss Pecksniff’s face expressed supreme indifference.
‘And now,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘now he is the meekest of men. You can
almost bring the tears into his eyes by looking at him. He sits with me
the whole day long on Sundays, talking in such a dismal way that I find
it next to impossible to keep my spirits up equal to the accommodation
of the boarders. His only comfort is in female society. He takes me
half-price to the play, to an extent which I sometimes fear is beyond
his means; and I see the tears a-standing in his eyes during the whole
performance--particularly if it is anything of a comic nature. The turn
I experienced only yesterday,’ said Mrs Todgers putting her hand to her
side, ‘when the house-maid threw his bedside carpet out of the window of
his room, while I was sitting here, no one can imagine. I thought it was
him, and that he had done it at last!’
The contempt with which Miss Charity received this pathetic account of
the state to which the youngest gentleman in company was reduced,
did not say much for her power of sympathising with that unfortunate
character. She treated it with great levity, and went on to inform
herself, then and afterwards, whether any other changes had occurred in
the commercial boarding-house.
Mr Bailey was gone, and had been succeeded (such is the decay of human
greatness!) by an old woman whose name was reported to be Tamaroo--which
seemed an impossibility. Indeed it appeared in the fullness of time that
the jocular boarders had appropriated the word from an English ballad,
in which it is supposed to express the bold and fiery nature of a
certain hackney coachman; and that it was bestowed upon Mr Bailey’s
successor by reason of her having nothing fiery about her, except an
occasional attack of that fire which is called St. Anthony’s. This
ancient female had been engaged, in fulfillment of a vow, registered by
Mrs Todgers, that no more boys should darken the commercial doors; and
she was chiefly remarkable for a total absence of all comprehension upon
every subject whatever. She was a perfect Tomb for messages and small
parcels; and when dispatched to the Post Office with letters, had been
frequently seen endeavouring to insinuate them into casual chinks in
private doors, under the delusion that any door with a hole in it would
answer the purpose. She was a very little old woman, and always wore
a very coarse apron with a bib before and a loop behind, together
with bandages on her wrists, which appeared to be afflicted with an
everlasting sprain. She was on all occasions chary of opening the street
door, and ardent to shut it again; and she waited at table in a bonnet.
This was the only great change over and above the change which had
fallen on the youngest gentleman. As for him, he more than corroborated
the account of Mrs Todgers; possessing greater sensibility than even
she had given him credit for. He entertained some terrible notions of
Destiny, among other matters, and talked much about people’s ‘Missions’;
upon which he seemed to have some private information not generally
attainable, as he knew it had been poor Merry’s mission to crush him
in the bud. He was very frail and tearful; for being aware that a
shepherd’s mission was to pipe to his flocks, and that a boatswain’s
mission was to pipe all hands, and that one man’s mission was to be a
paid piper, and another man’s mission was to pay the piper, so he had
got it into his head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye.
Which he did perpetually.
He often informed Mrs Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that the
billows had rolled over him; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed him,
and also that the deadly Upas tree of Java had blighted him. His name
was Moddle.
Towards this most unhappy Moddle, Miss Pecksniff conducted herself at
first with distant haughtiness, being in no humour to be entertained
with dirges in honour of her married sister. The poor young gentleman
was additionally crushed by this, and remonstrated with Mrs Todgers on
the subject.
‘Even she turns from me, Mrs Todgers,’ said Moddle.
‘Then why don’t you try and be a little bit more cheerful, sir?’
retorted Mrs Todgers.
‘Cheerful, Mrs Todgers! cheerful!’ cried the youngest gentleman; ‘when
she reminds me of days for ever fled, Mrs Todgers!’
‘Then you had better avoid her for a short time, if she does,’ said Mrs
Todgers, ‘and come to know her again, by degrees. That’s my advice.’
‘But I can’t avoid her,’ replied Moddle, ‘I haven’t strength of mind to
do it. Oh, Mrs Todgers, if you knew what a comfort her nose is to me!’
‘Her nose, sir!’ Mrs Todgers cried.
‘Her profile, in general,’ said the youngest gentleman, ‘but
particularly her nose. It’s so like;’ here he yielded to a burst of
grief. ‘It’s so like hers who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers!’
The observant matron did not fail to report this conversation to
Charity, who laughed at the time, but treated Mr Moddle that very
evening with increased consideration, and presented her side face to him
as much as possible. Mr Moddle was not less sentimental than usual;
was rather more so, if anything; but he sat and stared at her with
glistening eyes, and seemed grateful.
‘Well, sir!’ said the lady of the Boarding-House next day. ‘You held up
your head last night. You’re coming round, I think.’
‘Only because she’s so like her who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers,’ rejoined
the youth. ‘When she talks, and when she smiles, I think I’m looking on
HER brow again, Mrs Todgers.’
This was likewise carried to Charity, who talked and smiled next evening
in her most engaging manner, and rallying Mr Moddle on the lowness of
his spirits, challenged him to play a rubber at cribbage. Mr Moddle
taking up the gauntlet, they played several rubbers for sixpences, and
Charity won them all. This may have been partially attributable to the
gallantry of the youngest gentleman, but it was certainly referable to
the state of his feelings also; for his eyes being frequently dimmed by
tears, he thought that aces were tens, and knaves queens, which at times
occasioned some confusion in his play.
On the seventh night of cribbage, when Mrs Todgers, sitting by, proposed
that instead of gambling they should play for ‘love,’ Mr Moddle was seen
to change colour. On the fourteenth night, he kissed Miss Pecksniff’s
snuffers, in the passage, when she went upstairs to bed; meaning to have
kissed her hand, but missing it.
In short, Mr Moddle began to be impressed with the idea that Miss
Pecksniff’s mission was to comfort him; and Miss Pecksniff began
to speculate on the probability of its being her mission to become
ultimately Mrs Moddle. He was a young gentleman (Miss Pecksniff was not
a very young lady) with rising prospects, and ‘almost’ enough to live
on. Really it looked very well.
Besides--besides--he had been regarded as devoted to Merry. Merry had
joked about him, and had once spoken of it to her sister as a conquest.
He was better looking, better shaped, better spoken, better tempered,
better mannered than Jonas. He was easy to manage, could be made to
consult the humours of his Betrothed, and could be shown off like a lamb
when Jonas was a bear. There was the rub!
In the meantime the cribbage went on, and Mrs Todgers went off; for the
youngest gentleman, dropping her society, began to take Miss Pecksniff
to the play. He also began, as Mrs Todgers said, to slip home ‘in his
dinner-times,’ and to get away from ‘the office’ at unholy seasons;
and twice, as he informed Mrs Todgers himself, he received anonymous
letters, enclosing cards from Furniture Warehouses--clearly the act of
that ungentlemanly ruffian Jinkins; only he hadn’t evidence enough to
call him out upon. All of which, so Mrs Todgers told Miss Pecksniff,
spoke as plain English as the shining sun.
‘My dear Miss Pecksniff, you may depend upon it,’ said Mrs Todgers,
‘that he is burning to propose.’
‘My goodness me, why don’t he then?’ cried Cherry.
‘Men are so much more timid than we think ‘em, my dear,’ returned
Mrs Todgers. ‘They baulk themselves continually. I saw the words on
Todgers’s lips for months and months and months, before he said ‘em.’
Miss Pecksniff submitted that Todgers might not have been a fair
specimen.
‘Oh yes, he was. Oh bless you, yes, my dear. I was very particular in
those days, I assure you,’ said Mrs Todgers, bridling. ‘No, no. You give
Mr Moddle a little encouragement, Miss Pecksniff, if you wish him to
speak; and he’ll speak fast enough, depend upon it.’
‘I am sure I don’t know what encouragement he would have, Mrs Todgers,’
returned Charity. ‘He walks with me, and plays cards with me, and he
comes and sits alone with me.’
‘Quite right,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘That’s indispensable, my dear.’
‘And he sits very close to me.’
‘Also quite correct,’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘And he looks at me.’
‘To be sure he does,’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘And he has his arm upon the back of the chair or sofa, or whatever it
is--behind me, you know.’
‘I should think so,’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘And then he begins to cry!’
Mrs Todgers admitted that he might do better than that; and might
undoubtedly profit by the recollection of the great Lord Nelson’s signal
at the battle of Trafalgar. Still, she said, he would come round, or,
not to mince the matter, would be brought round, if Miss Pecksniff took
up a decided position, and plainly showed him that it must be done.
Determining to regulate her conduct by this opinion, the young lady
received Mr Moddle, on the earliest subsequent occasion, with an air of
constraint; and gradually leading him to inquire, in a dejected manner,
why she was so changed, confessed to him that she felt it necessary for
their mutual peace and happiness to take a decided step. They had been
much together lately, she observed, much together, and had tasted the
sweets of a genuine reciprocity of sentiment. She never could forget
him, nor could she ever cease to think of him with feelings of the
liveliest friendship, but people had begun to talk, the thing had been
observed, and it was necessary that they should be nothing more to each
other, than any gentleman and lady in society usually are. She was glad
she had had the resolution to say thus much before her feelings had been
tried too far; they had been greatly tried, she would admit; but though
she was weak and silly, she would soon get the better of it, she hoped.
Moddle, who had by this time become in the last degree maudlin, and wept
abundantly, inferred from the foregoing avowal, that it was his mission
to communicate to others the blight which had fallen on himself; and
that, being a kind of unintentional Vampire, he had had Miss Pecksniff
assigned to him by the Fates, as Victim Number One. Miss Pecksniff
controverting this opinion as sinful, Moddle was goaded on to ask
whether she could be contented with a blighted heart; and it appearing
on further examination that she could be, plighted his dismal troth,
which was accepted and returned.
He bore his good fortune with the utmost moderation. Instead of being
triumphant, he shed more tears than he had ever been known to shed
before; and, sobbing, said:
‘Oh! what a day this has been! I can’t go back to the office this
afternoon. Oh, what a trying day this has been! Good Gracious!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FURTHER PROCEEDINGS IN EDEN, AND A PROCEEDING OUT OF IT. MARTIN MAKES A
DISCOVERY OF SOME IMPORTANCE
From Mr Moddle to Eden is an easy and natural transition. Mr Moddle,
living in the atmosphere of Miss Pecksniff’s love, dwelt (if he had but
known it) in a terrestrial Paradise. The thriving city of Eden was
also a terrestrial Paradise, upon the showing of its proprietors. The
beautiful Miss Pecksniff might have been poetically described as a
something too good for man in his fallen and degraded state. That
was exactly the character of the thriving city of Eden, as poetically
heightened by Zephaniah Scadder, General Choke, and other worthies; part
and parcel of the talons of that great American Eagle, which is always
airing itself sky-high in purest aether, and never, no never, never,
tumbles down with draggled wings into the mud.
When Mark Tapley, leaving Martin in the architectural and surveying
offices, had effectually strengthened and encouraged his own spirits
by the contemplation of their joint misfortunes, he proceeded, with
new cheerfulness, in search of help; congratulating himself, as he went
along, on the enviable position to which he had at last attained.
‘I used to think, sometimes,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘as a desolate island
would suit me, but I should only have had myself to provide for there,
and being naturally a easy man to manage, there wouldn’t have been much
credit in THAT. Now here I’ve got my partner to take care on, and he’s
something like the sort of man for the purpose. I want a man as is
always a-sliding off his legs when he ought to be on ‘em. I want a
man as is so low down in the school of life that he’s always a-making
figures of one in his copy-book, and can’t get no further. I want a man
as is his own great coat and cloak, and is always a-wrapping himself up
in himself. And I have got him too,’ said Mr Tapley, after a moment’s
silence. ‘What a happiness!’
He paused to look round, uncertain to which of the log-houses he should
repair.
‘I don’t know which to take,’ he observed; ‘that’s the truth. They’re
equally prepossessing outside, and equally commodious, no doubt, within;
being fitted up with every convenience that a Alligator, in a state of
natur’, could possibly require. Let me see! The citizen as turned out
last night, lives under water, in the right hand dog-kennel at the
corner. I don’t want to trouble him if I can help it, poor man, for
he is a melancholy object; a reg’lar Settler in every respect. There’s
house with a winder, but I am afraid of their being proud. I don’t know
whether a door ain’t too aristocratic; but here goes for the first one!’
He went up to the nearest cabin, and knocked with his hand. Being
desired to enter, he complied.
‘Neighbour,’ said Mark; ‘for I AM a neighbour, though you don’t know me;
I’ve come a-begging. Hallo! hal--lo! Am I a-bed, and dreaming!’
He made this exclamation on hearing his own name pronounced, and finding
himself clasped about the skirts by two little boys, whose faces he had
often washed, and whose suppers he had often cooked, on board of that
noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw.
‘My eyes is wrong!’ said Mark. ‘I don’t believe ‘em. That ain’t my
fellow-passenger younder, a-nursing her little girl, who, I am sorry to
see, is so delicate; and that ain’t her husband as come to New York to
fetch her. Nor these,’ he added, looking down upon the boys, ‘ain’t them
two young shavers as was so familiar to me; though they are uncommon
like ‘em. That I must confess.’
The woman shed tears, in very joy to see him; the man shook both his
hands and would not let them go; the two boys hugged his legs; the sick
child in the mother’s arms stretched out her burning little fingers, and
muttered, in her hoarse, dry throat, his well-remembered name.
It was the same family, sure enough. Altered by the salubrious air of
Eden. But the same.
‘This is a new sort of a morning call,’ said Mark, drawing a long
breath. ‘It strikes one all of a heap. Wait a little bit! I’m a-coming
round fast. That’ll do! These gentlemen ain’t my friends. Are they on
the visiting list of the house?’
The inquiry referred to certain gaunt pigs, who had walked in after him,
and were much interested in the heels of the family. As they did not
belong to the mansion, they were expelled by the two little boys.
‘I ain’t superstitious about toads,’ said Mark, looking round the room,
‘but if you could prevail upon the two or three I see in company, to
step out at the same time, my young friends, I think they’d find the
open air refreshing. Not that I at all object to ‘em. A very handsome
animal is a toad,’ said Mr Tapley, sitting down upon a stool; ‘very
spotted; very like a partickler style of old gentleman about the throat;
very bright-eyed, very cool, and very slippy. But one sees ‘em to the
best advantage out of doors perhaps.’
While pretending, with such talk as this, to be perfectly at his ease,
and to be the most indifferent and careless of men, Mark Tapley had
an eye on all around him. The wan and meagre aspect of the family, the
changed looks of the poor mother, the fevered child she held in her lap,
the air of great despondency and little hope on everything, were plain
to him, and made a deep impression on his mind. He saw it all as
clearly and as quickly, as with his bodily eyes he saw the rough shelves
supported by pegs driven between the logs, of which the house was made;
the flour-cask in the corner, serving also for a table; the blankets,
spades, and other articles against the walls; the damp that blotched the
ground; or the crop of vegetable rottenness in every crevice of the hut.
‘How is it that you have come here?’ asked the man, when their first
expressions of surprise were over.
‘Why, we come by the steamer last night,’ replied Mark. ‘Our intention
is to make our fortuns with punctuality and dispatch; and to retire upon
our property as soon as ever it’s realised. But how are you all? You’re
looking noble!’
‘We are but sickly now,’ said the poor woman, bending over her child.
‘But we shall do better when we are seasoned to the place.’
‘There are some here,’ thought Mark ‘whose seasoning will last for
ever.’
But he said cheerfully, ‘Do better! To be sure you will. We shall all
do better. What we’ve got to do is, to keep up our spirits, and be
neighbourly. We shall come all right in the end, never fear. That
reminds me, by the bye, that my partner’s all wrong just at present;
and that I looked in to beg for him. I wish you’d come and give me your
opinion of him, master.’
That must have been a very unreasonable request on the part of Mark
Tapley, with which, in their gratitude for his kind offices on board the
ship, they would not have complied instantly. The man rose to accompany
him without a moment’s delay. Before they went, Mark took the sick child
in his arms, and tried to comfort the mother; but the hand of death was
on it then, he saw.
They found Martin in the house, lying wrapped up in his blanket on
the ground. He was, to all appearance, very ill indeed, and shook and
shivered horribly; not as people do from cold, but in a frightful
kind of spasm or convulsion, that racked his whole body. Mark’s friend
pronounced his disease an aggravated kind of fever, accompanied with
ague; which was very common in those parts, and which he predicted would
be worse to-morrow, and for many more to-morrows. He had had it himself
off and on, he said, for a couple of years or so; but he was thankful
that, while so many he had known had died about him, he had escaped with
life.
‘And with not too much of that,’ thought Mark, surveying his emaciated
form. ‘Eden for ever!’
They had some medicine in their chest; and this man of sad experience
showed Mark how and when to administer it, and how he could best
alleviate the sufferings of Martin. His attentions did not stop there;
for he was backwards and forwards constantly, and rendered Mark
good service in all his brisk attempts to make their situation more
endurable. Hope or comfort for the future he could not bestow. The
season was a sickly one; the settlement a grave. His child died that
night; and Mark, keeping the secret from Martin, helped to bury it,
beneath a tree, next day.
With all his various duties of attendance upon Martin (who became the
more exacting in his claims, the worse he grew), Mark worked out of
doors, early and late; and with the assistance of his friend and others,
laboured to do something with their land. Not that he had the least
strength of heart or hope, or steady purpose in so doing, beyond the
habitual cheerfulness of his disposition, and his amazing power of
self-sustainment; for within himself, he looked on their condition
as beyond all hope, and, in his own words, ‘came out strong’ in
consequence.
‘As to coming out as strong as I could wish, sir,’ he confided to Martin
in a leisure moment; that is to say, one evening, while he was washing
the linen of the establishment, after a hard day’s work, ‘that I give
up. It’s a piece of good fortune as never is to happen to me, I see!’
‘Would you wish for circumstances stronger than these?’ Martin retorted
with a groan, from underneath his blanket.
‘Why, only see how easy they might have been stronger, sir,’ said Mark,
‘if it wasn’t for the envy of that uncommon fortun of mine, which is
always after me, and tripping me up. The night we landed here, I thought
things did look pretty jolly. I won’t deny it. I thought they did look
pretty jolly.’
‘How do they look now?’ groaned Martin.
‘Ah!’ said Mark, ‘Ah, to be sure. That’s the question. How do they look
now? On the very first morning of my going out, what do I do? Stumble
on a family I know, who are constantly assisting of us in all sorts of
ways, from that time to this! That won’t do, you know; that ain’t what
I’d a right to expect. If I had stumbled on a serpent and got bit; or
stumbled on a first-rate patriot, and got bowie-knifed, or stumbled on a
lot of Sympathisers with inverted shirt-collars, and got made a lion of;
I might have distinguished myself, and earned some credit. As it is,
the great object of my voyage is knocked on the head. So it would be,
wherever I went. How do you feel to-night, sir?’
‘Worse than ever,’ said poor Martin.
‘That’s something,’ returned Mark, ‘but not enough. Nothing but being
very bad myself, and jolly to the last, will ever do me justice.’
‘In Heaven’s name, don’t talk of that,’ said Martin with a thrill of
terror. ‘What should I do, Mark, if you were taken ill!’
Mr Tapley’s spirits appeared to be stimulated by this remark, although
it was not a very flattering one. He proceeded with his washing in a
brighter mood; and observed ‘that his glass was arising.’
‘There’s one good thing in this place, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, scrubbing
away at the linen, ‘as disposes me to be jolly; and that is that it’s
a reg’lar little United States in itself. There’s two or three American
settlers left; and they coolly comes over one, even here, sir, as if it
was the wholesomest and loveliest spot in the world. But they’re like
the cock that went and hid himself to save his life, and was found out
by the noise he made. They can’t help crowing. They was born to do it,
and do it they must, whatever comes of it.’
Glancing from his work out at the door as he said these words, Mark’s
eyes encountered a lean person in a blue frock and a straw hat, with
a short black pipe in his mouth, and a great hickory stick studded all
over with knots, in his hand; who smoking and chewing as he came along,
and spitting frequently, recorded his progress by a train of decomposed
tobacco on the ground.
‘Here’s one on ‘em,’ cried Mark, ‘Hannibal Chollop.’
‘Don’t let him in,’ said Martin, feebly.
‘He won’t want any letting in,’ replied Mark. ‘He’ll come in, sir.’
Which turned out to be quite true, for he did. His face was almost as
hard and knobby as his stick; and so were his hands. His head was like
an old black hearth-broom. He sat down on the chest with his hat on;
and crossing his legs and looking up at Mark, said, without removing his
pipe:
‘Well, Mr Co.! and how do you git along, sir?’
It may be necessary to observe that Mr Tapley had gravely introduced
himself to all strangers, by that name.
‘Pretty well, sir; pretty well,’ said Mark.
‘If this ain’t Mr Chuzzlewit, ain’t it!’ exclaimed the visitor ‘How do
YOU git along, sir?’
Martin shook his head, and drew the blanket over it involuntarily; for
he felt that Hannibal was going to spit; and his eye, as the song says,
was upon him.
‘You need not regard me, sir,’ observed Mr Chollop, complacently. ‘I am
fever-proof, and likewise agur.’
‘Mine was a more selfish motive,’ said Martin, looking out again. ‘I was
afraid you were going to--’
‘I can calc’late my distance, sir,’ returned Mr Chollop, ‘to an inch.’
With a proof of which happy faculty he immediately favoured him.
‘I re-quire, sir,’ said Hannibal, ‘two foot clear in a circ’lar
di-rection, and can engage my-self toe keep within it. I HAVE gone ten
foot, in a circ’lar di-rection, but that was for a wager.’
‘I hope you won it, sir,’ said Mark.
‘Well, sir, I realised the stakes,’ said Chollop. ‘Yes, sir.’
He was silent for a time, during which he was actively engaged in the
formation of a magic circle round the chest on which he sat. When it was
completed, he began to talk again.
‘How do you like our country, sir?’ he inquired, looking at Martin.
‘Not at all,’ was the invalid’s reply.
Chollop continued to smoke without the least appearance of emotion,
until he felt disposed to speak again. That time at length arriving, he
took his pipe from his mouth, and said:
‘I am not surprised to hear you say so. It re-quires An elevation, and
A preparation of the intellect. The mind of man must be prepared for
Freedom, Mr Co.’
He addressed himself to Mark; because he saw that Martin, who wished
him to go, being already half-mad with feverish irritation, which the
droning voice of this new horror rendered almost insupportable, had
closed his eyes, and turned on his uneasy bed.
‘A little bodily preparation wouldn’t be amiss, either, would it, sir,’
said Mark, ‘in the case of a blessed old swamp like this?’
‘Do you con-sider this a swamp, sir?’ inquired Chollop gravely.
‘Why yes, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I haven’t a doubt about it myself.’
‘The sentiment is quite Europian,’ said the major, ‘and does not
surprise me; what would your English millions say to such a swamp in
England, sir?’
‘They’d say it was an uncommon nasty one, I should think, said Mark;
‘and that they would rather be inoculated for fever in some other way.’
‘Europian!’ remarked Chollop, with sardonic pity. ‘Quite Europian!’
And there he sat. Silent and cool, as if the house were his; smoking
away like a factory chimney.
Mr Chollop was, of course, one of the most remarkable men in the
country; but he really was a notorious person besides. He was usually
described by his friends, in the South and West, as ‘a splendid sample
of our na-tive raw material, sir,’ and was much esteemed for his
devotion to rational Liberty; for the better propagation whereof he
usually carried a brace of revolving pistols in his coat pocket, with
seven barrels a-piece. He also carried, amongst other trinkets, a
sword-stick, which he called his ‘Tickler.’ and a great knife, which
(for he was a man of a pleasant turn of humour) he called ‘Ripper,’ in
allusion to its usefulness as a means of ventilating the stomach of
any adversary in a close contest. He had used these weapons with
distinguished effect in several instances, all duly chronicled in the
newspapers; and was greatly beloved for the gallant manner in which
he had ‘jobbed out’ the eye of one gentleman, as he was in the act of
knocking at his own street-door.
Mr Chollop was a man of a roving disposition; and, in any less advanced
community, might have been mistaken for a violent vagabond. But his fine
qualities being perfectly understood and appreciated in those regions
where his lot was cast, and where he had many kindred spirits to consort
with, he may be regarded as having been born under a fortunate star,
which is not always the case with a man so much before the age in which
he lives. Preferring, with a view to the gratification of his tickling
and ripping fancies, to dwell upon the outskirts of society, and in the
more remote towns and cities, he was in the habit of emigrating from
place to place, and establishing in each some business--usually a
newspaper--which he presently sold; for the most part closing the
bargain by challenging, stabbing, pistolling, or gouging the new editor,
before he had quite taken possession of the property.
He had come to Eden on a speculation of this kind, but had abandoned it,
and was about to leave. He always introduced himself to strangers as
a worshipper of Freedom; was the consistent advocate of Lynch law,
and slavery; and invariably recommended, both in print and speech,
the ‘tarring and feathering’ of any unpopular person who differed from
himself. He called this ‘planting the standard of civilization in the
wilder gardens of My country.’
There is little doubt that Chollop would have planted this standard in
Eden at Mark’s expense, in return for his plainness of speech (for the
genuine Freedom is dumb, save when she vaunts herself), but for the
utter desolation and decay prevailing in the settlement, and his own
approaching departure from it. As it was, he contented himself with
showing Mark one of the revolving-pistols, and asking him what he
thought of that weapon.
‘It ain’t long since I shot a man down with that, sir, in the State of
IllinOY,’ observed Chollop.
‘Did you, indeed!’ said Mark, without the smallest agitation. ‘Very free
of you. And very independent!’
‘I shot him down, sir,’ pursued Chollop, ‘for asserting in the Spartan
Portico, a tri-weekly journal, that the ancient Athenians went a-head of
the present Locofoco Ticket.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Mark.
‘Europian not to know,’ said Chollop, smoking placidly. ‘Europian
quite!’
After a short devotion to the interests of the magic circle, he resumed
the conversation by observing:
‘You won’t half feel yourself at home in Eden, now?’
‘No,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t.’
‘You miss the imposts of your country. You miss the house dues?’
observed Chollop.
‘And the houses--rather,’ said Mark.
‘No window dues here, sir,’ observed Chollop.
‘And no windows to put ‘em on,’ said Mark.
‘No stakes, no dungeons, no blocks, no racks, no scaffolds, no
thumbscrews, no pikes, no pillories,’ said Chollop.
‘Nothing but rewolwers and bowie-knives,’ returned Mark. ‘And what are
they? Not worth mentioning!’
The man who had met them on the night of their arrival came crawling up
at this juncture, and looked in at the door.
‘Well, sir,’ said Chollop. ‘How do YOU git along?’
He had considerable difficulty in getting along at all, and said as much
in reply.
‘Mr Co. And me, sir,’ observed Chollop, ‘are disputating a piece. He
ought to be slicked up pretty smart to disputate between the Old World
and the New, I do expect?’
‘Well!’ returned the miserable shadow. ‘So he had.’
‘I was merely observing, sir,’ said Mark, addressing this new visitor,
‘that I looked upon the city in which we have the honour to live, as
being swampy. What’s your sentiments?’
‘I opinionate it’s moist perhaps, at certain times,’ returned the man.
‘But not as moist as England, sir?’ cried Chollop, with a fierce
expression in his face.
‘Oh! Not as moist as England; let alone its Institutions,’ said the man.
‘I should hope there ain’t a swamp in all Americay, as don’t whip THAT
small island into mush and molasses,’ observed Chollop, decisively. ‘You
bought slick, straight, and right away, of Scadder, sir?’ to Mark.
He answered in the affirmative. Mr Chollop winked at the other citizen.
‘Scadder is a smart man, sir? He is a rising man? He is a man as will
come up’ards, right side up, sir?’ Mr Chollop winked again at the other
citizen.
‘He should have his right side very high up, if I had my way,’ said
Mark. ‘As high up as the top of a good tall gallows, perhaps.’
Mr Chollop was so delighted at the smartness of his excellent countryman
having been too much for the Britisher, and at the Britisher’s resenting
it, that he could contain himself no longer, and broke forth in a shout
of delight. But the strangest exposition of this ruling passion was
in the other--the pestilence-stricken, broken, miserable shadow of a
man--who derived so much entertainment from the circumstance that he
seemed to forget his own ruin in thinking of it, and laughed outright
when he said ‘that Scadder was a smart man, and had draw’d a lot of
British capital that way, as sure as sun-up.’
After a full enjoyment of this joke, Mr Hannibal Chollop sat smoking and
improving the circle, without making any attempts either to converse or
to take leave; apparently labouring under the not uncommon delusion
that for a free and enlightened citizen of the United States to convert
another man’s house into a spittoon for two or three hours together, was
a delicate attention, full of interest and politeness, of which nobody
could ever tire. At last he rose.
‘I am a-going easy,’ he observed.
Mark entreated him to take particular care of himself.
‘Afore I go,’ he said sternly, ‘I have got a leetle word to say to you.
You are darnation ‘cute, you are.’
Mark thanked him for the compliment.
‘But you are much too ‘cute to last. I can’t con-ceive of any spotted
Painter in the bush, as ever was so riddled through and through as you
will be, I bet.’
‘What for?’ asked Mark.
‘We must be cracked up, sir,’ retorted Chollop, in a tone of menace.
‘You are not now in A despotic land. We are a model to the airth, and
must be jist cracked-up, I tell you.’
‘What! I speak too free, do I?’ cried Mark.
‘I have draw’d upon A man, and fired upon A man for less,’ said Chollop,
frowning. ‘I have know’d strong men obleeged to make themselves uncommon
skase for less. I have know’d men Lynched for less, and beaten into
punkin’-sarse for less, by an enlightened people. We are the intellect
and virtue of the airth, the cream of human natur’, and the flower
Of moral force. Our backs is easy ris. We must be cracked-up, or they
rises, and we snarls. We shows our teeth, I tell you, fierce. You’d
better crack us up, you had!’
After the delivery of this caution, Mr Chollop departed; with Ripper,
Tickler, and the revolvers, all ready for action on the shortest notice.
‘Come out from under the blanket, sir,’ said Mark, ‘he’s gone. What’s
this!’ he added softly; kneeling down to look into his partner’s
face, and taking his hot hand. ‘What’s come of all that chattering and
swaggering? He’s wandering in his mind to-night, and don’t know me!’
Martin indeed was dangerously ill; very near his death. He lay in that
state many days, during which time Mark’s poor friends, regardless of
themselves, attended him. Mark, fatigued in mind and body; working
all the day and sitting up at night; worn with hard living and the
unaccustomed toil of his new life; surrounded by dismal and discouraging
circumstances of every kind; never complained or yielded in the least
degree. If ever he had thought Martin selfish or inconsiderate, or had
deemed him energetic only by fits and starts, and then too passive for
their desperate fortunes, he now forgot it all. He remembered nothing
but the better qualities of his fellow-wanderer, and was devoted to him,
heart and hand.
Many weeks elapsed before Martin was strong enough to move about with
the help of a stick and Mark’s arm; and even then his recovery, for want
of wholesome air and proper nourishment, was very slow. He was yet in a
feeble and weak condition, when the misfourtune he had so much dreaded
fell upon them. Mark was taken ill.
Mark fought against it; but the malady fought harder, and his efforts
were in vain.
‘Floored for the present, sir,’ he said one morning, sinking back upon
his bed; ‘but jolly!’
Floored indeed, and by a heavy blow! As any one but Martin might have
known beforehand.
If Mark’s friends had been kind to Martin (and they had been very), they
were twenty times kinder to Mark. And now it was Martin’s turn to work,
and sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long
nights, to every sound in the gloomy wilderness; and hear poor Mr
Tapley, in his wandering fancy, playing at skittles in the Dragon,
making love-remonstrances to Mrs Lupin, getting his sea-legs on board
the Screw, travelling with old Tom Pinch on English roads, and burning
stumps of trees in Eden, all at once.
But whenever Martin gave him drink or medicine, or tended him in any
way, or came into the house returning from some drudgery without, the
patient Mr Tapley brightened up and cried: ‘I’m jolly, sir; ‘I’m jolly!’
Now, when Martin began to think of this, and to look at Mark as he lay
there; never reproaching him by so much as an expression of regret;
never murmuring; always striving to be manful and staunch; he began to
think, how was it that this man who had had so few advantages, was so
much better than he who had had so many? And attendance upon a sick bed,
but especially the sick bed of one whom we have been accustomed to see
in full activity and vigour, being a great breeder of reflection, he
began to ask himself in what they differed.
He was assisted in coming to a conclusion on this head by the frequent
presence of Mark’s friend, their fellow-passenger across the ocean,
which suggested to him that in regard to having aided her, for example,
they had differed very much. Somehow he coupled Tom Pinch with this
train of reflection; and thinking that Tom would be very likely to have
struck up the same sort of acquaintance under similar circumstances,
began to think in what respects two people so extremely different were
like each other, and were unlike him. At first sight there was nothing
very distressing in these meditations, but they did undoubtedly distress
him for all that.
Martin’s nature was a frank and generous one; but he had been bred up
in his grandfather’s house; and it will usually be found that the
meaner domestic vices propagate themselves to be their own antagonists.
Selfishness does this especially; so do suspicion, cunning, stealth, and
covetous propensities. Martin had unconsciously reasoned as a child, ‘My
guardian takes so much thought of himself, that unless I do the like by
MYself, I shall be forgotten.’ So he had grown selfish.
But he had never known it. If any one had taxed him with the vice, he
would have indignantly repelled the accusation, and conceived himself
unworthily aspersed. He never would have known it, but that being newly
risen from a bed of dangerous sickness, to watch by such another couch,
he felt how nearly Self had dropped into the grave, and what a poor
dependent, miserable thing it was.
It was natural for him to reflect--he had months to do it in--upon his
own escape, and Mark’s extremity. This led him to consider which of them
could be the better spared, and why? Then the curtain slowly rose a very
little way; and Self, Self, Self, was shown below.
He asked himself, besides, when dreading Mark’s decease (as all men do
and must, at such a time), whether he had done his duty by him, and had
deserved and made a good response to his fidelity and zeal. No. Short
as their companionship had been, he felt in many, many instances, that
there was blame against himself; and still inquiring why, the curtain
slowly rose a little more, and Self, Self, Self, dilated on the scene.
It was long before he fixed the knowledge of himself so firmly in his
mind that he could thoroughly discern the truth; but in the hideous
solitude of that most hideous place, with Hope so far removed, Ambition
quenched, and Death beside him rattling at the very door, reflection
came, as in a plague-beleaguered town; and so he felt and knew the
failing of his life, and saw distinctly what an ugly spot it was.
Eden was a hard school to learn so hard a lesson in; but there were
teachers in the swamp and thicket, and the pestilential air, who had a
searching method of their own.
He made a solemn resolution that when his strength returned he would not
dispute the point or resist the conviction, but would look upon it as an
established fact, that selfishness was in his breast, and must be rooted
out. He was so doubtful (and with justice) of his own character, that he
determined not to say one word of vain regret or good resolve to Mark,
but steadily to keep his purpose before his own eyes solely; and there
was not a jot of pride in this; nothing but humility and steadfastness;
the best armour he could wear. So low had Eden brought him down. So high
had Eden raised him up.
After a long and lingering illness (in certain forlorn stages of which,
when too far gone to speak, he had feebly written ‘jolly!’ on a slate),
Mark showed some symptoms of returning health. They came and went, and
flickered for a time; but he began to mend at last decidedly; and after
that continued to improve from day to day.
As soon as he was well enough to talk without fatigue, Martin consulted
him upon a project he had in his mind, and which a few months back he
would have carried into execution without troubling anybody’s head but
his own.
‘Ours is a desperate case,’ said Martin. ‘Plainly. The place is
deserted; its failure must have become known; and selling what we have
bought to any one, for anything, is hopeless, even if it were honest. We
left home on a mad enterprise, and have failed. The only hope left
us, the only one end for which we have now to try, is to quit this
settlement for ever, and get back to England. Anyhow! by any means! only
to get back there, Mark.’
‘That’s all, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, with a significant stress upon
the words; ‘only that!’
‘Now, upon this side of the water,’ said Martin, ‘we have but one friend
who can help us, and that is Mr Bevan.’
‘I thought of him when you was ill,’ said Mark.
‘But for the time that would be lost, I would even write to my
grandfather,’ Martin went on to say, ‘and implore him for money to free
us from this trap into which we were so cruelly decoyed. Shall I try Mr
Bevan first?’
‘He’s a very pleasant sort of a gentleman,’ said Mark. ‘I think so.’
‘The few goods we brought here, and in which we spent our money, would
produce something if sold,’ resumed Martin; ‘and whatever they realise
shall be paid him instantly. But they can’t be sold here.’
‘There’s nobody but corpses to buy ‘em,’ said Mr Tapley, shaking his
head with a rueful air, ‘and pigs.’
‘Shall I tell him so, and only ask him for money enough to enable us by
the cheapest means to reach New York, or any port from which we may hope
to get a passage home, by serving in any capacity? Explaining to him
at the same time how I am connected, and that I will endeavour to
repay him, even through my grandfather, immediately on our arrival in
England?’
‘Why to be sure,’ said Mark: ‘he can only say no, and he may say yes. If
you don’t mind trying him, sir--’
‘Mind!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘I am to blame for coming here, and I would do
anything to get away. I grieve to think of the past. If I had taken your
opinion sooner, Mark, we never should have been here, I am certain.’
Mr Tapley was very much surprised at this admission, but protested, with
great vehemence, that they would have been there all the same; and that
he had set his heart upon coming to Eden, from the first word he had
ever heard of it.
Martin then read him a letter to Mr Bevan, which he had already
prepared. It was frankly and ingenuously written, and described their
situation without the least concealment; plainly stated the miseries
they had undergone; and preferred their request in modest but
straightforward terms. Mark highly commended it; and they determined to
dispatch it by the next steamboat going the right way, that might call
to take in wood at Eden--where there was plenty of wood to spare.
Not knowing how to address Mr Bevan at his own place of abode, Martin
superscribed it to the care of the memorable Mr Norris of New York,
and wrote upon the cover an entreaty that it might be forwarded without
delay.
More than a week elapsed before a boat appeared; but at length they were
awakened very early one morning by the high-pressure snorting of
the ‘Esau Slodge;’ named after one of the most remarkable men in the
country, who had been very eminent somewhere. Hurrying down to the
landing-place, they got it safe on board; and waiting anxiously to see
the boat depart, stopped up the gangway; an instance of neglect which
caused the ‘Capting’ of the Esau Slodge to ‘wish he might be sifted fine
as flour, and whittled small as chips; that if they didn’t come off that
there fixing right smart too, he’d spill ‘em in the drink;’ whereby the
Capting metaphorically said he’d throw them in the river.
They were not likely to receive an answer for eight or ten weeks at the
earliest. In the meantime they devoted such strength as they had to
the attempted improvement of their land; to clearing some of it, and
preparing it for useful purposes. Monstrously defective as their farming
was, still it was better than their neighbours’; for Mark had some
practical knowledge of such matters, and Martin learned of him; whereas
the other settlers who remained upon the putrid swamp (a mere handful,
and those withered by disease), appeared to have wandered there with
the idea that husbandry was the natural gift of all mankind. They helped
each other after their own manner in these struggles, and in all others;
but they worked as hopelessly and sadly as a gang of convicts in a penal
settlement.
Often at night when Mark and Martin were alone, and lying down to sleep,
they spoke of home, familiar places, houses, roads, and people whom they
knew; sometimes in the lively hope of seeing them again, and sometimes
with a sorrowful tranquillity, as if that hope were dead. It was a
source of great amazement to Mark Tapley to find, pervading all these
conversations, a singular alteration in Martin.
‘I don’t know what to make of him,’ he thought one night, ‘he ain’t what
I supposed. He don’t think of himself half as much. I’ll try him again.
Asleep, sir?’
‘No, Mark.’
‘Thinking of home, sir?’
‘Yes, Mark.’
‘So was I, sir. I was wondering how Mr Pinch and Mr Pecksniff gets on
now.’
‘Poor Tom!’ said Martin, thoughtfully.
‘Weak-minded man, sir,’ observed Mr Tapley. ‘Plays the organ for
nothing, sir. Takes no care of himself?’
‘I wish he took a little more, indeed,’ said Martin. ‘Though I don’t
know why I should. We shouldn’t like him half as well, perhaps.’
‘He gets put upon, sir,’ hinted Mark.
‘Yes!’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I know that, Mark.’
He spoke so regretfully that his partner abandoned the theme, and was
silent for a short time until he had thought of another.
‘Ah, sir!’ said Mark, with a sigh. ‘Dear me! You’ve ventured a good deal
for a young lady’s love!’
‘I tell you what. I’m not so sure of that, Mark,’ was the reply; so
hastily and energetically spoken, that Martin sat up in his bed to give
it. ‘I begin to be far from clear upon it. You may depend upon it she is
very unhappy. She has sacrificed her peace of mind; she has endangered
her interests very much; she can’t run away from those who are jealous
of her, and opposed to her, as I have done. She has to endure, Mark; to
endure without the possibility of action, poor girl! I begin to think
that she has more to bear than ever I had. Upon my soul I do!’
Mr Tapley opened his eyes wide in the dark; but did not interrupt.
‘And I’ll tell you a secret, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘since we ARE upon this
subject. That ring--’
‘Which ring, sir?’ Mark inquired, opening his eyes still wider.
‘That ring she gave me when we parted, Mark. She bought it; bought it;
knowing I was poor and proud (Heaven help me! Proud!) and wanted money.’
‘Who says so, sir?’ asked Mark.
‘I say so. I know it. I thought of it, my good fellow, hundreds of
times, while you were lying ill. And like a beast, I took it from her
hand, and wore it on my own, and never dreamed of this even at the
moment when I parted with it, when some faint glimmering of the truth
might surely have possessed me! But it’s late,’ said Martin, checking
himself, ‘and you are weak and tired, I know. You only talk to cheer me
up. Good night! God bless you, Mark!’
‘God bless you, sir! But I’m reg’larly defrauded,’ thought Mr Tapley,
turning round with a happy face. ‘It’s a swindle. I never entered for
this sort of service. There’ll be no credit in being jolly with HIM!’
The time wore on, and other steamboats coming from the point on which
their hopes were fixed, arrived to take in wood; but still no answer
to the letter. Rain, heat, foul slime, and noxious vapour, with all the
ills and filthy things they bred, prevailed. The earth, the air, the
vegetation, and the water that they drank, all teemed with deadly
properties. Their fellow-passenger had lost two children long before;
and buried now her last. Such things are much too common to be widely
known or cared for. Smart citizens grow rich, and friendless victims
smart and die, and are forgotten. That is all.
At last a boat came panting up the ugly river, and stopped at Eden. Mark
was waiting at the wood hut when it came, and had a letter handed to
him from on board. He bore it off to Martin. They looked at one another,
trembling.
‘It feels heavy,’ faltered Martin. And opening it a little roll of
dollar-notes fell out upon the ground.
What either of them said, or did, or felt, at first, neither of them
knew. All Mark could ever tell was, that he was at the river’s bank
again out of breath, before the boat had gone, inquiring when it would
retrace its track and put in there.
The answer was, in ten or twelve days; notwithstanding which they began
to get their goods together and to tie them up that very night. When
this stage of excitement was passed, each of them believed (they found
this out, in talking of it afterwards) that he would surely die before
the boat returned.
They lived, however, and it came, after the lapse of three long crawling
weeks. At sunrise, on an autumn day, they stood upon her deck.
‘Courage! We shall meet again!’ cried Martin, waving his hand to two
thin figures on the bank. ‘In the Old World!’
‘Or in the next one,’ added Mark below his breath. ‘To see them standing
side by side, so quiet, is a’most the worst of all!’
They looked at one another as the vessel moved away, and then looked
backward at the spot from which it hurried fast. The log-house, with the
open door, and drooping trees about it; the stagnant morning mist, and
red sun, dimly seen beyond; the vapour rising up from land and river;
the quick stream making the loathsome banks it washed more flat and
dull; how often they returned in dreams! How often it was happiness to
wake and find them Shadows that had vanished!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS MOVE HOMEWARD, AND ENCOUNTER SOME DISTINGUISHED
CHARACTERS UPON THE WAY
Among the passengers on board the steamboat, there was a faint gentleman
sitting on a low camp-stool, with his legs on a high barrel of flour, as
if he were looking at the prospect with his ankles, who attracted their
attention speedily.
He had straight black hair, parted up the middle of his head and hanging
down upon his coat; a little fringe of hair upon his chin; wore no
neckcloth; a white hat; a suit of black, long in the sleeves and short
in the legs; soiled brown stockings and laced shoes. His complexion,
naturally muddy, was rendered muddier by too strict an economy of soap
and water; and the same observation will apply to the washable part
of his attire, which he might have changed with comfort to himself and
gratification to his friends. He was about five and thirty; was crushed
and jammed up in a heap, under the shade of a large green cotton
umbrella; and ruminated over his tobacco-plug like a cow.
He was not singular, to be sure, in these respects; for every gentleman
on board appeared to have had a difference with his laundress and to
have left off washing himself in early youth. Every gentleman, too,
was perfectly stopped up with tight plugging, and was dislocated in
the greater part of his joints. But about this gentleman there was a
peculiar air of sagacity and wisdom, which convinced Martin that he was
no common character; and this turned out to be the case.
‘How do you do sir?’ said a voice in Martin’s ear
‘How do you do sir?’ said Martin.
It was a tall thin gentleman who spoke to him, with a carpet-cap on,
and a long loose coat of green baize, ornamented about the pockets with
black velvet.
‘You air from Europe, sir?’
‘I am,’ said Martin.
‘You air fortunate, sir.’
Martin thought so too; but he soon discovered that the gentleman and he
attached different meanings to this remark.
‘You air fortunate, sir, in having an opportunity of beholding our
Elijah Pogram, sir.’
‘Your Elijahpogram!’ said Martin, thinking it was all one word, and a
building of some sort.
‘Yes sir.’
Martin tried to look as if he understood him, but he couldn’t make it
out.
‘Yes, sir,’ repeated the gentleman, ‘our Elijah Pogram, sir, is, at this
minute, identically settin’ by the engine biler.’
The gentleman under the umbrella put his right forefinger to his
eyebrow, as if he were revolving schemes of state.
‘That is Elijah Pogram, is it?’ said Martin.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other. ‘That is Elijah Pogram.’
‘Dear me!’ said Martin. ‘I am astonished.’ But he had not the least idea
who this Elijah Pogram was; having never heard the name in all his life.
‘If the biler of this vessel was Toe bust, sir,’ said his new
acquaintance, ‘and Toe bust now, this would be a festival day in the
calendar of despotism; pretty nigh equallin’, sir, in its effects upon
the human race, our Fourth of glorious July. Yes, sir, that is the
Honourable Elijah Pogram, Member of Congress; one of the master-minds of
our country, sir. There is a brow, sir, there!’
‘Quite remarkable,’ said Martin.
‘Yes, sir. Our own immortal Chiggle, sir, is said to have observed,
when he made the celebrated Pogram statter in marble, which rose so much
con-test and preju-dice in Europe, that the brow was more than mortal.
This was before the Pogram Defiance, and was, therefore, a pre-diction,
cruel smart.’
‘What is the Pogram Defiance?’ asked Martin, thinking, perhaps, it was
the sign of a public-house.
‘An o-ration, sir,’ returned his friend.
‘Oh! to be sure,’ cried Martin. ‘What am I thinking of! It defied--’
‘It defied the world, sir,’ said the other, gravely. ‘Defied the world
in general to com-pete with our country upon any hook; and devellop’d
our internal resources for making war upon the universal airth. You
would like to know Elijah Pogram, sir?’
‘If you please,’ said Martin.
‘Mr Pogram,’ said the stranger--Mr Pogram having overheard every word of
the dialogue--‘this is a gentleman from Europe, sir; from England, sir.
But gen’rous ene-mies may meet upon the neutral sile of private life, I
think.’
The languid Mr Pogram shook hands with Martin, like a clock-work figure
that was just running down. But he made amends by chewing like one that
was just wound up.
‘Mr Pogram,’ said the introducer, ‘is a public servant, sir. When
Congress is recessed, he makes himself acquainted with those free United
States, of which he is the gifted son.’
It occurred to Martin that if the Honourable Elijah Pogram had stayed at
home, and sent his shoes upon a tour, they would have answered the
same purpose; for they were the only part of him in a situation to see
anything.
In course of time, however, Mr Pogram rose; and having ejected certain
plugging consequences which would have impeded his articulation, took up
a position where there was something to lean against, and began to talk
to Martin; shading himself with the green umbrella all the time.
As he began with the words, ‘How do you like--?’ Martin took him up and
said:
‘The country, I presume?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram. A knot of passengers gathered round to
hear what followed; and Martin heard his friend say, as he whispered
to another friend, and rubbed his hands, ‘Pogram will smash him into
sky-blue fits, I know!’
‘Why,’ said Martin, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I have learned by
experience, that you take an unfair advantage of a stranger, when you
ask that question. You don’t mean it to be answered, except in one way.
Now, I don’t choose to answer it in that way, for I cannot honestly
answer it in that way. And therefore, I would rather not answer it at
all.’
But Mr Pogram was going to make a great speech in the next session
about foreign relations, and was going to write strong articles on the
subject; and as he greatly favoured the free and independent custom (a
very harmless and agreeable one) of procuring information of any sort
in any kind of confidence, and afterwards perverting it publicly in any
manner that happened to suit him, he had determined to get at Martin’s
opinions somehow or other. For if he could have got nothing out of
him, he would have had to invent it for him, and that would have been
laborious. He made a mental note of his answer, and went in again.
‘You are from Eden, sir? How did you like Eden?’
Martin said what he thought of that part of the country, in pretty
strong terms.
‘It is strange,’ said Pogram, looking round upon the group, ‘this hatred
of our country, and her Institutions! This national antipathy is deeply
rooted in the British mind!’
‘Good Heaven, sir,’ cried Martin. ‘Is the Eden Land Corporation, with Mr
Scadder at its head, and all the misery it has worked, at its door, an
Institution of America? A part of any form of government that ever was
known or heard of?’
‘I con-sider the cause of this to be,’ said Pogram, looking round again
and taking himself up where Martin had interrupted him, ‘partly jealousy
and pre-judice, and partly the nat’ral unfitness of the British people
to appreciate the ex-alted Institutions of our native land. I expect,
sir,’ turning to Martin again, ‘that a gentleman named Chollop happened
in upon you during your lo-cation in the town of Eden?’
‘Yes,’ answered Martin; ‘but my friend can answer this better than I
can, for I was very ill at the time. Mark! The gentleman is speaking of
Mr Chollop.’
‘Oh. Yes, sir. Yes. I see him,’ observed Mark.
‘A splendid example of our na-tive raw material, sir?’ said Pogram,
interrogatively.
‘Indeed, sir!’ cried Mark.
The Honourable Elijah Pogram glanced at his friends as though he would
have said, ‘Observe this! See what follows!’ and they rendered tribute
to the Pogram genius by a gentle murmur.
‘Our fellow-countryman is a model of a man, quite fresh from Natur’s
mould!’ said Pogram, with enthusiasm. ‘He is a true-born child of this
free hemisphere! Verdant as the mountains of our country; bright and
flowing as our mineral Licks; unspiled by withering conventionalities
as air our broad and boundless Perearers! Rough he may be. So air
our Barrs. Wild he may be. So air our Buffalers. But he is a child of
Natur’, and a child of Freedom; and his boastful answer to the Despot
and the Tyrant is, that his bright home is in the Settin Sun.’
Part of this referred to Chollop, and part to a Western postmaster, who,
being a public defaulter not very long before (a character not at all
uncommon in America), had been removed from office; and on whose behalf
Mr Pogram (he voted for Pogram) had thundered the last sentence from
his seat in Congress, at the head of an unpopular President. It told
brilliantly; for the bystanders were delighted, and one of them said to
Martin, ‘that he guessed he had now seen something of the eloquential
aspect of our country, and was chawed up pritty small.’
Mr Pogram waited until his hearers were calm again, before he said to
Mark:
‘You do not seem to coincide, sir?’
‘Why,’ said Mark, ‘I didn’t like him much; and that’s the truth, sir. I
thought he was a bully; and I didn’t admire his carryin’ them murderous
little persuaders, and being so ready to use ‘em.’
‘It’s singler!’ said Pogram, lifting his umbrella high enough to
look all round from under it. ‘It’s strange! You observe the settled
opposition to our Institutions which pervades the British mind!’
‘What an extraordinary people you are!’ cried Martin. ‘Are Mr Chollop
and the class he represents, an Institution here? Are pistols with
revolving barrels, sword-sticks, bowie-knives, and such things,
Institutions on which you pride yourselves? Are bloody duels, brutal
combats, savage assaults, shooting down and stabbing in the streets,
your Institutions! Why, I shall hear next that Dishonour and Fraud are
among the Institutions of the great republic!’
The moment the words passed his lips, the Honourable Elijah Pogram
looked round again.
‘This morbid hatred of our Institutions,’ he observed, ‘is quite a study
for the psychological observer. He’s alludin’ to Repudiation now!’
‘Oh! you may make anything an Institution if you like,’ said Martin,
laughing, ‘and I confess you had me there, for you certainly have made
that one. But the greater part of these things are one Institution with
us, and we call it by the generic name of Old Bailey!’
The bell being rung for dinner at this moment, everybody ran away
into the cabin, whither the Honourable Elijah Pogram fled with such
precipitation that he forgot his umbrella was up, and fixed it so
tightly in the cabin door that it could neither be let down nor got out.
For a minute or so this accident created a perfect rebellion among the
hungry passengers behind, who, seeing the dishes, and hearing the knives
and forks at work, well knew what would happen unless they got there
instantly, and were nearly mad; while several virtuous citizens at the
table were in deadly peril of choking themselves in their unnatural
efforts to get rid of all the meat before these others came.
They carried the umbrella by storm, however, and rushed in at the
breach. The Honourable Elijah Pogram and Martin found themselves, after
a severe struggle, side by side, as they might have come together in the
pit of a London theatre; and for four whole minutes afterwards, Pogram
was snapping up great blocks of everything he could get hold of, like a
raven. When he had taken this unusually protracted dinner, he began
to talk to Martin; and begged him not to have the least delicacy in
speaking with perfect freedom to him, for he was a calm philosopher.
Which Martin was extremely glad to hear; for he had begun to speculate
on Elijah being a disciple of that other school of republican
philosophy, whose noble sentiments are carved with knives upon a pupil’s
body, and written, not with pen and ink, but tar and feathers.
‘What do you think of my countrymen who are present, sir?’ inquired
Elijah Pogram.
‘Oh! very pleasant,’ said Martin.
They were a very pleasant party. No man had spoken a word; every one had
been intent, as usual, on his own private gorging; and the greater part
of the company were decidedly dirty feeders.
The Honourable Elijah Pogram looked at Martin as if he thought ‘You
don’t mean that, I know!’ and he was soon confirmed in this opinion.
Sitting opposite to them was a gentleman in a high state of tobacco, who
wore quite a little beard, composed of the overflowing of that weed, as
they had dried about his mouth and chin; so common an ornament that it
would scarcely have attracted Martin’s observation, but that this good
citizen, burning to assert his equality against all comers, sucked his
knife for some moments, and made a cut with it at the butter, just as
Martin was in the act of taking some. There was a juiciness about the
deed that might have sickened a scavenger.
When Elijah Pogram (to whom this was an every-day incident) saw that
Martin put the plate away, and took no butter, he was quite delighted,
and said,
‘Well! The morbid hatred of you British to the Institutions of our
country is as-TONishing!’
‘Upon my life!’ cried Martin, in his turn. ‘This is the most wonderful
community that ever existed. A man deliberately makes a hog of himself,
and THAT’S an Institution!’
‘We have no time to ac-quire forms, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram.
‘Acquire!’ cried Martin. ‘But it’s not a question of acquiring anything.
It’s a question of losing the natural politeness of a savage, and that
instinctive good breeding which admonishes one man not to offend and
disgust another. Don’t you think that man over the way, for instance,
naturally knows better, but considers it a very fine and independent
thing to be a brute in small matters?’
‘He is a na-tive of our country, and is nat’rally bright and spry, of
course,’ said Mr Pogram.
‘Now, observe what this comes to, Mr Pogram,’ pursued Martin. ‘The
mass of your countrymen begin by stubbornly neglecting little social
observances, which have nothing to do with gentility, custom, usage,
government, or country, but are acts of common, decent, natural, human
politeness. You abet them in this, by resenting all attacks upon their
social offences as if they were a beautiful national feature. From
disregarding small obligations they come in regular course to disregard
great ones; and so refuse to pay their debts. What they may do, or what
they may refuse to do next, I don’t know; but any man may see if he
will, that it will be something following in natural succession, and a
part of one great growth, which is rotten at the root.’
The mind of Mr Pogram was too philosophical to see this; so they went on
deck again, where, resuming his former post, he chewed until he was in a
lethargic state, amounting to insensibility.
After a weary voyage of several days, they came again to that same wharf
where Mark had been so nearly left behind, on the night of starting for
Eden. Captain Kedgick, the landlord, was standing there, and was greatly
surprised to see them coming from the boat.
‘Why, what the ‘tarnal!’ cried the Captain. ‘Well! I do admire at this,
I do!’
‘We can stay at your house until to-morrow, Captain, I suppose?’ said
Martin.
‘I reckon you can stay there for a twelvemonth if you like,’ retorted
Kedgick coolly. ‘But our people won’t best like your coming back.’
‘Won’t like it, Captain Kedgick!’ said Martin.
‘They did expect you was a-going to settle,’ Kedgick answered, as he
shook his head. ‘They’ve been took in, you can’t deny!’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Martin.
‘You didn’t ought to have received ‘em,’ said the Captain. ‘No you
didn’t!’
‘My good friend,’ returned Martin, ‘did I want to receive them? Was
it any act of mine? Didn’t you tell me they would rile up, and that I
should be flayed like a wild cat--and threaten all kinds of vengeance,
if I didn’t receive them?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ returned the Captain. ‘But when our people’s
frills is out, they’re starched up pretty stiff, I tell you!’
With that, he fell into the rear to walk with Mark, while Martin and
Elijah Pogram went on to the National.
‘We’ve come back alive, you see!’ said Mark.
‘It ain’t the thing I did expect,’ the Captain grumbled. ‘A man ain’t
got no right to be a public man, unless he meets the public views. Our
fashionable people wouldn’t have attended his le-vee, if they had know’d
it.’
Nothing mollified the Captain, who persisted in taking it very ill
that they had not both died in Eden. The boarders at the National felt
strongly on the subject too; but it happened by good fortune that they
had not much time to think about this grievance, for it was suddenly
determined to pounce upon the Honourable Elijah Pogram, and give HIM a
le-vee forthwith.
As the general evening meal of the house was over before the arrival of
the boat, Martin, Mark, and Pogram were taking tea and fixings at the
public table by themselves, when the deputation entered to announce this
honour; consisting of six gentlemen boarders and a very shrill boy.
‘Sir!’ said the spokesman.
‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.
The spokesman thus reminded of the shrill boy’s presence, introduced
him. ‘Doctor Ginery Dunkle, sir. A gentleman of great poetical elements.
He has recently jined us here, sir, and is an acquisition to us, sir,
I do assure you. Yes, sir. Mr Jodd, sir. Mr Izzard, sir. Mr Julius Bib,
sir.’
‘Julius Washington Merryweather Bib,’ said the gentleman himself TO
himself.
‘I beg your pardon, sir. Excuse me. Mr Julius Washington Merryweather
Bib, sir; a gentleman in the lumber line, sir, and much esteemed.
Colonel Groper, sir. Pro-fessor Piper, sir. My own name, sir, is Oscar
Buffum.’
Each man took one slide forward as he was named; butted at the
Honourable Elijah Pogram with his head; shook hands, and slid back
again. The introductions being completed, the spokesman resumed.
‘Sir!’
‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.
‘Perhaps,’ said the spokesman, with a hopeless look, ‘you will be so
good, Dr. Ginery Dunkle, as to charge yourself with the execution of our
little office, sir?’
As there was nothing the shrill boy desired more, he immediately stepped
forward.
‘Mr Pogram! Sir! A handful of your fellow-citizens, sir, hearing of your
arrival at the National Hotel, and feeling the patriotic character of
your public services, wish, sir, to have the gratification of beholding
you, and mixing with you, sir; and unbending with you, sir, in those
moments which--’
‘Air,’ suggested Buffum.
‘Which air so peculiarly the lot, sir, of our great and happy country.’
‘Hear!’ cried Colonel Grouper, in a loud voice. ‘Good! Hear him! Good!’
‘And therefore, sir,’ pursued the Doctor, ‘they request; as A mark Of
their respect; the honour of your company at a little le-Vee, sir, in
the ladies’ ordinary, at eight o’clock.’
Mr Pogram bowed, and said:
‘Fellow countrymen!’
‘Good!’ cried the Colonel. ‘Hear, him! Good!’
Mr Pogram bowed to the Colonel individually, and then resumed.
‘Your approbation of My labours in the common cause goes to My heart. At
all times and in all places; in the ladies’ ordinary, My friends, and in
the Battle Field--’
‘Good, very good! Hear him! Hear him!’ said the Colonel.
‘The name of Pogram will be proud to jine you. And may it, My friends,
be written on My tomb, “He was a member of the Congress of our common
country, and was ac-Tive in his trust.”’
‘The Com-mittee, sir,’ said the shrill boy, ‘will wait upon you at five
minutes afore eight. I take My leave, sir!’
Mr Pogram shook hands with him, and everybody else, once more; and when
they came back again at five minutes before eight, they said, one by
one, in a melancholy voice, ‘How do you do, sir?’ and shook hands with
Mr Pogram all over again, as if he had been abroad for a twelvemonth in
the meantime, and they met, now, at a funeral.
But by this time Mr Pogram had freshened himself up, and had composed
his hair and features after the Pogram statue, so that any one with half
an eye might cry out, ‘There he is! as he delivered the Defiance!’
The Committee were embellished also; and when they entered the ladies’
ordinary in a body, there was much clapping of hands from ladies and
gentlemen, accompanied by cries of ‘Pogram! Pogram!’ and some standing
up on chairs to see him.
The object of the popular caress looked round the room as he walked up
it, and smiled; at the same time observing to the shrill boy, that he
knew something of the beauty of the daughters of their common country,
but had never seen it in such lustre and perfection as at that moment.
Which the shrill boy put in the paper next day; to Elijah Pogram’s great
surprise.
‘We will re-quest you, sir, if you please,’ said Buffum, laying hands on
Mr Pogram as if he were taking his measure for a coat, ‘to stand up with
your back agin the wall right in the furthest corner, that there may
be more room for our fellow citizens. If you could set your back right
slap agin that curtain-peg, sir, keeping your left leg everlastingly
behind the stove, we should be fixed quite slick.’
Mr Pogram did as he was told, and wedged himself into such a little
corner that the Pogram statue wouldn’t have known him.
The entertainments of the evening then began. Gentlemen brought ladies
up, and brought themselves up, and brought each other up; and asked
Elijah Pogram what he thought of this political question, and what
he thought of that; and looked at him, and looked at one another, and
seemed very unhappy indeed. The ladies on the chairs looked at Elijah
Pogram through their glasses, and said audibly, ‘I wish he’d speak.
Why don’t he speak? Oh, do ask him to speak!’ And Elijah Pogram looked
sometimes at the ladies and sometimes elsewhere, delivering senatorial
opinions, as he was asked for them. But the great end and object of the
meeting seemed to be, not to let Elijah Pogram out of the corner on any
account; so there they kept him, hard and fast.
A great bustle at the door, in the course of the evening, announced the
arrival of some remarkable person; and immediately afterwards an elderly
gentleman, much excited, was seen to precipitate himself upon the crowd,
and battle his way towards the Honourable Elijah Pogram. Martin, who had
found a snug place of observation in a distant corner, where he
stood with Mark beside him (for he did not so often forget him now
as formerly, though he still did sometimes), thought he knew this
gentleman, but had no doubt of it, when he cried as loud as he could,
with his eyes starting out of his head:
‘Sir, Mrs Hominy!’
‘Lord bless that woman, Mark. She has turned up again!’
‘Here she comes, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley. ‘Pogram knows her. A public
character! Always got her eye upon her country, sir! If that there
lady’s husband is of my opinion, what a jolly old gentleman he must be!’
A lane was made; and Mrs Hominy, with the aristocratic stalk, the pocket
handkerchief, the clasped hands, and the classical cap, came slowly up
it, in a procession of one. Mr Pogram testified emotions of delight on
seeing her, and a general hush prevailed. For it was known that when
a woman like Mrs Hominy encountered a man like Pogram, something
interesting must be said.
Their first salutations were exchanged in a voice too low to reach the
impatient ears of the throng; but they soon became audible, for Mrs
Hominy felt her position, and knew what was expected of her.
Mrs H. was hard upon him at first; and put him through a rigid catechism
in reference to a certain vote he had given, which she had found it
necessary, as the mother of the modern Gracchi, to deprecate in a line
by itself, set up expressly for the purpose in German text. But Mr
Pogram evading it by a well-timed allusion to the star-spangled banner,
which, it appeared, had the remarkable peculiarity of flouting the
breeze whenever it was hoisted where the wind blew, she forgave him.
They now enlarged on certain questions of tariff, commercial treaty,
boundary, importation and exportation with great effect. And Mrs Hominy
not only talked, as the saying is, like a book, but actually did talk
her own books, word for word.
‘My! what is this!’ cried Mrs Hominy, opening a little note which was
handed her by her excited gentleman-usher. ‘Do tell! oh, well, now! on’y
think!’
And then she read aloud, as follows:
‘Two literary ladies present their compliments to the mother of the
modern Gracchi, and claim her kind introduction, as their talented
countrywoman, to the honourable (and distinguished) Elijah Pogram, whom
the two L. L.’s have often contemplated in the speaking marble of the
soul-subduing Chiggle. On a verbal intimation from the mother of the M.
G., that she will comply with the request of the two L. L.’s, they will
have the immediate pleasure of joining the galaxy assembled to do honour
to the patriotic conduct of a Pogram. It may be another bond of union
between the two L. L.’s and the mother of the M. G. to observe, that the
two L. L.’s are Transcendental.’
Mrs Hominy promptly rose, and proceeded to the door, whence she
returned, after a minute’s interval, with the two L. L.’s, whom she led,
through the lane in the crowd, with all that stateliness of deportment
which was so remarkably her own, up to the great Elijah Pogram. It was
(as the shrill boy cried out in an ecstasy) quite the Last Scene from
Coriolanus. One of the L. L.’s wore a brown wig of uncommon size.
Sticking on the forehead of the other, by invisible means, was a massive
cameo, in size and shape like the raspberry tart which is ordinarily
sold for a penny, representing on its front the Capitol at Washington.
‘Miss Toppit, and Miss Codger!’ said Mrs Hominy.
‘Codger’s the lady so often mentioned in the English newspapers I should
think, sir,’ whispered Mark. ‘The oldest inhabitant as never remembers
anything.’
‘To be presented to a Pogram,’ said Miss Codger, ‘by a Hominy, indeed,
a thrilling moment is it in its impressiveness on what we call our
feelings. But why we call them so, or why impressed they are, or if
impressed they are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is,
oh gasping one! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle to which
we give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, light abandoned,
much too vast to enter on, at this unlooked-for crisis.’
‘Mind and matter,’ said the lady in the wig, ‘glide swift into the
vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm
Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination. To hear it, sweet
it is. But then, outlaughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the
Grotesque, “What ho! arrest for me that Agency. Go, bring it here!” And
so the vision fadeth.’
After this, they both took Mr Pogram by the hand, and pressed it to
their lips, as a patriotic palm. That homage paid, the mother of the
modern Gracchi called for chairs, and the three literary ladies went to
work in earnest, to bring poor Pogram out, and make him show himself in
all his brilliant colours.
How Pogram got out of his depth instantly, and how the three L. L.’s
were never in theirs, is a piece of history not worth recording. Suffice
it, that being all four out of their depths, and all unable to swim,
they splashed up words in all directions, and floundered about famously.
On the whole, it was considered to have been the severest mental
exercise ever heard in the National Hotel. Tears stood in the shrill
boy’s eyes several times; and the whole company observed that their
heads ached with the effort--as well they might.
When it at last became necessary to release Elijah Pogram from the
corner, and the Committee saw him safely back again to the next room,
they were fervent in their admiration.
‘Which,’ said Mr Buffum, ‘must have vent, or it will bust. Toe you,
Mr Pogram, I am grateful. Toe-wards you, sir, I am inspired with lofty
veneration, and with deep e-mo-tion. The sentiment Toe which I would
propose to give ex-pression, sir, is this: “May you ever be as firm,
sir, as your marble statter! May it ever be as great a terror Toe its
ene-mies as you.”’
There is some reason to suppose that it was rather terrible to its
friends; being a statue of the Elevated or Goblin School, in which the
Honourable Elijah Pogram was represented as in a very high wind, with
his hair all standing on end, and his nostrils blown wide open. But Mr
Pogram thanked his friend and countryman for the aspiration to which he
had given utterance, and the Committee, after another solemn shaking of
hands, retired to bed, except the Doctor; who immediately repaired to
the newspaper-office, and there wrote a short poem suggested by the
events of the evening, beginning with fourteen stars, and headed, ‘A
Fragment. Suggested by witnessing the Honourable Elijah Pogram engaged
in a philosophical disputation with three of Columbia’s fairest
daughters. By Doctor Ginery Dunkle. Of Troy.’
If Pogram was as glad to get to bed as Martin was, he must have been
well rewarded for his labours. They started off again next day (Martin
and Mark previously disposing of their goods to the storekeepers of whom
they had purchased them, for anything they would bring), and were fellow
travellers to within a short distance of New York. When Pogram was about
to leave them he grew thoughtful, and after pondering for some time,
took Martin aside.
‘We air going to part, sir,’ said Pogram.
‘Pray don’t distress yourself,’ said Martin; ‘we must bear it.’
‘It ain’t that, sir,’ returned Pogram, ‘not at all. But I should wish
you to accept a copy of My oration.’
‘Thank you,’ said Martin, ‘you are very good. I shall be most happy.’
‘It ain’t quite that, sir, neither,’ resumed Pogram; ‘air you bold
enough to introduce a copy into your country?’
‘Certainly,’ said Martin. ‘Why not?’
‘Its sentiments air strong, sir,’ hinted Pogram, darkly.
‘That makes no difference,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll take a dozen if you
like.’
‘No, sir,’ retorted Pogram. ‘Not A dozen. That is more than I require.
If you are content to run the hazard, sir, here is one for your Lord
Chancellor,’ producing it, ‘and one for Your principal Secretary of
State. I should wish them to see it, sir, as expressing what my opinions
air. That they may not plead ignorance at a future time. But don’t get
into danger, sir, on my account!’
‘There is not the least danger, I assure you,’ said Martin. So he put
the pamphlets in his pocket, and they parted.
Mr Bevan had written in his letter that, at a certain time, which fell
out happily just then, he would be at a certain hotel in the city,
anxiously expecting to see them. To this place they repaired without a
moment’s delay. They had the satisfaction of finding him within; and of
being received by their good friend, with his own warmth and heartiness.
‘I am truly sorry and ashamed,’ said Martin, ‘to have begged of you. But
look at us. See what we are, and judge to what we are reduced!’
‘So far from claiming to have done you any service,’ returned the other,
‘I reproach myself with having been, unwittingly, the original cause
of your misfortunes. I no more supposed you would go to Eden on such
representations as you received; or, indeed, that you would do anything
but be dispossessed, by the readiest means, of your idea that fortunes
were so easily made here; than I thought of going to Eden myself.’
‘The fact is, I closed with the thing in a mad and sanguine manner,’
said Martin, ‘and the less said about it the better for me. Mark, here,
hadn’t a voice in the matter.’
‘Well! but he hadn’t a voice in any other matter, had he?’ returned Mr
Bevan; laughing with an air that showed his understanding of Mark and
Martin too.
‘Not a very powerful one, I am afraid,’ said Martin with a blush. ‘But
live and learn, Mr Bevan! Nearly die and learn; we learn the quicker.’
‘Now,’ said their friend, ‘about your plans. You mean to return home at
once?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ returned Martin hastily, for he turned pale at the
thought of any other suggestion. ‘That is your opinion too, I hope?’
‘Unquestionably. For I don’t know why you ever came here; though it’s
not such an unusual case, I am sorry to say, that we need go any farther
into that. You don’t know that the ship in which you came over with our
friend General Fladdock, is in port, of course?’
‘Indeed!’ said Martin.
‘Yes. And is advertised to sail to-morrow.’
This was tempting news, but tantalising too; for Martin knew that his
getting any employment on board a ship of that class was hopeless. The
money in his pocket would not pay one-fourth of the sum he had already
borrowed, and if it had been enough for their passage-money, he could
hardly have resolved to spend it. He explained this to Mr Bevan, and
stated what their project was.
‘Why, that’s as wild as Eden every bit,’ returned his friend. ‘You must
take your passage like a Christian; at least, as like a Christian as a
fore-cabin passenger can; and owe me a few more dollars than you intend.
If Mark will go down to the ship and see what passengers there are,
and finds that you can go in her without being actually suffocated, my
advice is, go! You and I will look about us in the meantime (we won’t
call at the Norris’s unless you like), and we will all three dine
together in the afternoon.’
Martin had nothing to express but gratitude, and so it was arranged.
But he went out of the room after Mark, and advised him to take their
passage in the Screw, though they lay upon the bare deck; which Mr
Tapley, who needed no entreaty on the subject readily promised to do.
When he and Martin met again, and were alone, he was in high spirits,
and evidently had something to communicate, in which he gloried very
much.
‘I’ve done Mr Bevan, sir,’ said Mark.
‘Done Mr Bevan!’ repeated Martin.
‘The cook of the Screw went and got married yesterday, sir,’ said Mr
Tapley.
Martin looked at him for farther explanation.
‘And when I got on board, and the word was passed that it was me,’ said
Mark, ‘the mate he comes and asks me whether I’d engage to take this
said cook’s place upon the passage home. “For you’re used to it,” he
says; “you were always a-cooking for everybody on your passage out.”
And so I was,’ said Mark, ‘although I never cooked before, I’ll take my
oath.’
‘What did you say?’ demanded Martin.
‘Say!’ cried Mark. ‘That I’d take anything I could get. “If that’s
so,” says the mate, “why, bring a glass of rum;” which they brought
according. And my wages, sir,’ said Mark in high glee, ‘pays your
passage; and I’ve put the rolling-pin in your berth to take it (it’s
the easy one up in the corner); and there we are, Rule Britannia, and
Britons strike home!’
‘There never was such a good fellow as you are!’ cried Martin seizing
him by the hand. ‘But what do you mean by “doing” Mr Bevan, Mark?’
‘Why, don’t you see?’ said Mark. ‘We don’t tell him, you know. We take
his money, but we don’t spend it, and we don’t keep it. What we do is,
write him a little note, explaining this engagement, and roll it up,
and leave it at the bar, to be given to him after we are gone. Don’t you
see?’
Martin’s delight in this idea was not inferior to Mark’s. It was all
done as he proposed. They passed a cheerful evening; slept at the hotel;
left the letter as arranged; and went off to the ship betimes next
morning, with such light hearts as the weight of their past miseries
engendered.
‘Good-bye! a hundred thousand times good-bye!’ said Martin to their
friend. ‘How shall I remember all your kindness! How shall I ever thank
you!’
‘If you ever become a rich man, or a powerful one,’ returned his friend,
‘you shall try to make your Government more careful of its subjects when
they roam abroad to live. Tell it what you know of emigration in your
own case, and impress upon it how much suffering may be prevented with a
little pains!’
Cheerily, lads, cheerily! Anchor weighed. Ship in full sail. Her sturdy
bowsprit pointing true to England. America a cloud upon the sea behind
them!
‘Why, Cook! what are you thinking of so steadily?’ said Martin.
‘Why, I was a-thinking, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that if I was a painter
and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?’
‘Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose.’
‘No,’ said Mark. ‘That wouldn’t do for me, sir. I should want to draw it
like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging;
like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a
ostrich, for its putting its head in the mud, and thinking nobody sees
it--’
‘And like a Phoenix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its
faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!’ said Martin. ‘Well,
Mark. Let us hope so.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES
THE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE
It was mid-day, and high water in the English port for which the Screw
was bound, when, borne in gallantly upon the fullness of the tide, she
let go her anchor in the river.
Bright as the scene was; fresh, and full of motion; airy, free, and
sparkling; it was nothing to the life and exultation in the breasts of
the two travellers, at sight of the old churches, roofs, and darkened
chimney stacks of Home. The distant roar that swelled up hoarsely from
the busy streets, was music in their ears; the lines of people gazing
from the wharves, were friends held dear; the canopy of smoke that
overhung the town was brighter and more beautiful to them than if the
richest silks of Persia had been waving in the air. And though the water
going on its glistening track, turned, ever and again, aside to dance
and sparkle round great ships, and heave them up; and leaped from off
the blades of oars, a shower of diving diamonds; and wantoned with
the idle boats, and swiftly passed, in many a sportive chase, through
obdurate old iron rings, set deep into the stone-work of the quays;
not even it was half so buoyant, and so restless, as their fluttering
hearts, when yearning to set foot, once more, on native ground.
A year had passed since those same spires and roofs had faded from their
eyes. It seemed to them, a dozen years. Some trifling changes, here
and there, they called to mind; and wondered that they were so few and
slight. In health and fortune, prospect and resource, they came back
poorer men than they had gone away. But it was home. And though home is
a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke,
or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.
Being set ashore, with very little money in their pockets, and no
definite plan of operation in their heads, they sought out a cheap
tavern, where they regaled upon a smoking steak, and certain flowing
mugs of beer, as only men just landed from the sea can revel in
the generous dainties of the earth. When they had feasted, as two
grateful-tempered giants might have done, they stirred the fire, drew
back the glowing curtain from the window, and making each a sofa for
himself, by union of the great unwieldy chairs, gazed blissfully into
the street.
Even the street was made a fairy street, by being half hidden in an
atmosphere of steak, and strong, stout, stand-up English beer. For on
the window-glass hung such a mist, that Mr Tapley was obliged to rise
and wipe it with his handkerchief, before the passengers appeared like
common mortals. And even then, a spiral little cloud went curling up
from their two glasses of hot grog, which nearly hid them from each
other.
It was one of those unaccountable little rooms which are never seen
anywhere but in a tavern, and are supposed to have got into taverns by
reason of the facilities afforded to the architect for getting drunk
while engaged in their construction. It had more corners in it than the
brain of an obstinate man; was full of mad closets, into which nothing
could be put that was not specially invented and made for that purpose;
had mysterious shelvings and bulkheads, and indications of staircases in
the ceiling; and was elaborately provided with a bell that rung in
the room itself, about two feet from the handle, and had no connection
whatever with any other part of the establishment. It was a little
below the pavement, and abutted close upon it; so that passengers grated
against the window-panes with their buttons, and scraped it with their
baskets; and fearful boys suddenly coming between a thoughtful guest
and the light, derided him, or put out their tongues as if he were a
physician; or made white knobs on the ends of their noses by flattening
the same against the glass, and vanished awfully, like spectres.
Martin and Mark sat looking at the people as they passed, debating every
now and then what their first step should be.
‘We want to see Miss Mary, of course,’ said Mark.
‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘But I don’t know where she is. Not having had
the heart to write in our distress--you yourself thought silence most
advisable--and consequently, never having heard from her since we left
New York the first time, I don’t know where she is, my good fellow.’
‘My opinion is, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that what we’ve got to do is to
travel straight to the Dragon. There’s no need for you to go there,
where you’re known, unless you like. You may stop ten mile short of it.
I’ll go on. Mrs Lupin will tell me all the news. Mr Pinch will give me
every information that we want; and right glad Mr Pinch will be to do
it. My proposal is: To set off walking this afternoon. To stop when we
are tired. To get a lift when we can. To walk when we can’t. To do it at
once, and do it cheap.’
‘Unless we do it cheap, we shall have some difficulty in doing it at
all,’ said Martin, pulling out the bank, and telling it over in his
hand.
‘The greater reason for losing no time, sir,’ replied Mark. ‘Whereas,
when you’ve seen the young lady; and know what state of mind the old
gentleman’s in, and all about it; then you’ll know what to do next.’
‘No doubt,’ said Martin. ‘You are quite right.’
They were raising their glasses to their lips, when their hands stopped
midway, and their gaze was arrested by a figure which slowly, very
slowly, and reflectively, passed the window at that moment.
Mr Pecksniff. Placid, calm, but proud. Honestly proud. Dressed with
peculiar care, smiling with even more than usual blandness, pondering
on the beauties of his art with a mild abstraction from all sordid
thoughts, and gently travelling across the disc, as if he were a figure
in a magic lantern.
As Mr Pecksniff passed, a person coming in the opposite direction
stopped to look after him with great interest and respect, almost with
veneration; and the landlord bouncing out of the house, as if he had
seen him too, joined this person, and spoke to him, and shook his head
gravely, and looked after Mr Pecksniff likewise.
Martin and Mark sat staring at each other, as if they could not believe
it; but there stood the landlord, and the other man still. In spite of
the indignation with which this glimpse of Mr Pecksniff had inspired
him, Martin could not help laughing heartily. Neither could Mark.
‘We must inquire into this!’ said Martin. ‘Ask the landlord in, Mark.’
Mr Tapley retired for that purpose, and immediately returned with their
large-headed host in safe convoy.
‘Pray, landlord!’ said Martin, ‘who is that gentleman who passed just
now, and whom you were looking after?’
The landlord poked the fire as if, in his desire to make the most of
his answer, he had become indifferent even to the price of coals; and
putting his hands in his pockets, said, after inflating himself to give
still further effect to his reply:
‘That, gentlemen, is the great Mr Pecksniff! The celebrated architect,
gentlemen!’
He looked from one to the other while he said it, as if he were ready to
assist the first man who might be overcome by the intelligence.
‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen.’ said the
landlord, ‘has come down here, to help to lay the first stone of a new
and splendid public building.’
‘Is it to be built from his designs?’ asked Martin.
‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen,’
returned the landlord, who seemed to have an unspeakable delight in
the repetition of these words, ‘carried off the First Premium, and will
erect the building.’
‘Who lays the stone?’ asked Martin.
‘Our member has come down express,’ returned the landlord. ‘No scrubs
would do for no such a purpose. Nothing less would satisfy our Directors
than our member in the House of Commons, who is returned upon the
Gentlemanly Interest.’
‘Which interest is that?’ asked Martin.
‘What, don’t you know!’ returned the landlord.
It was quite clear the landlord didn’t. They always told him at election
time, that it was the Gentlemanly side, and he immediately put on his
top-boots, and voted for it.
‘When does the ceremony take place?’ asked Martin.
‘This day,’ replied the landlord. Then pulling out his watch, he added,
impressively, ‘almost this minute.’
Martin hastily inquired whether there was any possibility of getting
in to witness it; and finding that there would be no objection to the
admittance of any decent person, unless indeed the ground were full,
hurried off with Mark, as hard as they could go.
They were fortunate enough to squeeze themselves into a famous corner on
the ground, where they could see all that passed, without much dread of
being beheld by Mr Pecksniff in return. They were not a minute too soon,
for as they were in the act of congratulating each other, a great noise
was heard at some distance, and everybody looked towards the gate.
Several ladies prepared their pocket handkerchiefs for waving; and a
stray teacher belonging to the charity school being much cheered by
mistake, was immensely groaned at when detected.
‘Perhaps he has Tom Pinch with him,’ Martin whispered Mr Tapley.
‘It would be rather too much of a treat for him, wouldn’t it, sir?’
whispered Mr Tapley in return.
There was no time to discuss the probabilities either way, for the
charity school, in clean linen, came filing in two and two, so much to
the self-approval of all the people present who didn’t subscribe to
it, that many of them shed tears. A band of music followed, led by
a conscientious drummer who never left off. Then came a great many
gentlemen with wands in their hands, and bows on their breasts, whose
share in the proceedings did not appear to be distinctly laid down, and
who trod upon each other, and blocked up the entry for a considerable
period. These were followed by the Mayor and Corporation, all clustering
round the member for the Gentlemanly Interest; who had the great Mr
Pecksniff, the celebrated architect on his right hand, and conversed
with him familiarly as they came along. Then the ladies waved their
handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen their hats, and the charity children
shrieked, and the member for the Gentlemanly Interest bowed.
Silence being restored, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest rubbed
his hands, and wagged his head, and looked about him pleasantly; and
there was nothing this member did, at which some lady or other did not
burst into an ecstatic waving of her pocket handkerchief. When he looked
up at the stone, they said how graceful! when he peeped into the hole,
they said how condescending! when he chatted with the Mayor, they
said how easy! when he folded his arms they cried with one accord, how
statesman-like!
Mr Pecksniff was observed too, closely. When he talked to the Mayor,
they said, Oh, really, what a courtly man he was! When he laid his
hand upon the mason’s shoulder, giving him directions, how pleasant his
demeanour to the working classes; just the sort of man who made their
toil a pleasure to them, poor dear souls!
But now a silver trowel was brought; and when the member for the
Gentlemanly Interest, tucking up his coat-sleeve, did a little sleight
of hand with the mortar, the air was rent, so loud was the applause.
The workman-like manner in which he did it was amazing. No one could
conceive where such a gentlemanly creature could have picked the
knowledge up.
When he had made a kind of dirt-pie under the direction of the mason,
they brought a little vase containing coins, the which the member
for the Gentlemanly Interest jingled, as if he were going to conjure.
Whereat they said how droll, how cheerful, what a flow of spirits! This
put into its place, an ancient scholar read the inscription, which
was in Latin; not in English; that would never do. It gave great
satisfaction; especially every time there was a good long substantive
in the third declension, ablative case, with an adjective to match; at
which periods the assembly became very tender, and were much affected.
And now the stone was lowered down into its place, amidst the shouting
of the concourse. When it was firmly fixed, the member for the
Gentlemanly Interest struck upon it thrice with the handle of the
trowel, as if inquiring, with a touch of humour, whether anybody was at
home. Mr Pecksniff then unrolled his Plans (prodigious plans they were),
and people gathered round to look at and admire them.
Martin, who had been fretting himself--quite unnecessarily, as Mark
thought--during the whole of these proceedings, could no longer restrain
his impatience; but stepping forward among several others, looked
straight over the shoulder of the unconscious Mr Pecksniff, at the
designs and plans he had unrolled. He returned to Mark, boiling with
rage.
‘Why, what’s the matter, sir?’ cried Mark.
‘Matter! This is MY building.’
‘Your building, sir!’ said Mark.
‘My grammar-school. I invented it. I did it all. He has only put four
windows in, the villain, and spoilt it!’
Mark could hardly believe it at first, but being assured that it was
really so, actually held him to prevent his interference foolishly,
until his temporary heat was past. In the meantime, the member addressed
the company on the gratifying deed which he had just performed.
He said that since he had sat in Parliament to represent the Gentlemanly
Interest of that town; and he might add, the Lady Interest, he hoped,
besides (pocket handkerchiefs); it had been his pleasant duty to come
among them, and to raise his voice on their behalf in Another Place
(pocket handkerchiefs and laughter), often. But he had never come among
them, and had never raised his voice, with half such pure, such deep,
such unalloyed delight, as now. ‘The present occasion,’ he said, ‘will
ever be memorable to me; not only for the reasons I have assigned, but
because it has afforded me an opportunity of becoming personally known
to a gentleman--’
Here he pointed the trowel at Mr Pecksniff, who was greeted with
vociferous cheering, and laid his hand upon his heart.
‘To a gentleman who, I am happy to believe, will reap both distinction
and profit from this field; whose fame had previously penetrated to
me--as to whose ears has it not!--but whose intellectual countenance I
never had the distinguished honour to behold until this day, and whose
intellectual conversation I had never before the improving pleasure to
enjoy.’
Everybody seemed very glad of this, and applauded more than ever.
‘But I hope my Honourable Friend,’ said the Gentlemanly member--of
course he added “if he will allow me to call him so,” and of course Mr
Pecksniff bowed--‘will give me many opportunities of cultivating the
knowledge of him; and that I may have the extraordinary gratification of
reflecting in after-time that I laid on this day two first stones, both
belonging to structures which shall last my life!’
Great cheering again. All this time, Martin was cursing Mr Pecksniff up
hill and down dale.
‘My friends!’ said Mr Pecksniff, in reply. ‘My duty is to build, not
speak; to act, not talk; to deal with marble, stone, and brick; not
language. I am very much affected. God bless you!’
This address, pumped out apparently from Mr Pecksniff’s very heart,
brought the enthusiasm to its highest pitch. The pocket handkerchiefs
were waved again; the charity children were admonished to grow up
Pecksniffs, every boy among them; the Corporation, gentlemen with wands,
member for the Gentlemanly Interest, all cheered for Mr Pecksniff. Three
cheers for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for
Mr Pecksniff, gentlemen, if you please! One more, gentlemen, for Mr
Pecksniff, and let it be a good one to finish with!
In short, Mr Pecksniff was supposed to have done a great work and was
very kindly, courteously, and generously rewarded. When the procession
moved away, and Martin and Mark were left almost alone upon the ground,
his merits and a desire to acknowledge them formed the common topic. He
was only second to the Gentlemanly member.
‘Compare the fellow’s situation to-day with ours!’ said Martin bitterly.
‘Lord bless you, sir!’ cried Mark, ‘what’s the use? Some architects are
clever at making foundations, and some architects are clever at building
on ‘em when they’re made. But it’ll all come right in the end, sir;
it’ll all come right!’
‘And in the meantime--’ began Martin.
‘In the meantime, as you say, sir, we have a deal to do, and far to go.
So sharp’s the word, and Jolly!’
‘You are the best master in the world, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘and I will
not be a bad scholar if I can help it, I am resolved! So come! Best foot
foremost, old fellow!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
TOM PINCH DEPARTS TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE. WHAT HE FINDS AT STARTING
Oh! What a different town Salisbury was in Tom Pinch’s eyes to be sure,
when the substantial Pecksniff of his heart melted away into an idle
dream! He possessed the same faith in the wonderful shops, the same
intensified appreciation of the mystery and wickedness of the place;
made the same exalted estimate of its wealth, population, and resources;
and yet it was not the old city nor anything like it. He walked into the
market while they were getting breakfast ready for him at the Inn; and
though it was the same market as of old, crowded by the same buyers and
sellers; brisk with the same business; noisy with the same confusion of
tongues and cluttering of fowls in coops; fair with the same display
of rolls of butter, newly made, set forth in linen cloths of dazzling
whiteness; green with the same fresh show of dewy vegetables; dainty
with the same array in higglers’ baskets of small shaving-glasses,
laces, braces, trouser-straps, and hardware; savoury with the same
unstinted show of delicate pigs’ feet, and pies made precious by the
pork that once had walked upon them; still it was strangely changed to
Tom. For, in the centre of the market-place, he missed a statue he
had set up there as in all other places of his personal resort; and it
looked cold and bare without that ornament.
The change lay no deeper than this, for Tom was far from being sage
enough to know, that, having been disappointed in one man, it would have
been a strictly rational and eminently wise proceeding to have revenged
himself upon mankind in general, by mistrusting them one and all. Indeed
this piece of justice, though it is upheld by the authority of divers
profound poets and honourable men, bears a nearer resemblance to the
justice of that good Vizier in the Thousand-and-one Nights, who issues
orders for the destruction of all the Porters in Bagdad because one of
that unfortunate fraternity is supposed to have misconducted himself,
than to any logical, not to say Christian, system of conduct, known to
the world in later times.
Tom had so long been used to steep the Pecksniff of his fancy in his
tea, and spread him out upon his toast, and take him as a relish with
his beer, that he made but a poor breakfast on the first morning after
his expulsion. Nor did he much improve his appetite for dinner by
seriously considering his own affairs, and taking counsel thereon with
his friend the organist’s assistant.
The organist’s assistant gave it as his decided opinion that whatever
Tom did, he must go to London; for there was no place like it. Which
may be true in the main, though hardly, perhaps, in itself, a sufficient
reason for Tom’s going there.
But Tom had thought of London before, and had coupled with it thoughts
of his sister, and of his old friend John Westlock, whose advice
he naturally felt disposed to seek in this important crisis of his
fortunes. To London, therefore, he resolved to go; and he went away to
the coach-office at once, to secure his place. The coach being already
full, he was obliged to postpone his departure until the next night; but
even this circumstance had its bright side as well as its dark one, for
though it threatened to reduce his poor purse with unexpected country
charges, it afforded him an opportunity of writing to Mrs Lupin and
appointing his box to be brought to the old finger-post at the old time;
which would enable him to take that treasure with him to the metropolis,
and save the expense of its carriage. ‘So,’ said Tom, comforting
himself, ‘it’s very nearly as broad as it’s long.’
And it cannot be denied that, when he had made up his mind to even this
extent, he felt an unaccustomed sense of freedom--a vague and indistinct
impression of holiday-making--which was very luxurious. He had his
moments of depression and anxiety, and they were, with good reason,
pretty numerous; but still, it was wonderfully pleasant to reflect that
he was his own master, and could plan and scheme for himself. It was
startling, thrilling, vast, difficult to understand; it was a stupendous
truth, teeming with responsibility and self-distrust; but in spite of
all his cares, it gave a curious relish to the viands at the Inn, and
interposed a dreamy haze between him and his prospects, in which they
sometimes showed to magical advantage.
In this unsettled state of mind, Tom went once more to bed in the low
four-poster, to the same immovable surprise of the effigies of the
former landlord and the fat ox; and in this condition, passed the whole
of the succeeding day. When the coach came round at last with ‘London’
blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that
he was half disposed to run away. But he didn’t do it; for he took his
seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four greys, felt
as if he were another grey himself, or, at all events, a part of the
turn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendour of his
situation.
And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find
himself sitting next that coachman; for of all the swells that ever
flourished a whip professionally, he might have been elected emperor. He
didn’t handle his gloves like another man, but put them on--even when he
was standing on the pavement, quite detached from the coach--as if the
four greys were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It was
the same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which nothing but an
unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom of the road, could
ever have made him perfect in. Valuable little parcels were brought to
him with particular instructions, and he pitched them into this hat, and
stuck it on again; as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such
an event as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an
accident could befall it. The guard, too! Seventy breezy miles a day
were written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter; his
conversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a down-hill turnpike
road; he was all pace. A waggon couldn’t have moved slowly, with that
guard and his key-bugle on the top of it.
These were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon
the box, and looked about him. Such a coachman, and such a guard, never
could have existed between Salisbury and any other place. The coach
was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish,
dissipated London coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading
a devil of a life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been
a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the
Cathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere,
making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open
country-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its
last glad parting legacy.
It was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with the weight
upon his mind which arose out of the immensity and uncertainty of
London, Tom could not resist the captivating sense of rapid motion
through the pleasant air. The four greys skimmed along, as if they liked
it quite as well as Tom did; the bugle was in as high spirits as the
greys; the coachman chimed in sometimes with his voice; the wheels
hummed cheerfully in unison; the brass work on the harness was an
orchestra of little bells; and thus, as they went clinking, jingling,
rattling smoothly on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the
leaders’ coupling-reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great
instrument of music.
Yoho, past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns, and people
going home from work. Yoho, past donkey-chaises, drawn aside into the
ditch, and empty carts with rampant horses, whipped up at a bound upon
the little watercourse, and held by struggling carters close to the
five-barred gate, until the coach had passed the narrow turning in the
road. Yoho, by churches dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks,
with rustic burial-grounds about them, where the graves are green, and
daisies sleep--for it is evening--on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho, past
streams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes grow;
past paddock-fences, farms, and rick-yards; past last year’s stacks,
cut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light, like ruined
gables, old and brown. Yoho, down the pebbly dip, and through the merry
water-splash and up at a canter to the level road again. Yoho! Yoho!
Was the box there, when they came up to the old finger-post? The box!
Was Mrs Lupin herself? Had she turned out magnificently as a hostess
should, in her own chaise-cart, and was she sitting in a mahogany chair,
driving her own horse Dragon (who ought to have been called Dumpling),
and looking lovely? Did the stage-coach pull up beside her, shaving her
very wheel, and even while the guard helped her man up with the trunk,
did he send the glad echoes of his bugle careering down the chimneys of
the distant Pecksniff, as if the coach expressed its exultation in the
rescue of Tom Pinch?
‘This is kind indeed!’ said Tom, bending down to shake hands with her.
‘I didn’t mean to give you this trouble.’
‘Trouble, Mr Pinch!’ cried the hostess of the Dragon.
‘Well! It’s a pleasure to you, I know,’ said Tom, squeezing her hand
heartily. ‘Is there any news?’
The hostess shook her head.
‘Say you saw me,’ said Tom, ‘and that I was very bold and cheerful, and
not a bit down-hearted; and that I entreated her to be the same, for all
is certain to come right at last. Good-bye!’
‘You’ll write when you get settled, Mr Pinch?’ said Mrs Lupin.
‘When I get settled!’ cried Tom, with an involuntary opening of his
eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll write when I get settled. Perhaps I had better
write before, because I may find that it takes a little time to settle
myself; not having too much money, and having only one friend. I shall
give your love to the friend, by the way. You were always great with Mr
Westlock, you know. Good-bye!’
‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs Lupin, hastily producing a basket with a long
bottle sticking out of it. ‘Take this. Good-bye!’
‘Do you want me to carry it to London for you?’ cried Tom. She was
already turning the chaise-cart round.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Lupin. ‘It’s only a little something for refreshment
on the road. Sit fast, Jack. Drive on, sir. All right! Good-bye!’
She was a quarter of a mile off, before Tom collected himself; and then
he was waving his hand lustily; and so was she.
‘And that’s the last of the old finger-post,’ thought Tom, straining
his eyes, ‘where I have so often stood to see this very coach go by,
and where I have parted with so many companions! I used to compare this
coach to some great monster that appeared at certain times to bear my
friends away into the world. And now it’s bearing me away, to seek my
fortune, Heaven knows where and how!’
It made Tom melancholy to picture himself walking up the lane and back
to Pecksniff’s as of old; and being melancholy, he looked downwards at
the basket on his knee, which he had for the moment forgotten.
‘She is the kindest and most considerate creature in the world,’ thought
Tom. ‘Now I KNOW that she particularly told that man of hers not to look
at me, on purpose to prevent my throwing him a shilling! I had it ready
for him all the time, and he never once looked towards me; whereas that
man naturally, (for I know him very well,) would have done nothing but
grin and stare. Upon my word, the kindness of people perfectly melts
me.’
Here he caught the coachman’s eye. The coachman winked. ‘Remarkable fine
woman for her time of life,’ said the coachman.
‘I quite agree with you,’ returned Tom. ‘So she is.’
‘Finer than many a young ‘un, I mean to say,’ observed the coachman.
‘Eh?’
‘Than many a young one,’ Tom assented.
‘I don’t care for ‘em myself when they’re too young,’ remarked the
coachman.
This was a matter of taste, which Tom did not feel himself called upon
to discuss.
‘You’ll seldom find ‘em possessing correct opinions about refreshment,
for instance, when they’re too young, you know,’ said the coachman; ‘a
woman must have arrived at maturity, before her mind’s equal to coming
provided with a basket like that.’
‘Perhaps you would like to know what it contains?’ said Tom, smiling.
As the coachman only laughed, and as Tom was curious himself, he
unpacked it, and put the articles, one by one, upon the footboard. A
cold roast fowl, a packet of ham in slices, a crusty loaf, a piece of
cheese, a paper of biscuits, half a dozen apples, a knife, some butter,
a screw of salt, and a bottle of old sherry. There was a letter besides,
which Tom put in his pocket.
The coachman was so earnest in his approval of Mrs Lupin’s provident
habits, and congratulated Torn so warmly on his good fortune, that Tom
felt it necessary, for the lady’s sake, to explain that the basket was
a strictly Platonic basket, and had merely been presented to him in the
way of friendship. When he had made the statement with perfect gravity;
for he felt it incumbent on him to disabuse the mind of this lax rover
of any incorrect impressions on the subject; he signified that he would
be happy to share the gifts with him, and proposed that they should
attack the basket in a spirit of good fellowship at any time in the
course of the night which the coachman’s experience and knowledge of the
road might suggest, as being best adapted to the purpose. From this time
they chatted so pleasantly together, that although Tom knew infinitely
more of unicorns than horses, the coachman informed his friend the guard
at the end of the next stage, ‘that rum as the box-seat looked, he was
as good a one to go, in pint of conversation, as ever he’d wish to sit
by.’
Yoho, among the gathering shades; making of no account the deep
reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness,
all the same, as if the light of London fifty miles away, were quite
enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho, beside the village green,
where cricket-players linger yet, and every little indentation made in
the fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or player’s foot, sheds out its
perfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced
Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last
team with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until
observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys
pursue them. Now, with a clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery
sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadowy
road, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold.
Yoho!
Yoho, behind there, stop that bugle for a moment! Come creeping over to
the front, along the coach-roof, guard, and make one at this basket! Not
that we slacken in our pace the while, not we; we rather put the bits
of blood upon their metal, for the greater glory of the snack. Ah! It
is long since this bottle of old wine was brought into contact with the
mellow breath of night, you may depend, and rare good stuff it is to wet
a bugler’s whistle with. Only try it. Don’t be afraid of turning up your
finger, Bill, another pull! Now, take your breath, and try the bugle,
Bill. There’s music! There’s a tone!’ over the hills and far away,’
indeed. Yoho! The skittish mare is all alive to-night. Yoho! Yoho!
See the bright moon! High up before we know it; making the earth reflect
the objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees, low cottages,
church steeples, blighted stumps and flourishing young slips, have
all grown vain upon the sudden, and mean to contemplate their own fair
images till morning. The poplars yonder rustle that their quivering
leaves may see themselves upon the ground. Not so the oak; trembling
does not become HIM; and he watches himself in his stout old burly
steadfastness, without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate,
ill-poised upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed swings to and
fro before its glass, like some fantastic dowager; while our own ghostly
likeness travels on, Yoho! Yoho! through ditch and brake, upon the
ploughed land and the smooth, along the steep hillside and steeper wall,
as if it were a phantom-Hunter.
Clouds too! And a mist upon the Hollow! Not a dull fog that hides it,
but a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our eyes of modest admiration
gives a new charm to the beauties it is spread before; as real gauze has
done ere now, and would again, so please you, though we were the Pope.
Yoho! Why now we travel like the Moon herself. Hiding this minute in a
grove of trees; next minute in a patch of vapour; emerging now upon our
broad clear course; withdrawing now, but always dashing on, our journey
is a counter-part of hers. Yoho! A match against the Moon!
The beauty of the night is hardly felt, when Day comes rushing up. Yoho!
Two stages, and the country roads are almost changed to a continuous
street. Yoho, past market-gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents,
terraces, and squares; past waggons, coaches, carts; past early workmen,
late stragglers, drunken men, and sober carriers of loads; past brick
and mortar in its every shape; and in among the rattling pavements,
where a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve! Yoho,
down countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old
Innyard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down quite stunned and giddy,
is in London!
‘Five minutes before the time, too!’ said the driver, as he received his
fee of Tom.
‘Upon my word,’ said Tom, ‘I should not have minded very much, if we had
been five hours after it; for at this early hour I don’t know where to
go, or what to do with myself.’
‘Don’t they expect you then?’ inquired the driver.
‘Who?’ said Tom.
‘Why them,’ returned the driver.
His mind was so clearly running on the assumption of Tom’s having come
to town to see an extensive circle of anxious relations and friends,
that it would have been pretty hard work to undeceive him. Tom did not
try. He cheerfully evaded the subject, and going into the Inn, fell fast
asleep before a fire in one of the public rooms opening from the yard.
When he awoke, the people in the house were all astir, so he washed and
dressed himself; to his great refreshment after the journey; and, it
being by that time eight o’clock, went forth at once to see his old
friend John.
John Westlock lived in Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn, which was within a
quarter of an hour’s walk of Tom’s starting-point, but seemed a long way
off, by reason of his going two or three miles out of the straight road
to make a short cut. When at last he arrived outside John’s door, two
stories up, he stood faltering with his hand upon the knocker, and
trembled from head to foot. For he was rendered very nervous by the
thought of having to relate what had fallen out between himself and
Pecksniff; and he had a misgiving that John would exult fearfully in the
disclosure.
‘But it must be made,’ thought Tom, ‘sooner or later; and I had better
get it over.’
Rat tat.
‘I am afraid that’s not a London knock,’ thought Tom. ‘It didn’t sound
bold. Perhaps that’s the reason why nobody answers the door.’
It is quite certain that nobody came, and that Tom stood looking at the
knocker; wondering whereabouts in the neighbourhood a certain gentleman
resided, who was roaring out to somebody ‘Come in!’ with all his might.
‘Bless my soul!’ thought Tom at last. ‘Perhaps he lives here, and is
calling to me. I never thought of that. Can I open the door from the
outside, I wonder. Yes, to be sure I can.’
To be sure he could, by turning the handle; and to be sure when he did
turn it the same voice came rushing out, crying ‘Why don’t you come
in? Come in, do you hear? What are you standing there for?’--quite
violently.
Tom stepped from the little passage into the room from which these
sounds proceeded, and had barely caught a glimpse of a gentleman in a
dressing-gown and slippers (with his boots beside him ready to put on),
sitting at his breakfast with a newspaper in his hand, when the said
gentleman, at the imminent hazard of oversetting his tea-table, made a
plunge at Tom, and hugged him.
‘Why, Tom, my boy!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Tom!’
‘How glad I am to see you, Mr Westlock!’ said Tom Pinch, shaking both
his hands, and trembling more than ever. ‘How kind you are!’
‘Mr Westlock!’ repeated John, ‘what do you mean by that, Pinch? You have
not forgotten my Christian name, I suppose?’
‘No, John, no. I have not forgotten,’ said Thomas Pinch. ‘Good gracious
me, how kind you are!’
‘I never saw such a fellow in all my life!’ cried John. ‘What do you
mean by saying THAT over and over again? What did you expect me to be, I
wonder! Here, sit down, Tom, and be a reasonable creature. How are you,
my boy? I am delighted to see you!’
‘And I am delighted to see YOU,’ said Tom.
‘It’s mutual, of course,’ returned John. ‘It always was, I hope. If
I had known you had been coming, Tom, I would have had something for
breakfast. I would rather have such a surprise than the best breakfast
in the world, myself; but yours is another case, and I have no doubt you
are as hungry as a hunter. You must make out as well as you can, Tom,
and we’ll recompense ourselves at dinner-time. You take sugar, I know;
I recollect the sugar at Pecksniff’s. Ha, ha, ha! How IS Pecksniff? When
did you come to town? DO begin at something or other, Tom. There are
only scraps here, but they are not at all bad. Boar’s Head potted. Try
it, Tom. Make a beginning whatever you do. What an old Blade you are! I
am delighted to see you.’
While he delivered himself of these words in a state of great commotion,
John was constantly running backwards and forwards to and from the
closet, bringing out all sorts of things in pots, scooping extraordinary
quantities of tea out of the caddy, dropping French rolls into his
boots, pouring hot water over the butter, and making a variety of
similar mistakes without disconcerting himself in the least.
‘There!’ said John, sitting down for the fiftieth time, and instantly
starting up again to make some other addition to the breakfast. ‘Now we
are as well off as we are likely to be till dinner. And now let us have
the news, Tom. Imprimis, how’s Pecksniff?’
‘I don’t know how he is,’ was Tom’s grave answer.
John Westlock put the teapot down, and looked at him, in astonishment.
‘I don’t know how he is,’ said Thomas Pinch; ‘and, saving that I wish
him no ill, I don’t care. I have left him, John. I have left him for
ever.’
‘Voluntarily?’
‘Why, no, for he dismissed me. But I had first found out that I was
mistaken in him; and I could not have remained with him under any
circumstances. I grieve to say that you were right in your estimate of
his character. It may be a ridiculous weakness, John, but it has been
very painful and bitter to me to find this out, I do assure you.’
Tom had no need to direct that appealing look towards his friend, in
mild and gentle deprecation of his answering with a laugh. John Westlock
would as soon have thought of striking him down upon the floor.
‘It was all a dream of mine,’ said Tom, ‘and it is over. I’ll tell you
how it happened, at some other time. Bear with my folly, John. I do not,
just now, like to think or speak about it.’
‘I swear to you, Tom,’ returned his friend, with great earnestness of
manner, after remaining silent for a few moments, ‘that when I see, as
I do now, how deeply you feel this, I don’t know whether to be glad or
sorry that you have made the discovery at last. I reproach myself with
the thought that I ever jested on the subject; I ought to have known
better.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, extending his hand, ‘it is very generous and
gallant in you to receive me and my disclosure in this spirit; it makes
me blush to think that I should have felt a moment’s uneasiness as I
came along. You can’t think what a weight is lifted off my mind,’ said
Tom, taking up his knife and fork again, and looking very cheerful. ‘I
shall punish the Boar’s Head dreadfully.’
The host, thus reminded of his duties, instantly betook himself to
piling up all kinds of irreconcilable and contradictory viands in Tom’s
plate, and a very capital breakfast Tom made, and very much the better
for it Tom felt.
‘That’s all right,’ said John, after contemplating his visitor’s
proceedings with infinite satisfaction. ‘Now, about our plans. You are
going to stay with me, of course. Where’s your box?’
‘It’s at the Inn,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t intend--’
‘Never mind what you didn’t intend,’ John Westlock interposed. ‘What you
DID intend is more to the purpose. You intended, in coming here, to ask
my advice, did you not, Tom?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And to take it when I gave it to you?’
‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, smiling, ‘if it were good advice, which, being
yours, I have no doubt it will be.’
‘Very well. Then don’t be an obstinate old humbug in the outset, Tom, or
I shall shut up shop and dispense none of that invaluable commodity. You
are on a visit to me. I wish I had an organ for you, Tom!’
‘So do the gentlemen downstairs, and the gentlemen overhead I have no
doubt,’ was Tom’s reply.
‘Let me see. In the first place, you will wish to see your sister this
morning,’ pursued his friend, ‘and of course you will like to go there
alone. I’ll walk part of the way with you; and see about a little
business of my own, and meet you here again in the afternoon. Put that
in your pocket, Tom. It’s only the key of the door. If you come home
first you’ll want it.’
‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘quartering one’s self upon a friend in this way--’
‘Why, there are two keys,’ interposed John Westlock. ‘I can’t open the
door with them both at once, can I? What a ridiculous fellow you are,
Tom? Nothing particular you’d like for dinner, is there?’
‘Oh dear no,’ said Tom.
‘Very well, then you may as well leave it to me. Have a glass of cherry
brandy, Tom?’
‘Not a drop! What remarkable chambers these are!’ said Pinch ‘there’s
everything in ‘em!’
‘Bless your soul, Tom, nothing but a few little bachelor contrivances!
the sort of impromptu arrangements that might have suggested themselves
to Philip Quarll or Robinson Crusoe, that’s all. What do you say? Shall
we walk?’
‘By all means,’ cried Tom. ‘As soon as you like.’
Accordingly John Westlock took the French rolls out of his boots, and
put his boots on, and dressed himself; giving Tom the paper to read in
the meanwhile. When he returned, equipped for walking, he found Tom in a
brown study, with the paper in his hand.
‘Dreaming, Tom?’
‘No,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘No. I have been looking over the advertising
sheet, thinking there might be something in it which would be likely
to suit me. But, as I often think, the strange thing seems to be that
nobody is suited. Here are all kinds of employers wanting all sorts of
servants, and all sorts of servants wanting all kinds of employers, and
they never seem to come together. Here is a gentleman in a public office
in a position of temporary difficulty, who wants to borrow five hundred
pounds; and in the very next advertisement here is another gentleman who
has got exactly that sum to lend. But he’ll never lend it to him, John,
you’ll find! Here is a lady possessing a moderate independence, who
wants to board and lodge with a quiet, cheerful family; and here is a
family describing themselves in those very words, “a quiet, cheerful
family,” who want exactly such a lady to come and live with them. But
she’ll never go, John! Neither do any of these single gentlemen who want
an airy bedroom, with the occasional use of a parlour, ever appear to
come to terms with these other people who live in a rural situation
remarkable for its bracing atmosphere, within five minutes’ walk of
the Royal Exchange. Even those letters of the alphabet who are always
running away from their friends and being entreated at the tops of
columns to come back, never DO come back, if we may judge from the
number of times they are asked to do it and don’t. It really seems,’
said Tom, relinquishing the paper with a thoughtful sigh, ‘as if people
had the same gratification in printing their complaints as in making
them known by word of mouth; as if they found it a comfort and
consolation to proclaim “I want such and such a thing, and I can’t get
it, and I don’t expect I ever shall!”’
John Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many
years had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so
little of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He
was particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have
those streets pointed out to him which were appropriated to the
slaughter of countrymen; and was quite disappointed to find, after
half-an-hour’s walking, that he hadn’t had his pocket picked. But
on John Westlock’s inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and
pointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he
was much delighted.
His friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell
and having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy
brass-and-copper founder’s, left him to make his visit. Arriving before
the great bell-handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared.
‘Pray does Miss Pinch live here?’ said Tom.
‘Miss Pinch is governess here,’ replied the porter.
At the same time he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have
said, ‘You are a nice man, YOU are; where did YOU come from?’
‘It’s the same young lady,’ said Tom. ‘It’s quite right. Is she at
home?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ rejoined the porter.
‘Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain?’ said Tom. He
had quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility
of such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter’s mind at
all.
The fact was that the porter in answering the gate-bell had, according
to usage, rung the house-bell (for it is as well to do these things in
the Baronial style while you are about it), and that there the functions
of his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and
not to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be
developed by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called
out from the door steps:
‘Hollo, there! wot are you up to? This way, young man!’
‘Oh!’ said Tom, hurrying towards him. ‘I didn’t observe that there was
anybody else. Pray is Miss Pinch at home?’
‘She’s IN,’ replied the footman. As much as to say to Tom: ‘But if you
think she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place you
had better abandon that idea.’
‘I wish to see her, if you please,’ said Tom.
The footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention
caught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so
warm an interest that his gaze was rivetted on the bird until it was
quite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in, and showed him into
a parlour.
‘Hany neem?’ said the young man, pausing languidly at the door.
It was a good thought; because without providing the stranger, in case
he should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for
knocking him down, it implied this young man’s estimate of his quality,
and relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of rating him in secret
as a nameless and obscure individual.
‘Say her brother, if you please,’ said Tom.
‘Mother?’ drawled the footman.
‘Brother,’ repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. ‘And if you will
say, in the first instance, a gentleman, and then say her brother,
I shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in
London, and I do not wish to startle her.’
The young man’s interest in Tom’s observations had ceased long before
this time, but he kindly waited until now; when, shutting the door, he
withdrew.
‘Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘This is very disrespectful and uncivil behaviour.
I hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently
treated.’
His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining
room. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or in indignant
reprimand of some offender; and gathering strength occasionally, broke
out into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it
appeared to Tom, that the footman announced him; for an abrupt and
unnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing
before the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused
these sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door
opened, and his sister ran into his arms.
‘Why, bless my soul!’ said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when
they had tenderly embraced each other, ‘how altered you are Ruth! I
should scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere
else, I declare! You are so improved,’ said Tom, with inexpressible
delight; ‘you are so womanly; you are so--positively, you know, you are
so handsome!’
‘If YOU think so Tom--’
‘Oh, but everybody must think so, you know,’ said Tom, gently smoothing
down her hair. ‘It’s matter of fact; not opinion. But what’s the
matter?’ said Tom, looking at her more intently, ‘how flushed you are!
and you have been crying.’
‘No, I have not, Tom.’
‘Nonsense,’ said her brother stoutly. ‘That’s a story. Don’t tell me! I
know better. What is it, dear? I’m not with Mr Pecksniff now. I am going
to try and settle myself in London; and if you are not happy here (as I
very much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving
me with the kindest and most affectionate intention) you shall not
remain here.’
Oh! Tom’s blood was rising; mind that! Perhaps the Boar’s Head had
something to do with it, but certainly the footman had. So had the sight
of his pretty sister--a great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good
deal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing.
He began to think, ‘there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps,’ and by
all the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in
a most unusual tingle all at once!
‘We will talk about it, Tom,’ said Ruth, giving him another kiss to
pacify him. ‘I am afraid I cannot stay here.’
‘Cannot!’ replied Tom. ‘Why then, you shall not, my love. Heyday! You
are not an object of charity! Upon my word!’
Tom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a
message from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him
before he went, and with Miss Pinch also.
‘Show the way,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll wait upon him at once.’
Accordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of
altercation had proceeded; and there they found a middle-aged gentleman,
with a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady, with what may
be termed an excisable face, or one in which starch and vinegar were
decidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss
Pinch, whom Mrs Todgers, on a previous occasion, had called a syrup, and
who was now weeping and sobbing spitefully.
‘My brother, sir,’ said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom.
‘Oh!’ cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. ‘You really are
Miss Pinch’s brother, I presume? You will excuse my asking. I don’t
observe any resemblance.’
‘Miss Pinch has a brother, I know,’ observed the lady.
‘Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother, when she ought to be
engaged upon my education,’ sobbed the pupil.
‘Sophia! Hold your tongue!’ observed the gentleman. ‘Sit down, if you
please,’ addressing Tom.
Tom sat down, looking from one face to another, in mute surprise.
‘Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch,’ pursued the gentleman, looking
slightly over his shoulder.
Tom interrupted him here, by rising to place a chair for his sister.
Having done which he sat down again.
‘I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister to-day, sir,’
resumed the brass-and-copper founder. ‘For although I do not approve, as
a principle, of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity
of a governess, receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well
timed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with
your sister.’
‘We are very much DISsatisfied with her,’ observed the lady.
‘I’d never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death
for it!’ sobbed the pupil.
‘Sophia!’ cried her father. ‘Hold your tongue!’
‘Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is?’
asked Tom.
‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I will. I don’t recognize it as a right;
but I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding
respect. It has been a constant source of difference between us.
Although she has been in this family for some time, and although the
young lady who is now present has almost, as it were, grown up under
her tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has
been perfectly unable to command my daughter’s respect, or to win my
daughter’s confidence. Now,’ said the gentleman, allowing the palm of
his hand to fall gravely down upon the table: ‘I maintain that there is
something radically wrong in that! You, as her brother, may be disposed
to deny it--’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am not at all disposed to
deny it. I am sure that there is something radically wrong; radically
monstrous, in that.’
‘Good Heavens!’ cried the gentleman, looking round the room with
dignity, ‘what do I find to be the case! what results obtrude themselves
upon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of
Miss Pinch! What are my feelings as a father, when, after my desire
(repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to
deny) that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, genteel in
her deportment, as becomes her station in life, and politely distant to
her inferiors in society, I find her, only this very morning, addressing
Miss Pinch herself as a beggar!’
‘A beggarly thing,’ observed the lady, in correction.
‘Which is worse,’ said the gentleman, triumphantly; ‘which is worse. A
beggarly thing. A low, coarse, despicable expression!’
‘Most despicable,’ cried Tom. ‘I am glad to find that there is a just
appreciation of it here.’
‘So just, sir,’ said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more
impressive. ‘So just, that, but for my knowing Miss Pinch to be an
unprotected young person, an orphan, and without friends, I would, as
I assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character, a few
minutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that
moment and from that time.’
‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, rising from his seat; for he was now
unable to contain himself any longer; ‘don’t allow such considerations
as those to influence you, pray. They don’t exist, sir. She is not
unprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get
your bonnet on!’
‘Oh, a pretty family!’ cried the lady. ‘Oh, he’s her brother! There’s no
doubt about that!’
‘As little doubt, madam,’ said Tom, ‘as that the young lady yonder is
the child of your teaching, and not my sister’s. Ruth, my dear, get your
bonnet on!’
‘When you say, young man,’ interposed the brass-and-copper founder,
haughtily, ‘with that impertinence which is natural to you, and which I
therefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my
eldest daughter, has been educated by any one but Miss Pinch, you--I
needn’t proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used
to it.’
‘Sir!’ cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time.
‘If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do
understand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing
yourself in answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his
children to respect what he degrades.’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the gentleman. ‘Cant! cant! The common cant!’
‘The common story, sir!’ said Tom; ‘the story of a common mind. Your
governess cannot win the confidence and respect of your children,
forsooth! Let her begin by winning yours, and see what happens then.’
‘Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear?’ said the
gentleman.
‘I trust she is,’ said Tom, forestalling the reply. ‘I have no doubt
she is. In the meantime I address myself to you, sir. You made your
statement to me, sir; you required to see me for that purpose; and I
have a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent,’ said Tom, which
was quite true, ‘though I can scarcely say as much for you, in your
manner of addressing yourself to me. And I wish, on my sister’s behalf,
to state the simple truth.’
‘You may state anything you like, young man,’ returned the gentleman,
affecting to yawn. ‘My dear, Miss Pinch’s money.’
‘When you tell me,’ resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for
keeping himself quiet, ‘that my sister has no innate power of commanding
the respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so; and that she
has. She is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature
to command respect, as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you
place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house,
how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is
not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?’
‘Pretty well! Upon my word,’ exclaimed the gentleman, ‘this is pretty
well!’
‘It is very ill, sir,’ said Tom. ‘It is very bad and mean, and wrong and
cruel. Respect! I believe young people are quick enough to observe and
imitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects,
and everybody slights? And very partial they must grow--oh, very
partial!--to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in
those same tasks has brought their governess! Respect! Put anything the
most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which
you place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!’
‘You speak with extreme impertinence, young man,’ observed the
gentleman.
‘I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt
for such a course of treatment, and for all who practice it,’ said
Tom. ‘Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or
surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly
and humble, when you are for ever telling her the same thing yourself in
fifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very
porter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers? As
to your suspicion and distrust of her; even of her word; if she is not
above their reach, you have no right to employ her.’
‘No right!’ cried the brass-and-copper founder.
‘Distinctly not,’ Tom answered. ‘If you imagine that the payment of an
annual sum of money gives it to you, you immensely exaggerate its power
and value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case.
You may be punctual in that to half a second on the clock, and yet
be Bankrupt. I have nothing more to say,’ said Tom, much flushed and
flustered, now that it was over, ‘except to crave permission to stand in
your garden until my sister is ready.’
Not waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out.
Before he had well begun to cool, his sister joined him. She was crying;
and Tom could not bear that any one about the house should see her doing
that.
‘They will think you are sorry to go,’ said Tom. ‘You are not sorry to
go?’
‘No, Tom, no. I have been anxious to go for a very long time.’
‘Very well, then! Don’t cry!’ said Tom.
‘I am so sorry for YOU, dear,’ sobbed Tom’s sister.
‘But you ought to be glad on my account,’ said Tom. ‘I shall be twice as
happy with you for a companion. Hold up your head. There! Now we go
out as we ought. Not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in
ourselves.’
The idea of Tom and his sister blustering, under any circumstances, was
a splendid absurdity. But Tom was very far from feeling it to be so,
in his excitement; and passed out at the gate with such severe
determination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again.
It was not until they had walked some short distance, and Tom found
himself getting cooler and more collected, that he was quite restored to
himself by an inquiry from his sister, who said in her pleasant little
voice:
‘Where are we going, Tom?’
‘Dear me!’ said Tom, stopping, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you--don’t you live anywhere, dear?’ asked Tom’s sister looking
wistfully in his face.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Not at present. Not exactly. I only arrived this
morning. We must have some lodgings.’
He didn’t tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John,
and could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom
one was a young lady; for he knew that would make her uncomfortable,
and would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him.
Neither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John, and
told him of this change in his arrangements; for he was delicate of
seeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his
friend. Therefore he said again, ‘We must have some lodgings, of
course;’ and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect Directory
and Guide-Book to all the lodgings in London.
‘Where shall we go and look for ‘em?’ said Tom. ‘What do you think?’
Tom’s sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she
squeezed her little purse into his coat-pocket, and folding the little
hand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she
clasped his arm, said nothing.
‘It ought to be a cheap neighbourhood,’ said Tom, ‘and not too far from
London. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place?’
‘I should think it was an excellent place, Tom.’
‘It used to be called Merry Islington, once upon a time,’ said Tom.
‘Perhaps it’s merry now; if so, it’s all the better. Eh?’
‘If it’s not too dear,’ said Tom’s sister.
‘Of course, if it’s not too dear,’ assented Tom. ‘Well, where IS
Islington? We can’t do better than go there, I should think. Let’s go.’
Tom’s sister would have gone anywhere with him; so they walked off, arm
in arm, as comfortably as possible. Finding, presently, that Islington
was not in that neighbourhood, Tom made inquiries respecting a public
conveyance thither; which they soon obtained. As they rode along they
were very full of conversation indeed, Tom relating what had happened
to him, and Tom’s sister relating what had happened to her, and both
finding a great deal more to say than time to say it in; for they had
only just begun to talk, in comparison with what they had to tell each
other, when they reached their journey’s end.
‘Now,’ said Tom, ‘we must first look out for some very unpretending
streets, and then look out for bills in the windows.’
So they walked off again, quite as happily as if they had just stepped
out of a snug little house of their own, to look for lodgings on account
of somebody else. Tom’s simplicity was unabated, Heaven knows; but
now that he had somebody to rely upon him, he was stimulated to rely a
little more upon himself, and was, in his own opinion, quite a desperate
fellow.
After roaming up and down for hours, looking at some scores of lodgings,
they began to find it rather fatiguing, especially as they saw none
which were at all adapted to their purpose. At length, however, in a
singular little old-fashioned house, up a blind street, they discovered
two small bedrooms and a triangular parlour, which promised to suit
them well enough. Their desiring to take possession immediately was a
suspicious circumstance, but even this was surmounted by the payment
of their first week’s rent, and a reference to John Westlock, Esquire,
Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn.
Ah! It was a goodly sight, when this important point was settled,
to behold Tom and his sister trotting round to the baker’s, and the
butcher’s, and the grocer’s, with a kind of dreadful delight in the
unaccustomed cares of housekeeping; taking secret counsel together as
they gave their small orders, and distracted by the least suggestion
on the part of the shopkeeper! When they got back to the triangular
parlour, and Tom’s sister, bustling to and fro, busy about a thousand
pleasant nothings, stopped every now and then to give old Tom a kiss or
smile upon him, Tom rubbed his hands as if all Islington were his.
It was late in the afternoon now, though, and high time for Tom to
keep his appointment. So, after agreeing with his sister that
in consideration of not having dined, they would venture on the
extravagance of chops for supper at nine, he walked out again to narrate
these marvellous occurrences to John.
‘I am quite a family man all at once,’ thought Tom. ‘If I can only get
something to do, how comfortable Ruth and I may be! Ah, that if!
But it’s of no use to despond. I can but do that, when I have tried
everything and failed; and even then it won’t serve me much. Upon my
word,’ thought Tom, quickening his pace, ‘I don’t know what John will
think has become of me. He’ll begin to be afraid I have strayed into one
of those streets where the countrymen are murdered; and that I have been
made meat pies of, or some such horrible thing.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TOM PINCH, GOING ASTRAY, FINDS THAT HE IS NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT
PREDICAMENT. HE RETALIATES UPON A FALLEN FOE
Tom’s evil genius did not lead him into the dens of any of those
preparers of cannibalic pastry, who are represented in many standard
country legends as doing a lively retail business in the Metropolis;
nor did it mark him out as the prey of ring-droppers, pea and
thimble-riggers, duffers, touters, or any of those bloodless sharpers,
who are, perhaps, a little better known to the Police. He fell into
conversation with no gentleman who took him into a public-house, where
there happened to be another gentleman who swore he had more money than
any gentleman, and very soon proved he had more money than one gentleman
by taking his away from him; neither did he fall into any other of
the numerous man-traps which are set up without notice, in the public
grounds of this city. But he lost his way. He very soon did that; and in
trying to find it again he lost it more and more.
Now, Tom, in his guileless distrust of London, thought himself very
knowing in coming to the determination that he would not ask to be
directed to Furnival’s Inn, if he could help it; unless, indeed, he
should happen to find himself near the Mint, or the Bank of England; in
which case he would step in, and ask a civil question or two, confiding
in the perfect respectability of the concern. So on he went, looking up
all the streets he came near, and going up half of them; and thus,
by dint of not being true to Goswell Street, and filing off into
Aldermanbury, and bewildering himself in Barbican, and being constant to
the wrong point of the compass in London Wall, and then getting himself
crosswise into Thames Street, by an instinct that would have been
marvellous if he had had the least desire or reason to go there, he
found himself, at last, hard by the Monument.
The Man in the Monument was quite as mysterious a being to Tom as the
Man in the Moon. It immediately occurred to him that the lonely creature
who held himself aloof from all mankind in that pillar like some old
hermit was the very man of whom to ask his way. Cold, he might be;
little sympathy he had, perhaps, with human passion--the column seemed
too tall for that; but if Truth didn’t live in the base of the Monument,
notwithstanding Pope’s couplet about the outside of it, where in London
(thought Tom) was she likely to be found!
Coming close below the pillar, it was a great encouragement to Tom to
find that the Man in the Monument had simple tastes; that stony
and artificial as his residence was, he still preserved some rustic
recollections; that he liked plants, hung up bird-cages, was not wholly
cut off from fresh groundsel, and kept young trees in tubs. The Man in
the Monument, himself, was sitting outside the door--his own door: the
Monument-door: what a grand idea!--and was actually yawning, as if there
were no Monument to stop his mouth, and give him a perpetual interest in
his own existence.
Tom was advancing towards this remarkable creature, to inquire the way
to Furnival’s Inn, when two people came to see the Monument. They were a
gentleman and a lady; and the gentleman said, ‘How much a-piece?’
The Man in the Monument replied, ‘A Tanner.’
It seemed a low expression, compared with the Monument.
The gentleman put a shilling into his hand, and the Man in the Monument
opened a dark little door. When the gentleman and lady had passed out of
view, he shut it again, and came slowly back to his chair.
He sat down and laughed.
‘They don’t know what a many steps there is!’ he said. ‘It’s worth twice
the money to stop here. Oh, my eye!’
The Man in the Monument was a Cynic; a worldly man! Tom couldn’t ask his
way of HIM. He was prepared to put no confidence in anything he said.
‘My gracious!’ cried a well-known voice behind Mr Pinch. ‘Why, to be
sure it is!’
At the same time he was poked in the back by a parasol. Turning round
to inquire into this salute, he beheld the eldest daughter of his late
patron.
‘Miss Pecksniff!’ said Tom.
‘Why, my goodness, Mr Pinch!’ cried Cherry. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have rather wandered from my way,’ said Tom. ‘I--’
‘I hope you have run away,’ said Charity. ‘It would be quite spirited
and proper if you had, when my Papa so far forgets himself.’
‘I have left him,’ returned Tom. ‘But it was perfectly understood on
both sides. It was not done clandestinely.’
‘Is he married?’ asked Cherry, with a spasmodic shake of her chin.
‘No, not yet,’ said Tom, colouring; ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t
think he is likely to be, if--if Miss Graham is the object of his
passion.’
‘Tcha, Mr Pinch!’ cried Charity, with sharp impatience, ‘you’re very
easily deceived. You don’t know the arts of which such a creature is
capable. Oh! it’s a wicked world.’
‘You are not married?’ Tom hinted, to divert the conversation.
‘N--no!’ said Cherry, tracing out one particular paving-stone in
Monument Yard with the end of her parasol. ‘I--but really it’s quite
impossible to explain. Won’t you walk in?’
‘You live here, then?’ said Tom
‘Yes,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, pointing with her parasol to Todgers’s;
‘I reside with this lady, AT PRESENT.’
The great stress on the two last words suggested to Tom that he was
expected to say something in reference to them. So he said.
‘Only at present! Are you going home again soon?’
‘No, Mr Pinch,’ returned Charity. ‘No, thank you. No! A mother-in-law
who is younger than--I mean to say, who is as nearly as possible about
the same age as one’s self, would not quite suit my spirit. Not quite!’
said Cherry, with a spiteful shiver.
‘I thought from your saying “at present”’--Tom observed.
‘Really, upon my word! I had no idea you would press me so very closely
on the subject, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, blushing, ‘or I should not have
been so foolish as to allude to--oh really!--won’t you walk in?’
Tom mentioned, to excuse himself, that he had an appointment in
Furnival’s Inn, and that coming from Islington he had taken a few wrong
turnings, and arrived at the Monument instead. Miss Pecksniff simpered
very much when he asked her if she knew the way to Furnival’s Inn, and
at length found courage to reply.
‘A gentleman who is a friend of mine, or at least who is not exactly a
friend so much as a sort of acquaintance--Oh upon my word, I hardly
know what I say, Mr Pinch; you mustn’t suppose there is any engagement
between us; or at least if there is, that it is at all a settled thing
as yet--is going to Furnival’s Inn immediately, I believe upon a little
business, and I am sure he would be very glad to accompany you, so as
to prevent your going wrong again. You had better walk in. You will very
likely find my sister Merry here,’ she said with a curious toss of her
head, and anything but an agreeable smile.
‘Then, I think, I’ll endeavour to find my way alone,’ said Tom, ‘for I
fear she would not be very glad to see me. That unfortunate occurrence,
in relation to which you and I had some amicable words together, in
private, is not likely to have impressed her with any friendly feeling
towards me. Though it really was not my fault.’
‘She has never heard of that, you may depend,’ said Cherry, gathering up
the corners of her mouth, and nodding at Tom. ‘I am far from sure that
she would bear you any mighty ill will for it, if she had.’
‘You don’t say so?’ cried Tom, who was really concerned by this
insinuation.
‘I say nothing,’ said Charity. ‘If I had not already known what shocking
things treachery and deceit are in themselves, Mr Pinch, I might perhaps
have learnt it from the success they meet with--from the success they
meet with.’ Here she smiled as before. ‘But I don’t say anything. On the
contrary, I should scorn it. You had better walk in!’
There was something hidden here, which piqued Tom’s interest and
troubled his tender heart. When, in a moment’s irresolution, he looked
at Charity, he could not but observe a struggle in her face between
a sense of triumph and a sense of shame; nor could he but remark how,
meeting even his eyes, which she cared so little for, she turned away
her own, for all the splenetic defiance in her manner.
An uneasy thought entered Tom’s head; a shadowy misgiving that the
altered relations between himself and Pecksniff were somehow to involve
an altered knowledge on his part of other people, and were to give him
an insight into much of which he had had no previous suspicion. And yet
he put no definite construction upon Charity’s proceedings. He certainly
had no idea that as he had been the audience and spectator of her
mortification, she grasped with eager delight at any opportunity of
reproaching her sister with his presence in HER far deeper misery; for
he knew nothing of it, and only pictured that sister as the same giddy,
careless, trivial creature she always had been, with the same slight
estimation of himself which she had never been at the least pains
to conceal. In short, he had merely a confused impression that Miss
Pecksniff was not quite sisterly or kind; and being curious to set it
right, accompanied her as she desired.
The house-door being opened, she went in before Tom, requesting him to
follow her; and led the way to the parlour door.
‘Oh, Merry!’ she said, looking in, ‘I am so glad you have not gone home.
Who do you think I have met in the street, and brought to see you! Mr
Pinch! There. Now you ARE surprised, I am sure!’
Not more surprised than Tom was, when he looked upon her. Not so much.
Not half so much.
‘Mr Pinch has left Papa, my dear,’ said Cherry, ‘and his prospects are
quite flourishing. I have promised that Augustus, who is going that way,
shall escort him to the place he wants. Augustus, my child, where are
you?’
With these words Miss Pecksniff screamed her way out of the parlour,
calling on Augustus Moddle to appear; and left Tom Pinch alone with her
sister.
If she had always been his kindest friend; if she had treated him
through all his servitude with such consideration as was never yet
received by struggling man; if she had lightened every moment of those
many years, and had ever spared and never wounded him; his honest heart
could not have swelled before her with a deeper pity, or a purer freedom
from all base remembrance than it did then.
‘My gracious me! You are really the last person in the world I should
have thought of seeing, I am sure!’
Tom was sorry to hear her speaking in her old manner. He had not
expected that. Yet he did not feel it a contradiction that he should be
sorry to see her so unlike her old self, and sorry at the same time
to hear her speaking in her old manner. The two things seemed quite
natural.
‘I wonder you find any gratification in coming to see me. I can’t think
what put it in your head. I never had much in seeing you. There was no
love lost between us, Mr Pinch, at any time, I think.’
Her bonnet lay beside her on the sofa, and she was very busy with the
ribbons as she spoke. Much too busy to be conscious of the work her
fingers did.
‘We never quarrelled,’ said Tom.--Tom was right in that, for one person
can no more quarrel without an adversary, than one person can play at
chess, or fight a duel. ‘I hoped you would be glad to shake hands with
an old friend. Don’t let us rake up bygones,’ said Tom. ‘If I ever
offended you, forgive me.’
She looked at him for a moment; dropped her bonnet from her hands;
spread them before her altered face, and burst into tears.
‘Oh, Mr Pinch!’ she said, ‘although I never used you well, I did believe
your nature was forgiving. I did not think you could be cruel.’
She spoke as little like her old self now, for certain, as Tom
could possibly have wished. But she seemed to be appealing to him
reproachfully, and he did not understand her.
‘I seldom showed it--never--I know that. But I had that belief in you,
that if I had been asked to name the person in the world least likely to
retort upon me, I would have named you, confidently.’
‘Would have named me!’ Tom repeated.
‘Yes,’ she said with energy, ‘and I have often thought so.’
After a moment’s reflection, Tom sat himself upon a chair beside her.
‘Do you believe,’ said Tom, ‘oh, can you think, that what I said just
now, I said with any but the true and plain intention which my words
professed? I mean it, in the spirit and the letter. If I ever offended
you, forgive me; I may have done so, many times. You never injured or
offended me. How, then, could I possibly retort, if even I were stern
and bad enough to wish to do it!’
After a little while she thanked him, through her tears and sobs, and
told him she had never been at once so sorry and so comforted, since she
left home. Still she wept bitterly; and it was the greater pain to Tom
to see her weeping, from her standing in especial need, just then, of
sympathy and tenderness.
‘Come, come!’ said Tom, ‘you used to be as cheerful as the day was
long.’
‘Ah! used!’ she cried, in such a tone as rent Tom’s heart.
‘And will be again,’ said Tom.
‘No, never more. No, never, never more. If you should talk with old Mr
Chuzzlewit, at any time,’ she added, looking hurriedly into his face--‘I
sometimes thought he liked you, but suppressed it--will you promise me
to tell him that you saw me here, and that I said I bore in mind the
time we talked together in the churchyard?’
Tom promised that he would.
‘Many times since then, when I have wished I had been carried there
before that day, I have recalled his words. I wish that he should know
how true they were, although the least acknowledgment to that effect has
never passed my lips and never will.’
Tom promised this, conditionally too. He did not tell her how improbable
it was that he and the old man would ever meet again, because he thought
it might disturb her more.
‘If he should ever know this, through your means, dear Mr Pinch,’ said
Mercy, ‘tell him that I sent the message, not for myself, but that he
might be more forbearing and more patient, and more trustful to some
other person, in some other time of need. Tell him that if he could know
how my heart trembled in the balance that day, and what a very little
would have turned the scale, his own would bleed with pity for me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom, ‘I will.’
‘When I appeared to him the most unworthy of his help, I was--I know I
was, for I have often, often, thought about it since--the most inclined
to yield to what he showed me. Oh! if he had relented but a little more;
if he had thrown himself in my way for but one other quarter of an hour;
if he had extended his compassion for a vain, unthinking, miserable
girl, in but the least degree; he might, and I believe he would, have
saved her! Tell him that I don’t blame him, but am grateful for the
effort that he made; but ask him for the love of God, and youth, and
in merciful consideration for the struggle which an ill-advised and
unwakened nature makes to hide the strength it thinks its weakness--ask
him never, never, to forget this, when he deals with one again!’
Although Tom did not hold the clue to her full meaning, he could guess
it pretty nearly. Touched to the quick, he took her hand and said, or
meant to say, some words of consolation. She felt and understood them,
whether they were spoken or no. He was not quite certain, afterwards,
but that she had tried to kneel down at his feet, and bless him.
He found that he was not alone in the room when she had left it. Mrs
Todgers was there, shaking her head. Tom had never seen Mrs Todgers, it
is needless to say, but he had a perception of her being the lady of the
house; and he saw some genuine compassion in her eyes, that won his good
opinion.
‘Ah, sir! You are an old friend, I see,’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘Yes,’ said Tom.
‘And yet,’ quoth Mrs Todgers, shutting the door softly, ‘she hasn’t told
you what her troubles are, I’m certain.’
Tom was struck by these words, for they were quite true. ‘Indeed,’ he
said, ‘she has not.’
‘And never would,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘if you saw her daily. She never
makes the least complaint to me, or utters a single word of explanation
or reproach. But I know,’ said Mrs Todgers, drawing in her breath, ‘I
know!’
Tom nodded sorrowfully, ‘So do I.’
‘I fully believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, taking her pocket-handkerchief
from the flat reticule, ‘that nobody can tell one half of what that poor
young creature has to undergo. But though she comes here, constantly,
to ease her poor full heart without his knowing it; and saying, “Mrs
Todgers, I am very low to-day; I think that I shall soon be dead,” sits
crying in my room until the fit is past; I know no more from her. And,
I believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, putting back her handkerchief again, ‘that
she considers me a good friend too.’
Mrs Todgers might have said her best friend. Commercial gentlemen and
gravy had tried Mrs Todgers’s temper; the main chance--it was such a
very small one in her case, that she might have been excused for looking
sharp after it, lest it should entirely vanish from her sight--had taken
a firm hold on Mrs Todgers’s attention. But in some odd nook in Mrs
Todgers’s breast, up a great many steps, and in a corner easy to be
overlooked, there was a secret door, with ‘Woman’ written on the spring,
which, at a touch from Mercy’s hand, had flown wide open, and admitted
her for shelter.
When boarding-house accounts are balanced with all other ledgers, and
the books of the Recording Angel are made up for ever, perhaps there may
be seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs Todgers, which shall make thee
beautiful!
She was growing beautiful so rapidly in Tom’s eyes; for he saw that she
was poor, and that this good had sprung up in her from among the sordid
strivings of her life; that she might have been a very Venus in a minute
more, if Miss Pecksniff had not entered with her friend.
‘Mr Thomas Pinch!’ said Charity, performing the ceremony of introduction
with evident pride. ‘Mr Moddle. Where’s my sister?’
‘Gone, Miss Pecksniff,’ Mrs Todgers answered. ‘She had appointed to be
home.’
‘Ah!’ said Charity, looking at Tom. ‘Oh, dear me!’
‘She’s greatly altered since she’s been Anoth--since she’s been married,
Mrs Todgers!’ observed Moddle.
‘My dear Augustus!’ said Miss Pecksniff, in a low voice. ‘I verily
believe you have said that fifty thousand times, in my hearing. What a
Prose you are!’
This was succeeded by some trifling love passages, which appeared to
originate with, if not to be wholly carried on by Miss Pecksniff. At any
rate, Mr Moddle was much slower in his responses than is customary
with young lovers, and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite
oppressive.
He did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets, but
sighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of
cheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy.
‘Joy!’ cried Moddle. ‘Ha, ha!’
‘What an extraordinary young man!’ thought Tom.
‘The Scorner has not set his seal upon you. YOU care what becomes of
you?’ said Moddle.
Tom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some
interest.
‘I don’t,’ said Mr Moddle. ‘The Elements may have me when they please.
I’m ready.’
Tom inferred from these, and other expressions of the same nature, that
he was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course; which
was such a gloomy one, that he felt a load removed from his mind when
they parted company at the gate of Furnival’s Inn.
It was now a couple of hours past John Westlock’s dinner-time; and he
was walking up and down the room, quite anxious for Tom’s safety. The
table was spread; the wine was carefully decanted; and the dinner smelt
delicious.
‘Why, Tom, old boy, where on earth have you been? Your box is here. Get
your boots off instantly, and sit down!’
‘I am sorry to say I can’t stay, John,’ replied Tom Pinch, who was
breathless with the haste he had made in running up the stairs.
‘Can’t stay!’
‘If you’ll go on with your dinner,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll tell you my reason
the while. I mustn’t eat myself, or I shall have no appetite for the
chops.’
‘There are no chops here, my food fellow.’
‘No. But there are at Islington,’ said Tom.
John Westlock was perfectly confounded by this reply, and vowed he would
not touch a morsel until Tom had explained himself fully. So Tom sat
down, and told him all; to which he listened with the greatest interest.
He knew Tom too well, and respected his delicacy too much, to ask him
why he had taken these measures without communicating with him first. He
quite concurred in the expediency of Tom’s immediately returning to his
sister, as he knew so little of the place in which he had left her, and
good-humouredly proposed to ride back with him in a cab, in which he
might convey his box. Tom’s proposition that he should sup with them
that night, he flatly rejected, but made an appointment with him for the
morrow. ‘And now Tom,’ he said, as they rode along, ‘I have a question
to ask you to which I expect a manly and straightforward answer. Do you
want any money? I am pretty sure you do.’
‘I don’t indeed,’ said Tom.
‘I believe you are deceiving me.’
‘No. With many thanks to you, I am quite in earnest,’ Tom replied. ‘My
sister has some money, and so have I. If I had nothing else, John, I
have a five-pound note, which that good creature, Mrs Lupin, of the
Dragon, handed up to me outside the coach, in a letter begging me to
borrow it; and then drove off as hard as she could go.’
‘And a blessing on every dimple in her handsome face, say I!’ cried
John, ‘though why you should give her the preference over me, I don’t
know. Never mind. I bide my time, Tom.’
‘And I hope you’ll continue to bide it,’ returned Tom, gayly. ‘For I
owe you more, already, in a hundred other ways, than I can ever hope to
pay.’
They parted at the door of Tom’s new residence. John Westlock, sitting
in the cab, and, catching a glimpse of a blooming little busy creature
darting out to kiss Tom and to help him with his box, would not have had
the least objection to change places with him.
Well! she WAS a cheerful little thing; and had a quaint, bright
quietness about her that was infinitely pleasant. Surely she was the
best sauce for chops ever invented. The potatoes seemed to take a
pleasure in sending up their grateful steam before her; the froth upon
the pint of porter pouted to attract her notice. But it was all in vain.
She saw nothing but Tom. Tom was the first and last thing in the world.
As she sat opposite to Tom at supper, fingering one of Tom’s pet tunes
upon the table-cloth, and smiling in his face, he had never been so
happy in his life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SECRET SERVICE
In walking from the city with his sentimental friend, Tom Pinch had
looked into the face, and brushed against the threadbare sleeve, of Mr
Nadgett, man of mystery to the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and
Life Assurance Company. Mr Nadgett naturally passed away from Tom’s
remembrance as he passed out of his view; for he didn’t know him, and
had never heard his name.
As there are a vast number of people in the huge metropolis of England
who rise up every morning not knowing where their heads will rest at
night, so there are a multitude who shooting arrows over houses as their
daily business, never know on whom they fall. Mr Nadgett might have
passed Tom Pinch ten thousand times; might even have been quite familiar
with his face, his name, pursuits, and character; yet never once have
dreamed that Tom had any interest in any act or mystery of his. Tom
might have done the like by him of course. But the same private man out
of all the men alive, was in the mind of each at the same moment; was
prominently connected though in a different manner, with the day’s
adventures of both; and formed, when they passed each other in the
street, the one absorbing topic of their thoughts.
Why Tom had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his mind requires no explanation. Why Mr
Nadgett should have had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his, is quite another thing.
But, somehow or other, that amiable and worthy orphan had become a part
of the mystery of Mr Nadgett’s existence. Mr Nadgett took an interest
in his lightest proceedings; and it never flagged or wavered. He watched
him in and out of the Assurance Office, where he was now formally
installed as a Director; he dogged his footsteps in the streets; he
stood listening when he talked; he sat in coffee-rooms entering his
name in the great pocket-book, over and over again; he wrote letters to
himself about him constantly; and, when he found them in his pocket, put
them in the fire, with such distrust and caution that he would bend down
to watch the crumpled tinder while it floated upwards, as if his mind
misgave him, that the mystery it had contained might come out at the
chimney-pot.
And yet all this was quite a secret. Mr Nadgett kept it to himself, and
kept it close. Jonas had no more idea that Mr Nadgett’s eyes were fixed
on him, than he had that he was living under the daily inspection and
report of a whole order of Jesuits. Indeed Mr Nadgett’s eyes were seldom
fixed on any other objects than the ground, the clock, or the fire; but
every button on his coat might have been an eye, he saw so much.
The secret manner of the man disarmed suspicion in this wise;
suggesting, not that he was watching any one, but that he thought
some other man was watching him. He went about so stealthily, and kept
himself so wrapped up in himself, that the whole object of his life
appeared to be, to avoid notice and preserve his own mystery. Jonas
sometimes saw him in the street, hovering in the outer office, waiting
at the door for the man who never came, or slinking off with his
immovable face and drooping head, and the one beaver glove dangling
before him; but he would as soon have thought of the cross upon the top
of St. Paul’s Cathedral taking note of what he did, or slowly winding
a great net about his feet, as of Nadgett’s being engaged in such an
occupation.
Mr Nadgett made a mysterious change about this time in his mysterious
life: for whereas he had, until now, been first seen every morning
coming down Cornhill, so exactly like the Nadgett of the day before
as to occasion a popular belief that he never went to bed or took his
clothes off, he was now first seen in Holborn, coming out of Kingsgate
Street; and it was soon discovered that he actually went every morning
to a barber’s shop in that street to get shaved; and that the barber’s
name was Sweedlepipe. He seemed to make appointments with the man who
never came, to meet him at this barber’s; for he would frequently take
long spells of waiting in the shop, and would ask for pen and ink, and
pull out his pocket-book, and be very busy over it for an hour at a
time. Mrs Gamp and Mr Sweedlepipe had many deep discoursings on the
subject of this mysterious customer; but they usually agreed that he had
speculated too much and was keeping out of the way.
He must have appointed the man who never kept his word, to meet him at
another new place too; for one day he was found, for the first time,
by the waiter at the Mourning Coach-Horse, the House-of-call for
Undertakers, down in the City there, making figures with a pipe-stem in
the sawdust of a clean spittoon; and declining to call for anything, on
the ground of expecting a gentleman presently. As the gentleman was not
honourable enough to keep his engagement, he came again next day, with
his pocket-book in such a state of distention that he was regarded in
the bar as a man of large property. After that, he repeated his visits
every day, and had so much writing to do, that he made nothing of
emptying a capacious leaden inkstand in two sittings. Although he never
talked much, still, by being there among the regular customers, he made
their acquaintance, and in course of time became quite intimate with Mr
Tacker, Mr Mould’s foreman; and even with Mr Mould himself, who openly
said he was a long-headed man, a dry one, a salt fish, a deep file, a
rasper; and made him the subject of many other flattering encomiums.
At the same time, too, he told the people at the Assurance Office, in
his own mysterious way, that there was something wrong (secretly wrong,
of course) in his liver, and that he feared he must put himself
under the doctor’s hands. He was delivered over to Jobling upon this
representation; and though Jobling could not find out where his liver
was wrong, wrong Mr Nadgett said it was; observing that it was his
own liver, and he hoped he ought to know. Accordingly, he became Mr
Jobling’s patient; and detailing his symptoms in his slow and secret
way, was in and out of that gentleman’s room a dozen times a day.
As he pursued all these occupations at once; and all steadily; and all
secretly; and never slackened in his watchfulness of everything that
Mr Jonas said and did, and left unsaid and undone; it is not improbable
that they were, secretly, essential parts of some great scheme which Mr
Nadgett had on foot.
It was on the morning of this very day on which so much had happened to
Tom Pinch, that Nadgett suddenly appeared before Mr Montague’s house in
Pall Mall--he always made his appearance as if he had that moment come
up a trap--when the clocks were striking nine. He rang the bell in a
covert under-handed way, as though it were a treasonable act; and passed
in at the door, the moment it was opened wide enough to receive his
body. That done, he shut it immediately with his own hands.
Mr Bailey, taking up his name without delay, returned with a request
that he would follow him into his master’s chamber. The chairman of the
Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board was dressing,
and received him as a business person who was often backwards and
forwards, and was received at all times for his business’ sake.
‘Well, Mr Nadgett?’
Mr Nadgett put his hat upon the ground and coughed. The boy having
withdrawn and shut the door, he went to it softly, examined the handle,
and returned to within a pace or two of the chair in which Mr Montague
sat.
‘Any news, Mr Nadgett?’
‘I think we have some news at last, sir.’
‘I am happy to hear it. I began to fear you were off the scent, Mr
Nadgett.’
‘No, sir. It grows cold occasionally. It will sometimes. We can’t help
that.’
‘You are truth itself, Mr Nadgett. Do you report a great success?’
‘That depends upon your judgment and construction of it,’ was his
answer, as he put on his spectacles.
‘What do you think of it yourself? Have you pleased yourself?’
Mr Nadgett rubbed his hands slowly, stroked his chin, looked round the
room, and said, ‘Yes, yes, I think it’s a good case. I am disposed to
think it’s a good case. Will you go into it at once?’
‘By all means.’
Mr Nadgett picked out a certain chair from among the rest, and having
planted it in a particular spot, as carefully as if he had been going to
vault over it, placed another chair in front of it; leaving room for his
own legs between them. He then sat down in chair number two, and laid
his pocket-book, very carefully, on chair number one. He then untied the
pocket-book, and hung the string over the back of chair number one. He
then drew both the chairs a little nearer Mr Montague, and opening
the pocket-book spread out its contents. Finally he selected a certain
memorandum from the rest, and held it out to his employer, who, during
the whole of these preliminary ceremonies, had been making violent
efforts to conceal his impatience.
‘I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of making notes, my excellent friend,’
said Tigg Montague with a ghastly smile. ‘I wish you would consent to
give me their purport by word of mouth.’
‘I don’t like word of mouth,’ said Mr Nadgett gravely. ‘We never know
who’s listening.’
Mr Montague was going to retort, when Nadgett handed him the paper, and
said, with quiet exultation in his tone, ‘We’ll begin at the beginning,
and take that one first, if you please, sir.’
The chairman cast his eyes upon it, coldly, and with a smile which did
not render any great homage to the slow and methodical habits of his
spy. But he had not read half-a-dozen lines when the expression of his
face began to change, and before he had finished the perusal of the
paper, it was full of grave and serious attention.
‘Number Two,’ said Mr Nadgett, handing him another, and receiving back
the first. ‘Read Number Two, sir, if you please. There is more interest
as you go on.’
Tigg Montague leaned backward in his chair, and cast upon his emissary
such a look of vacant wonder (not unmingled with alarm), that Mr Nadgett
considered it necessary to repeat the request he had already twice
preferred; with the view to recalling his attention to the point in
hand. Profiting by the hint, Mr Montague went on with Number Two, and
afterwards with Numbers Three, and Four, and Five, and so on.
These documents were all in Mr Nadgett’s writing, and were apparently a
series of memoranda, jotted down from time to time upon the backs of old
letters, or any scrap of paper that came first to hand. Loose straggling
scrawls they were, and of very uninviting exterior; but they had weighty
purpose in them, if the chairman’s face were any index to the character
of their contents.
The progress of Mr Nadgett’s secret satisfaction arising out of the
effect they made, kept pace with the emotions of the reader. At first,
Mr Nadgett sat with his spectacles low down upon his nose, looking over
them at his employer, and nervously rubbing his hands. After a little
while, he changed his posture in his chair for one of greater ease, and
leisurely perused the next document he held ready as if an occasional
glance at his employer’s face were now enough and all occasion for
anxiety or doubt were gone. And finally he rose and looked out of the
window, where he stood with a triumphant air until Tigg Montague had
finished.
‘And this is the last, Mr Nadgett!’ said that gentleman, drawing a long
breath.
‘That, sir, is the last.’
‘You are a wonderful man, Mr Nadgett!’
‘I think it is a pretty good case,’ he returned as he gathered up his
papers. ‘It cost some trouble, sir.’
‘The trouble shall be well rewarded, Mr Nadgett.’ Nadgett bowed. ‘There
is a deeper impression of Somebody’s Hoof here, than I had expected, Mr
Nadgett. I may congratulate myself upon your being such a good hand at a
secret.’
‘Oh! nothing has an interest to me that’s not a secret,’ replied
Nadgett, as he tied the string about his pocket-book, and put it up. ‘It
always takes away any pleasure I may have had in this inquiry even to
make it known to you.’
‘A most invaluable constitution,’ Tigg retorted. ‘A great gift for a
gentleman employed as you are, Mr Nadgett. Much better than discretion;
though you possess that quality also in an eminent degree. I think I
heard a double knock. Will you put your head out of window, and tell me
whether there is anybody at the door?’
Mr Nadgett softly raised the sash, and peered out from the very corner,
as a man might who was looking down into a street from whence a brisk
discharge of musketry might be expected at any moment. Drawing in his
head with equal caution, he observed, not altering his voice or manner:
‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit!’
‘I thought so,’ Tigg retorted.
‘Shall I go?’
‘I think you had better. Stay though! No! remain here, Mr Nadgett, if
you please.’
It was remarkable how pale and flurried he had become in an instant.
There was nothing to account for it. His eye had fallen on his razors;
but what of them!
Mr Chuzzlewit was announced.
‘Show him up directly. Nadgett! don’t you leave us alone together. Mind
you don’t, now! By the Lord!’ he added in a whisper to himself: ‘We
don’t know what may happen.’
Saying this, he hurriedly took up a couple of hair-brushes, and began
to exercise them on his own head, as if his toilet had not been
interrupted. Mr Nadgett withdrew to the stove, in which there was a
small fire for the convenience of heating curling-irons; and
taking advantage of so favourable an opportunity for drying his
pocket-handkerchief, produced it without loss of time. There he stood,
during the whole interview, holding it before the bars, and sometimes,
but not often, glancing over his shoulder.
‘My dear Chuzzlewit!’ cried Montague, as Jonas entered. ‘You rise with
the lark. Though you go to bed with the nightingale, you rise with the
lark. You have superhuman energy, my dear Chuzzlewit!’
‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, with an air of langour and ill-humour, as he took
a chair, ‘I should be very glad not to get up with the lark, if I could
help it. But I am a light sleeper; and it’s better to be up than lying
awake, counting the dismal old church-clocks, in bed.’
‘A light sleeper!’ cried his friend. ‘Now, what is a light sleeper?
I often hear the expression, but upon my life I have not the least
conception what a light sleeper is.’
‘Hallo!’ said Jonas, ‘Who’s that? Oh, old what’s-his-name: looking (as
usual) as if he wanted to skulk up the chimney.’
‘Ha, ha! I have no doubt he does.’
‘Well! He’s not wanted here, I suppose,’ said Jonas. ‘He may go, mayn’t
he?’
‘Oh, let him stay, let him stay!’ said Tigg. ‘He’s a mere piece of
furniture. He has been making his report, and is waiting for further
orders. He has been told,’ said Tigg, raising his voice, ‘not to lose
sight of certain friends of ours, or to think that he has done with them
by any means. He understands his business.’
‘He need,’ replied Jonas; ‘for of all the precious old dummies in
appearance that I ever saw, he’s about the worst. He’s afraid of me, I
think.’
‘It’s my belief,’ said Tigg, ‘that you are Poison to him. Nadgett! give
me that towel!’
He had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start. But
Nadgett brought it quickly; and, having lingered for a moment, fell back
upon his old post by the fire.
‘You see, my dear fellow,’ resumed Tigg, ‘you are too--what’s the matter
with your lips? How white they are!’
‘I took some vinegar just now,’ said Jonas. ‘I had oysters for my
breakfast. Where are they white?’ he added, muttering an oath, and
rubbing them upon his handkerchief. ‘I don’t believe they ARE white.’
‘Now I look again, they are not,’ replied his friend. ‘They are coming
right again.’
‘Say what you were going to say,’ cried Jonas angrily, ‘and let my face
be! As long as I can show my teeth when I want to (and I can do that
pretty well), the colour of my lips is not material.’
‘Quite true,’ said Tigg. ‘I was only going to say that you are too quick
and active for our friend. He is too shy to cope with such a man as you,
but does his duty well. Oh, very well! But what is a light sleeper?’
‘Hang a light sleeper!’ exclaimed Jonas pettishly.
‘No, no,’ interrupted Tigg. ‘No. We’ll not do that.’
‘A light sleeper ain’t a heavy one,’ said Jonas in his sulky way; ‘don’t
sleep much, and don’t sleep well, and don’t sleep sound.’
‘And dreams,’ said Tigg, ‘and cries out in an ugly manner; and when the
candle burns down in the night, is in an agony; and all that sort of
thing. I see!’
They were silent for a little time. Then Jonas spoke:
‘Now we’ve done with child’s talk, I want to have a word with you. I
want to have a word with you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not
satisfied with the state of affairs.’
‘Not satisfied!’ cried Tigg. ‘The money comes in well.’
‘The money comes in well enough,’ retorted Jonas, ‘but it don’t come
out well enough. It can’t be got at easily enough. I haven’t sufficient
power; it is all in your hands. Ecod! what with one of your by-laws, and
another of your by-laws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes
in that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights,
and other people’s rights who are only you again, there are no rights
left for me. Everybody else’s rights are my wrongs. What’s the use of my
having a voice if it’s always drowned? I might as well be dumb, and
it would be much less aggravating. I’m not a-going to stand that, you
know.’
‘No!’ said Tigg in an insinuating tone.
‘No!’ returned Jonas, ‘I’m not indeed. I’ll play old Gooseberry with the
office, and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure, if you
try any of your tricks with me.’
‘I give you my honour--’ Montague began.
‘Oh! confound your honour,’ interrupted Jonas, who became more coarse
and quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of
Mr Montague’s intention; ‘I want a little more control over the money.
You may have all the honour, if you like; I’ll never bring you to book
for that. But I’m not a-going to stand it, as it is now. If you should
take it into your honourable head to go abroad with the bank, I don’t
see much to prevent you. Well! That won’t do. I’ve had some very good
dinners here, but they’d come too dear on such terms; and therefore,
that won’t do.’
‘I am unfortunate to find you in this humour,’ said Tigg, with a
remarkable kind of smile; ‘for I was going to propose to you--for your
own advantage; solely for your own advantage--that you should venture a
little more with us.’
‘Was you, by G--?’ said Jonas, with a short laugh.
‘Yes. And to suggest,’ pursued Montague, ‘that surely you have friends;
indeed, I know you have; who would answer our purpose admirably, and
whom we should be delighted to receive.’
‘How kind of you! You’d be delighted to receive ‘em, would you?’ said
Jonas, bantering.
‘I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends,
observe!’
‘Exactly,’ said Jonas; ‘as my friends, of course. You’ll be very much
delighted when you get ‘em, I have no doubt. And it’ll be all to my
advantage, won’t it?’
‘It will be very much to your advantage,’ answered Montague poising a
brush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. ‘It will be very much
to your advantage, I assure you.’
‘And you can tell me how,’ said Jonas, ‘can’t you?’
‘SHALL I tell you how?’ returned the other.
‘I think you had better,’ said Jonas. ‘Strange things have been done
in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to
take care of myself.’
‘Chuzzlewit!’ replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his
knees, and looking full into his face. ‘Strange things have been done,
and are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other
ways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend,
is a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the
knowledge of very strange events.’
He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly
round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his
ear.
From red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to
a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all
these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last
he laid his hand upon the whisperer’s mouth, appalled, lest any syllable
of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it
was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.
He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and
rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject,
crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he
bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.
His companion leisurely resumed his dressing, and completed it, glancing
sometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never
speaking once.
‘You’ll not object,’ he said, when he was quite equipped, ‘to venture
further with us, Chuzzlewit, my friend?’
His pale lips faintly stammered out a ‘No.’
‘Well said! That’s like yourself. Do you know I was thinking yesterday
that your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great
sagacity in money matters, as no doubt you are, would join us, if the
thing were well presented to him. He has money?’
‘Yes, he has money.’
‘Shall I leave Mr Pecksniff to you? Will you undertake for Mr
Pecksniff.’
‘I’ll try. I’ll do my best.’
‘A thousand thanks,’ replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder.
‘Shall we walk downstairs? Mr Nadgett! Follow us, if you please.’
They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to
Montague; whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped,
and having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts
came crowding on his mind even at that early time, of one terrible
chance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; he no more
thought that the slinking figure half-a-dozen stairs behind him was
his pursuing Fate, than that the other figure at his side was his Good
Angel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE
PINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM
Pleasant little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth! No
doll’s house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress, than
little Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular
parlour and the two small bedrooms.
To be Tom’s housekeeper. What dignity! Housekeeping, upon the commonest
terms, associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and
kinds; but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of
grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of
the little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar; and out of the
two little damp cupboards down by the fireplace, where the very black
beetles got mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their backs by
envious mildew; and jingle them upon a ring before Tom’s eyes when he
came down to breakfast! Well might she, laughing musically, put them
up in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride! For it was
such a grand novelty to be mistress of anything, that if she had been
the most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might
have pleaded just that much for her excuse, and have been honourably
acquitted.
So far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very
way of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when
she asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered
out ‘chops’ as a reasonably good suggestion after their last
night’s successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her
desperately.
‘I don’t know, Tom,’ said his sister, blushing, ‘I am not quite
confident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried,
Tom.’
‘In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so
much as a beef-steak pudding!’ cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the
greater force to this reply.
‘Yes, dear, that’s excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite
right the first time,’ his sister faltered; ‘if it should happen not
to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or
something of that sort, you’ll not be vexed, Tom, will you?’
The serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked
at her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at
her own expense, would have enchanted you.
‘Why,’ said Tom ‘this is capital. It gives us a new, and quite an
uncommon interest in the dinner. We put into a lottery for a beefsteak
pudding, and it is impossible to say what we may get. We may make some
wonderful discovery, perhaps, and produce such a dish as never was known
before.’
‘I shall not be at all surprised if we do, Tom,’ returned his sister,
still laughing merrily, ‘or if it should prove to be such a dish as we
shall not feel very anxious to produce again; but the meat must come out
of the saucepan at last, somehow or other, you know. We can’t cook it
into nothing at all; that’s a great comfort. So if you like to venture,
I will.’
‘I have not the least doubt,’ rejoined Tom, ‘that it will come out an
excellent pudding, or at all events, I am sure that I shall think it so.
There is naturally something so handy and brisk about you, Ruth, that
if you said you could make a bowl of faultless turtle soup, I should
believe you.’
And Tom was right. She was precisely that sort of person. Nobody ought
to have been able to resist her coaxing manner; and nobody had any
business to try. Yet she never seemed to know it was her manner at all.
That was the best of it.
Well! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time,
and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-copper
founder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat as
herself;--you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers
though, or anything like it--and brushed Tom’s old hat round and
round and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr Pecksniff. Then she
discovered, all in a moment, that Tom’s shirt-collar was frayed at the
edge; and flying upstairs for a needle and thread, came flying down
again with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness;
never once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming
his pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of
her left hand upon his neckcloth. She had no sooner done this, than off
she was again; and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a
bee, tying that compact little chin of hers into an equally compact
little bonnet; intent on bustling out to the butcher’s, without a
minute’s loss of time; and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut,
with his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they
trotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what
a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy
situation.
To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and
give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was
agreeable, too--it really was--to see him cut it off, so smooth and
juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large
and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch,
clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It
was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.
Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped
about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher
had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When
he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged
to be allowed to do it for him; ‘for meat,’ he said with some emotion,
‘must be humoured, not drove.’
Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs,
and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at
one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at
the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the
landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the
morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household
drudgery, they waited on themselves.
‘What are you writing, Tom?’ inquired his sister, laying her hand upon
his shoulder.
‘Why, you see, my dear,’ said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and
looking up in her face, ‘I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some
suitable employment; and before Mr Westlock comes this afternoon,
I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my
qualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.’
‘You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,’ said his sister, casting
down her eyes. ‘I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care
of you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.’
‘We are not rich,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly; and we may be much poorer.
But we will not part if we can help it. No, no; we will make up our
minds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite
sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will
battle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can
battle it out together. Don’t you think we shall?’
‘Think, Tom!’
‘Oh, tut, tut!’ interposed Tom, tenderly. ‘You mustn’t cry.’
‘No, no; I won’t, Tom. But you can’t afford it, dear. You can’t,
indeed.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Tom. ‘How are we to know that, yet awhile,
and without trying? Lord bless my soul!’--Tom’s energy became quite
grand--‘there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am
sure we can live contentedly upon a very little--if we can only get it.’
‘Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.’
‘Why, then,’ said Tom, ‘we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is
a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I’ll take his advice.
We’ll talk it over with him--both of us together. You’ll like John very
much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don’t cry, don’t cry. YOU
make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!’ said Tom, giving her a gentle push.
‘Why, you haven’t boldness enough for a dumpling!’
‘You WILL call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!’
‘I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,’ said
Tom. ‘Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?’
Aye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that
Tom’s attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she
tripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the
pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of
water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the
pepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and
laughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were
collected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran
UPstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn’t put it on upstairs,
but came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little
women to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took
an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down
beneath--Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!--and to be gathered
up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to
be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set
right, which at last it did, and when it did--but never mind; this is
a sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for
fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which
wouldn’t come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these
preparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under
her dark eyelashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and
indispensable to its composition.
For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his
writing than, ‘A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,’ and this,
notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and
going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served
as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon
her.
‘Tom,’ she said at last, in high glee. ‘Tom!’
‘What now?’ said Tom, repeating to himself, ‘aged thirty-five!’
‘Will you look here a moment, please?’
As if he hadn’t been looking all the time!
‘I am going to begin, Tom. Don’t you wonder why I butter the inside of
the basin?’ said his busy little sister.
‘Not more than you do, I dare say,’ replied Tom, laughing. ‘For I
believe you don’t know anything about it.’
‘What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out
easily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to
know that! My goodness, Tom!’
It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out
‘respectable young man, aged thirty-five;’ and sat looking on, pen in
hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.
Such a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance and
trying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a
perfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips
pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up
into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the
rim, chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and
salt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for
gravy, and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her
gravity should be disturbed; until, at last, the basin being quite full
and only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands all covered with
paste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming
little laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other
seasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.
‘Where’s the pudding?’ said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.
‘Where!’ she answered, holding it up with both hands. ‘Look at it!’
‘THAT a pudding!’ said Tom.
‘It WILL be, you stupid fellow, when it’s covered in,’ returned his
sister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on
the head with the rolling-pin, and still laughing merrily, had returned
to the composition of the top crust, when she started and turned very
red. Tom started, too, for following her eyes, he saw John Westlock in
the room.
‘Why, my goodness, John! How did YOU come in?’
‘I beg pardon,’ said John--’ your sister’s pardon especially--but I met
an old lady at the street door, who requested me to enter here; and as
you didn’t hear me knock, and the door was open, I made bold to do so.
I hardly know,’ said John, with a smile, ‘why any of us should be
disconcerted at my having accidentally intruded upon such an agreeable
domestic occupation, so very agreeably and skillfully pursued; but I
must confess that I am. Tom, will you kindly come to my relief?’
‘Mr John Westlock,’ said Tom. ‘My sister.’
‘I hope that, as the sister of so old a friend,’ said John, laughing
‘you will have the goodness to detach your first impressions of me from
my unfortunate entrance.’
‘My sister is not indisposed perhaps to say the same to you on her own
behalf,’ retorted Tom.
John said, of course, that this was quite unnecessary, for he had been
transfixed in silent admiration; and he held out his hand to Miss Pinch;
who couldn’t take it, however, by reason of the flour and paste upon her
own. This, which might seem calculated to increase the general confusion
and render matters worse, had in reality the best effect in the
world, for neither of them could help laughing; and so they both found
themselves on easy terms immediately.
‘I am delighted to see you,’ said Tom. ‘Sit down.’
‘I can only think of sitting down on one condition,’ returned his
friend; ‘and that is, that your sister goes on with the pudding, as if
you were still alone.’
‘That I am sure she will,’ said Tom. ‘On one other condition, and that
is, that you stay and help us to eat it.’
Poor little Ruth was seized with a palpitation of the heart when Tom
committed this appalling indiscretion, for she felt that if the dish
turned out a failure, she never would be able to hold up her head
before John Westlock again. Quite unconscious of her state of mind,
John accepted the invitation with all imaginable heartiness; and after a
little more pleasantry concerning this same pudding, and the tremendous
expectations he made believe to entertain of it, she blushingly resumed
her occupation, and he took a chair.
‘I am here much earlier than I intended, Tom; but I will tell you, what
brings me, and I think I can answer for your being glad to hear it. Is
that anything you wish to show me?’
‘Oh dear no!’ cried Tom, who had forgotten the blotted scrap of paper
in his hand, until this inquiry brought it to his recollection. ‘“A
respectable young man, aged thirty-five”--The beginning of a description
of myself. That’s all.’
‘I don’t think you will have occasion to finish it, Tom. But how is it
you never told me you had friends in London?’
Tom looked at his sister with all his might; and certainly his sister
looked with all her might at him.
‘Friends in London!’ echoed Tom.
‘Ah!’ said Westlock, ‘to be sure.’
‘Have YOU any friends in London, Ruth, my dear!’ asked Tom.
‘No, Tom.’
‘I am very happy to hear that I have,’ said Tom, ‘but it’s news to me. I
never knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John.’
‘You shall judge for yourself,’ returned the other. ‘Seriously, Tom,
here is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this
morning, there comes a knock at my door.’
‘On which you cried out, very loud, “Come in!”’ suggested Tom.
‘So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young
man, aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited,
instead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well!
When he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like,
sedate-looking, stranger. “Mr Westlock?” said he. “That is my name,”
said I. “The favour of a few words with you?” said he. “Pray be seated,
sir,” said I.’
Here John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where
Tom’s sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin,
which by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:
‘The pudding having taken a chair, Tom--’
‘What!’ cried Tom.
‘Having taken a chair.’
‘You said a pudding.’
‘No, no,’ replied John, colouring rather; ‘a chair. The idea of a
stranger coming into my rooms at half-past eight o’clock in the morning,
and taking a pudding! Having taken a chair, Tom, a chair--amazed me by
opening the conversation thus: “I believe you are acquainted, sir, with
Mr Thomas Pinch?”
‘No!’ cried Tom.
‘His very words, I assure you. I told him I was. Did I know where you
were at present residing? Yes. In London? Yes. He had casually heard,
in a roundabout way, that you had left your situation with Mr Pecksniff.
Was that the fact? Yes, it was. Did you want another? Yes, you did.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tom, nodding his head.
‘Just what I impressed upon him. You may rest assured that I set that
point beyond the possibility of any mistake, and gave him distinctly to
understand that he might make up his mind about it. Very well.’
“Then,” said he, “I think I can accommodate him.”’
Tom’s sister stopped short.
‘Lord bless me!’ cried Tom. ‘Ruth, my dear, “think I can accommodate
him.”’
‘Of course I begged him,’ pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom’s
sister, who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, ‘to
proceed, and said that I would undertake to see you immediately. He
replied that he had very little to say, being a man of few words,
but such as it was, it was to the purpose--and so, indeed, it turned
out--for he immediately went on to tell me that a friend of his was in
want of a kind of secretary and librarian; and that although the salary
was small, being only a hundred pounds a year, with neither board
nor lodging, still the duties were not heavy, and there the post was.
Vacant, and ready for your acceptance.’
‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom; ‘a hundred pounds a year! My dear John!
Ruth, my love! A hundred pounds a year!’
‘But the strangest part of the story,’ resumed John Westlock, laying his
hand on Tom’s wrist, to bespeak his attention, and repress his ecstasies
for the moment; ‘the strangest part of the story, Miss Pinch, is this. I
don’t know this man from Adam; neither does this man know Tom.’
‘He can’t,’ said Tom, in great perplexity, ‘if he’s a Londoner. I don’t
know any one in London.’
‘And on my observing,’ John resumed, still keeping his hand upon Tom’s
wrist, ‘that I had no doubt he would excuse the freedom I took in
inquiring who directed him to me; how he came to know of the change
which had taken place in my friend’s position; and how he came to be
acquainted with my friend’s peculiar fitness for such an office as he
had described; he drily said that he was not at liberty to enter into
any explanations.’
‘Not at liberty to enter into any explanations!’ repeated Tom, drawing a
long breath.
‘“I must be perfectly aware,” he said,’ John added, ‘“that to any person
who had ever been in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, Mr Thomas Pinch and
his acquirements were as well known as the Church steeple, or the Blue
Dragon.”’
‘The Blue Dragon!’ repeated Tom, staring alternately at his friend and
his sister.
‘Aye, think of that! He spoke as familiarly of the Blue Dragon, I give
you my word, as if he had been Mark Tapley. I opened my eyes, I can
tell you, when he did so; but I could not fancy I had ever seen the man
before, although he said with a smile, “You know the Blue Dragon, Mr
Westlock; you kept it up there, once or twice, yourself.” Kept it up
there! So I did. You remember, Tom?’
Tom nodded with great significance, and, falling into a state of deeper
perplexity than before, observed that this was the most unaccountable
and extraordinary circumstance he had ever heard of in his life.
‘Unaccountable?’ his friend repeated. ‘I became afraid of the man.
Though it was broad day, and bright sunshine, I was positively afraid
of him. I declare I half suspected him to be a supernatural visitor,
and not a mortal, until he took out a common-place description of
pocket-book, and handed me this card.’
‘Mr Fips,’ said Tom, reading it aloud. ‘Austin Friars. Austin Friars
sounds ghostly, John.’
‘Fips don’t, I think,’ was John’s reply. ‘But there he lives, Tom, and
there he expects us to call this morning. And now you know as much of
this strange incident as I do, upon my honour.’
Tom’s face, between his exultation in the hundred pounds a year, and
his wonder at this narration, was only to be equalled by the face of his
sister, on which there sat the very best expression of blooming surprise
that any painter could have wished to see. What the beef-steak pudding
would have come to, if it had not been by this time finished, astrology
itself could hardly determine.
‘Tom,’ said Ruth, after a little hesitation, ‘perhaps Mr Westlock, in
his friendship for you, knows more of this than he chooses to tell.’
‘No, indeed!’ cried John, eagerly. ‘It is not so, I assure you. I wish
it were. I cannot take credit to myself, Miss Pinch, for any such thing.
All that I know, or, so far as I can judge, am likely to know, I have
told you.’
‘Couldn’t you know more, if you thought proper?’ said Ruth, scraping the
pie-board industriously.
‘No,’ retorted John. ‘Indeed, no. It is very ungenerous in you to be so
suspicious of me when I repose implicit faith in you. I have unbounded
confidence in the pudding, Miss Pinch.’
She laughed at this, but they soon got back into a serious vein, and
discussed the subject with profound gravity. Whatever else was obscure
in the business, it appeared to be quite plain that Tom was offered a
salary of one hundred pounds a year; and this being the main point, the
surrounding obscurity rather set it off than otherwise.
Tom, being in a great flutter, wished to start for Austin Friars
instantly, but they waited nearly an hour, by John’s advice, before they
departed. Tom made himself as spruce as he could before leaving home,
and when John Westlock, through the half-opened parlour door, had
glimpses of that brave little sister brushing the collar of his coat in
the passage, taking up loose stitches in his gloves and hovering lightly
about and about him, touching him up here and there in the height of
her quaint, little, old-fashioned tidiness, he called to mind the
fancy-portraits of her on the wall of the Pecksniffian workroom, and
decided with uncommon indignation that they were gross libels, and not
half pretty enough; though, as hath been mentioned in its place, the
artists always made those sketches beautiful, and he had drawn at least
a score of them with his own hands.
‘Tom,’ he said, as they were walking along, ‘I begin to think you must
be somebody’s son.’
‘I suppose I am,’ Tom answered in his quiet way.
‘But I mean somebody’s of consequence.’
‘Bless your heart,’ replied Tom, ‘my poor father was of no consequence,
nor my mother either.’
‘You remember them perfectly, then?’
‘Remember them? oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when
Ruth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings
of that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember! Oh!
There’s nothing romantic in our history, John.’
‘Very well,’ said John in quiet despair. ‘Then there is no way of
accounting for my visitor of this morning. So we’ll not try, Tom.’
They did try, notwithstanding, and never left off trying until they
got to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor,
oddly situated at the back of a house, across some leads, they found a
little blear-eyed glass door up in one corner, with Mr FIPS painted on
it in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a
wicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs
upon the ribs of visitors; and an old mat, worn into lattice work,
which, being useless as a mat (even if anybody could have seen it, which
was impossible), had for many years directed its industry into another
channel, and regularly tripped up every one of Mr Fips’s clients.
Mr Fips, hearing a violent concussion between a human hat and his office
door, was apprised, by the usual means of communication, that somebody
had come to call upon him, and giving that somebody admission, observed
that it was ‘rather dark.’
‘Dark indeed,’ John whispered in Tom Pinch’s ear. ‘Not a bad place to
dispose of a countryman in, I should think, Tom.’
Tom had been already turning over in his mind the possibility of their
having been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie; but the
sight of Mr Fips, who was small and spare, and looked peaceable, and
wore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts.
‘Walk in,’ said Mr Fips.
They walked in. And a mighty yellow-jaundiced little office Mr Fips
had of it; with a great, black, sprawling splash upon the floor in one
corner, as if some old clerk had cut his throat there, years ago, and
had let out ink instead of blood.
‘I have brought my friend Mr Pinch, sir,’ said John Westlock.
‘Be pleased to sit,’ said Mr Fips.
They occupied the two chairs, and Mr Fips took the office stool from the
stuffing whereof he drew forth a piece of horse-hair of immense length,
which he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite.
He looked at Tom Pinch curiously, but with an entire freedom from any
such expression as could be reasonably construed into an unusual
display of interest. After a short silence, during which Mr Fips was
so perfectly unembarrassed as to render it manifest that he could have
broken it sooner without hesitation, if he had felt inclined to do so,
he asked if Mr Westlock had made his offer fully known to Mr Pinch.
John answered in the affirmative.
‘And you think it worth your while, sir, do you?’ Mr Fips inquired of
Tom.
‘I think it a piece of great good fortune, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am
exceedingly obliged to you for the offer.’
‘Not to me,’ said Mr Fips. ‘I act upon instructions.’
‘To your friend, sir, then,’ said Tom. ‘To the gentleman with whom I am
to engage, and whose confidence I shall endeavour to deserve. When he
knows me better, sir, I hope he will not lose his good opinion of me.
He will find me punctual and vigilant, and anxious to do what is right.
That I think I can answer for, and so,’ looking towards him, ‘can Mr
Westlock.’
‘Most assuredly,’ said John.
Mr Fips appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the
conversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer-stamp, and began
stamping capital F’s all over his legs.
‘The fact is,’ said Mr Fips, ‘that my friend is not, at this present
moment, in town.’
Tom’s countenance fell; for he thought this equivalent to telling him
that his appearance did not answer; and that Fips must look out for
somebody else.
‘When do you think he will be in town, sir?’ he asked.
‘I can’t say; it’s impossible to tell. I really have no idea. But,’ said
Fips, taking off a very deep impression of the wafer-stamp upon the calf
of his left leg, and looking steadily at Tom, ‘I don’t know that it’s a
matter of much consequence.’
Poor Tom inclined his head deferentially, but appeared to doubt that.
‘I say,’ repeated Mr Fips, ‘that I don’t know it’s a matter of much
consequence. The business lies entirely between yourself and me, Mr
Pinch. With reference to your duties, I can set you going; and with
reference to your salary, I can pay it. Weekly,’ said Mr Fips, putting
down the wafer-stamp, and looking at John Westlock and Tom Pinch by
turns, ‘weekly; in this office; at any time between the hours of four
and five o’clock in the afternoon.’ As Mr Fips said this, he made up his
face as if he were going to whistle. But he didn’t.
‘You are very good,’ said Tom, whose countenance was now suffused with
pleasure; ‘and nothing can be more satisfactory or straightforward. My
attendance will be required--’
‘From half-past nine to four o’clock or so, I should say,’ interrupted
Mr Fips. ‘About that.’
‘I did not mean the hours of attendance,’ retorted Tom, ‘which are light
and easy, I am sure; but the place.’
‘Oh, the place! The place is in the Temple.’
Tom was delighted.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Fips, ‘you would like to see the place?’
‘Oh, dear!’ cried Tom. ‘I shall only be too glad to consider myself
engaged, if you will allow me; without any further reference to the
place.’
‘You may consider yourself engaged, by all means,’ said Mr Fips; ‘you
couldn’t meet me at the Temple Gate in Fleet Street, in an hour from
this time, I suppose, could you?’
Certainly Tom could.
‘Good,’ said Mr Fips, rising. ‘Then I will show you the place; and you
can begin your attendance to-morrow morning. In an hour, therefore, I
shall see you. You too, Mr Westlock? Very good. Take care how you go.
It’s rather dark.’
With this remark, which seemed superfluous, he shut them out upon
the staircase, and they groped their way into the street again. The
interview had done so little to remove the mystery in which Tom’s
new engagement was involved, and had done so much to thicken it, that
neither could help smiling at the puzzled looks of the other. They
agreed, however, that the introduction of Tom to his new office and
office companions could hardly fail to throw a light upon the subject;
and therefore postponed its further consideration until after the
fulfillment of the appointment they had made with Mr Fips.
After looking at John Westlock’s chambers, and devoting a few spare
minutes to the Boar’s Head, they issued forth again to the place of
meeting. The time agreed upon had not quite come; but Mr Fips was
already at the Temple Gate, and expressed his satisfaction at their
punctuality.
He led the way through sundry lanes and courts, into one more quiet and
more gloomy than the rest, and, singling out a certain house, ascended
a common staircase; taking from his pocket, as he went, a bunch of rusty
keys. Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing
but a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the
tenant’s name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys, very
deliberately, upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade.
‘You had better have a little plug made,’ he said, looking round at Tom,
after blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. ‘It’s the
only way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You’ll find the
lock go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil.’
Tom thanked him; but was too much occupied with his own speculations,
and John Westlock’s looks, to be very talkative. In the meantime Mr Fips
opened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly, and with a
horribly discordant sound. He took the key out, when he had done so, and
gave it to Tom.
‘Aye, aye!’ said Mr Fips. ‘The dust lies rather thick here.’
Truly, it did. Mr Fips might have gone so far as to say, very thick.
It had accumulated everywhere; lay deep on everything, and in one part,
where a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck
upon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round, like a
gigantic squirrel-cage.
Dust was the only thing in the place that had any motion about it. When
their conductor admitted the light freely, and lifting up the heavy
window-sash, let in the summer air, he showed the mouldering furniture,
discoloured wainscoting and ceiling, rusty stove, and ashy hearth, in
all their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candlestick,
with an extinguisher upon it; as if the last man who had been there
had paused, after securing a retreat, to take a parting look at
the dreariness he left behind, and then had shut out light and life
together, and closed the place up like a tomb.
There were two rooms on that floor; and in the first or outer one a
narrow staircase, leading to two more above. These last were fitted
up as bed-chambers. Neither in them, nor in the rooms below, was any
scarcity of convenient furniture observable, although the fittings
were of a bygone fashion; but solitude and want of use seemed to have
rendered it unfit for any purposes of comfort, and to have given it a
grisly, haunted air.
Movables of every kind lay strewn about, without the least attempt at
order, and were intermixed with boxes, hampers, and all sorts of lumber.
On all the floors were piles of books, to the amount, perhaps, of some
thousands of volumes: these, still in bales; those, wrapped in paper,
as they had been purchased; others scattered singly or in heaps; not one
upon the shelves which lined the walls. To these Mr Fips called Tom’s
attention.
‘Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order,
catalogued, and ranged upon the book-shelves, Mr Pinch. That will do to
begin with, I think, sir.’
Tom rubbed his hands in the pleasant anticipation of a task so congenial
to his taste, and said:
‘An occupation full of interest for me, I assure you. It will occupy me,
perhaps, until Mr--’
‘Until Mr--’ repeated Fips; as much as to ask Tom what he was stopping
for.
‘I forgot that you had not mentioned the gentleman’s name,’ said Tom.
‘Oh!’ cried Mr Fips, pulling on his glove, ‘didn’t I? No, by-the-bye,
I don’t think I did. Ah! I dare say he’ll be here soon. You will get on
very well together, I have no doubt. I wish you success I am sure. You
won’t forget to shut the door? It’ll lock of itself if you slam it.
Half-past nine, you know. Let us say from half-past nine to four, or
half-past four, or thereabouts; one day, perhaps, a little earlier,
another day, perhaps, a little later, according as you feel disposed,
and as you arrange your work. Mr Fips, Austin Friars of course you’ll
remember? And you won’t forget to slam the door, if you please!’
He said all this in such a comfortable, easy manner, that Tom could only
rub his hands, and nod his head, and smile in acquiescence which he was
still doing, when Mr Fips walked coolly out.
‘Why, he’s gone!’ cried Tom.
‘And what’s more, Tom,’ said John Westlock, seating himself upon a pile
of books, and looking up at his astonished friend, ‘he is evidently not
coming back again; so here you are, installed. Under rather singular
circumstances, Tom!’
It was such an odd affair throughout, and Tom standing there among
the books with his hat in one hand and the key in the other, looked
so prodigiously confounded, that his friend could not help laughing
heartily. Tom himself was tickled; no less by the hilarity of his friend
than by the recollection of the sudden manner in which he had been
brought to a stop, in the very height of his urbane conference with
Mr Fips; so by degrees Tom burst out laughing too; and each making the
other laugh more, they fairly roared.
When they had had their laugh out, which did not happen very soon, for
give John an inch that way and he was sure to take several ells, being
a jovial, good-tempered fellow, they looked about them more closely,
groping among the lumber for any stray means of enlightenment that might
turn up. But no scrap or shred of information could they find. The books
were marked with a variety of owner’s names, having, no doubt, been
bought at sales, and collected here and there at different times; but
whether any one of these names belonged to Tom’s employer, and, if so,
which of them, they had no means whatever of determining. It occurred to
John as a very bright thought to make inquiry at the steward’s office,
to whom the chambers belonged, or by whom they were held; but he came
back no wiser than he went, the answer being, ‘Mr Fips, of Austin
Friars.’
‘After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Fips
is an eccentric man; has some knowledge of Pecksniff; despises him, of
course; has heard or seen enough of you to know that you are the man he
wants; and engages you in his own whimsical manner.’
‘But why in his own whimsical manner?’ asked Tom.
‘Oh! why does any man entertain his own whimsical taste? Why does Mr
Fips wear shorts and powder, and Mr Fips’s next-door neighbour boots and
a wig?’
Tom, being in that state of mind in which any explanation is a great
relief, adopted this last one (which indeed was quite as feasible as any
other) readily, and said he had no doubt of it. Nor was his faith at all
shaken by his having said exactly the same thing to each suggestion of
his friend’s in turn, and being perfectly ready to say it again if he
had any new solution to propose.
As he had not, Tom drew down the window-sash, and folded the shutter;
and they left the rooms. He closed the door heavily, as Mr Fips had
desired him; tried it, found it all safe, and put the key in his pocket.
They made a pretty wide circuit in going back to Islington, as they had
time to spare, and Tom was never tired of looking about him. It was well
he had John Westlock for his companion, for most people would have
been weary of his perpetual stoppages at shop-windows, and his frequent
dashes into the crowded carriage-way at the peril of his life, to get
the better view of church steeples, and other public buildings. But John
was charmed to see him so much interested, and every time Tom came back
with a beaming face from among the wheels of carts and hackney-coaches,
wholly unconscious of the personal congratulations addressed to him by
the drivers, John seemed to like him better than before.
There was no flour on Ruth’s hands when she received them in the
triangular parlour, but there were pleasant smiles upon her face, and a
crowd of welcomes shining out of every smile, and gleaming in her bright
eyes. By the bye, how bright they were! Looking into them for but
a moment, when you took her hand, you saw, in each, such a capital
miniature of yourself, representing you as such a restless, flashing,
eager, brilliant little fellow--
Ah! if you could only have kept them for your own miniature! But,
wicked, roving, restless, too impartial eyes, it was enough for any one
to stand before them, and, straightway, there he danced and sparkled
quite as merrily as you!
The table was already spread for dinner; and though it was spread with
nothing very choice in the way of glass or linen, and with green-handled
knives, and very mountebanks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be
trying how far asunder they could possibly stretch their legs without
converting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it
wanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china; no, nor any other
garniture at all. There it was; and, being there, nothing else would
have done as well.
The success of that initiative dish; that first experiment of hers in
cookery; was so entire, so unalloyed and perfect, that John Westlock and
Tom agreed she must have been studying the art in secret for a long time
past; and urged her to make a full confession of the fact. They were
exceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said
concerning it; but John was not as fair in his behaviour as might
have been expected, for, after luring Tom Pinch on for a long time,
he suddenly went over to the enemy, and swore to everything his sister
said. However, as Tom observed the same night before going to bed, it
was only in joke, and John had always been famous for being polite
to ladies, even when he was quite a boy. Ruth said, ‘Oh! indeed!’ She
didn’t say anything else.
It is astonishing how much three people may find to talk about. They
scarcely left off talking once. And it was not all lively chat which
occupied them; for when Tom related how he had seen Mr Pecksniff’s
daughters, and what a change had fallen on the younger, they were very
serious.
John Westlock became quite absorbed in her fortunes; asking many
questions of Tom Pinch about her marriage, inquiring whether her husband
was the gentleman whom Tom had brought to dine with him at Salisbury;
in what degree of relationship they stood towards each other, being
different persons; and taking, in short, the greatest interest in the
subject. Tom then went into it, at full length; he told how Martin had
gone abroad, and had not been heard of for a long time; how Dragon Mark
had borne him company; how Mr Pecksniff had got the poor old doting
grandfather into his power; and how he basely sought the hand of Mary
Graham. But not a word said Tom of what lay hidden in his heart; his
heart, so deep, and true, and full of honour, and yet with so much room
for every gentle and unselfish thought; not a word.
Tom, Tom! The man in all this world most confident in his sagacity and
shrewdness; the man in all this world most proud of his distrust of
other men, and having most to show in gold and silver as the gains
belonging to his creed; the meekest favourer of that wise doctrine,
Every man for himself, and God for us all (there being high wisdom in
the thought that the Eternal Majesty of Heaven ever was, or can be, on
the side of selfish lust and love!); shall never find, oh, never find,
be sure of that, the time come home to him, when all his wisdom is an
idiot’s folly, weighed against a simple heart!
Well, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to
be so eager touching that same theatre, of which John said, when tea was
done, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without
the payment of a sixpence was concerned; and simpler yet, perhaps, never
to suspect that when he went in first, alone, he paid the money! Simple
in thee, dear Tom, to laugh and cry so heartily at such a sorry show,
so poorly shown; simple to be so happy and loquacious trudging home
with Ruth; simple to be so surprised to find that merry present of
a cookery-book awaiting her in the parlour next morning, with the
beef-steak-pudding-leaf turned down and blotted out. There! Let
the record stand! Thy quality of soul was simple, simple, quite
contemptible, Tom Pinch!
CHAPTER FORTY
THE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR
SURPRISE AND WONDER
There was a ghostly air about these uninhabited chambers in the Temple,
and attending every circumstance of Tom’s employment there, which had a
strange charm in it. Every morning when he shut his door at Islington,
he turned his face towards an atmosphere of unaccountable fascination,
as surely as he turned it to the London smoke; and from that moment it
thickened round and round him all day long, until the time arrived for
going home again, and leaving it, like a motionless cloud, behind.
It seemed to Tom, every morning, that he approached this ghostly
mist, and became enveloped in it, by the easiest succession of degrees
imaginable. Passing from the roar and rattle of the streets into the
quiet court-yards of the Temple, was the first preparation. Every echo
of his footsteps sounded to him like a sound from the old walls and
pavements, wanting language to relate the histories of the dim, dismal
rooms; to tell him what lost documents were decaying in forgotten
corners of the shut-up cellars, from whose lattices such mouldy sighs
came breathing forth as he went past; to whisper of dark bins of rare
old wine, bricked up in vaults among the old foundations of the Halls;
or mutter in a lower tone yet darker legends of the cross-legged
knights, whose marble effigies were in the church. With the first
planting of his foot upon the staircase of his dusty office, all these
mysteries increased; until, ascending step by step, as Tom ascended,
they attained their full growth in the solitary labours of the day.
Every day brought one recurring, never-failing source of speculation.
This employer; would he come to-day, and what would he be like? For
Tom could not stop short at Mr Fips; he quite believed that Mr Fips had
spoken truly, when he said he acted for another; and what manner of man
that other was, became a full-blown flower of wonder in the garden of
Tom’s fancy, which never faded or got trodden down.
At one time, he conceived that Mr Pecksniff, repenting of his falsehood,
might, by exertion of his influence with some third person have
devised these means of giving him employment. He found this idea so
insupportable after what had taken place between that good man and
himself, that he confided it to John Westlock on the very same day;
informing John that he would rather ply for hire as a porter, than fall
so low in his own esteem as to accept the smallest obligation from the
hands of Mr Pecksniff. But John assured him that he (Tom Pinch) was far
from doing justice to the character of Mr Pecksniff yet, if he supposed
that gentleman capable of performing a generous action; and that he
might make his mind quite easy on that head until he saw the sun turn
green and the moon black, and at the same time distinctly perceived with
the naked eye, twelve first-rate comets careering round those planets.
In which unusual state of things, he said (and not before), it might
become not absolutely lunatic to suspect Mr Pecksniff of anything
so monstrous. In short he laughed the idea down completely; and Tom,
abandoning it, was thrown upon his beam-ends again, for some other
solution.
In the meantime Tom attended to his duties daily, and made considerable
progress with the books; which were already reduced to some sort of
order, and made a great appearance in his fairly-written catalogue.
During his business hours, he indulged himself occasionally with
snatches of reading; which were often, indeed, a necessary part of
his pursuit; and as he usually made bold to carry one of these goblin
volumes home at night (always bringing it back again next morning, in
case his strange employer should appear and ask what had become of it),
he led a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart.
But though the books were never so interesting, and never so full of
novelty to Tom, they could not so enchain him, in those mysterious
chambers, as to render him unconscious, for a moment, of the lightest
sound. Any footstep on the flags without set him listening attentively
and when it turned into that house, and came up, up, up the stairs, he
always thought with a beating heart, ‘Now I am coming face to face with
him at last!’ But no footstep ever passed the floor immediately below:
except his own.
This mystery and loneliness engendered fancies in Tom’s mind, the folly
of which his common sense could readily discover, but which his common
sense was quite unable to keep away, notwithstanding; that quality being
with most of us, in such a case, like the old French Police--quick at
detection, but very weak as a preventive power. Misgivings, undefined,
absurd, inexplicable, that there was some one hiding in the inner
room--walking softly overhead, peeping in through the door-chink, doing
something stealthy, anywhere where he was not--came over him a
hundred times a day, making it pleasant to throw up the sash, and hold
communication even with the sparrows who had built in the roof and
water-spout, and were twittering about the windows all day long.
He sat with the outer door wide open, at all times, that he might hear
the footsteps as they entered, and turned off into the chambers on the
lower floor. He formed odd prepossessions too, regarding strangers in
the streets; and would say within himself of such or such a man, who
struck him as having anything uncommon in his dress or aspect, ‘I
shouldn’t wonder, now, if that were he!’ But it never was. And though
he actually turned back and followed more than one of these suspected
individuals, in a singular belief that they were going to the place he
was then upon his way from, he never got any other satisfaction by it,
than the satisfaction of knowing it was not the case.
Mr Fips, of Austin Friars, rather deepened than illumined the obscurity
of his position; for on the first occasion of Tom’s waiting on him to
receive his weekly pay, he said:
‘Oh! by the bye, Mr Pinch, you needn’t mention it, if you please!’
Tom thought he was going to tell him a secret; so he said that he
wouldn’t on any account, and that Mr Fips might entirely depend upon
him. But as Mr Fips said ‘Very good,’ in reply, and nothing more, Tom
prompted him:
‘Not on any account,’ repeated Tom.
Mr Fips repeated: ‘Very good.’
‘You were going to say’--Tom hinted.
‘Oh dear no!’ cried Fips. ‘Not at all.’ However, seeing Tom confused, he
added, ‘I mean that you needn’t mention any particulars about your place
of employment, to people generally. You’ll find it better not.’
‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing my employer yet, sir,’ observed
Tom, putting his week’s salary in his pocket.
‘Haven’t you?’ said Fips. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have though.’
‘I should like to thank him, and to know that what I have done so far,
is done to his satisfaction,’ faltered Tom.
‘Quite right,’ said Mr Fips, with a yawn. ‘Highly creditable. Very
proper.’
Tom hastily resolved to try him on another tack.
‘I shall soon have finished with the books,’ he said. ‘I hope that will
not terminate my engagement, sir, or render me useless?’
‘Oh dear no!’ retorted Fips. ‘Plenty to do; plen-ty to do! Be careful
how you go. It’s rather dark.’
This was the very utmost extent of information Tom could ever get out of
HIM. So it was dark enough in all conscience; and if Mr Fips expressed
himself with a double meaning, he had good reason for doing so.
But now a circumstance occurred, which helped to divert Tom’s thoughts
from even this mystery, and to divide them between it and a new channel,
which was a very Nile in itself.
The way it came about was this. Having always been an early riser and
having now no organ to engage him in sweet converse every morning,
it was his habit to take a long walk before going to the Temple; and
naturally inclining, as a stranger, towards those parts of the town
which were conspicuous for the life and animation pervading them, he
became a great frequenter of the market-places, bridges, quays, and
especially the steam-boat wharves; for it was very lively and fresh
to see the people hurrying away upon their many schemes of business or
pleasure, and it made Tom glad to think that there was that much change
and freedom in the monotonous routine of city lives.
In most of these morning excursions Ruth accompanied him. As their
landlord was always up and away at his business (whatever that might be,
no one seemed to know) at a very early hour, the habits of the people
of the house in which they lodged corresponded with their own. Thus they
had often finished their breakfast, and were out in the summer air, by
seven o’clock. After a two hours’ stroll they parted at some convenient
point; Tom going to the Temple, and his sister returning home, as
methodically as you please.
Many and many a pleasant stroll they had in Covent Garden Market;
snuffing up the perfume of the fruits and flowers, wondering at the
magnificence of the pineapples and melons; catching glimpses down side
avenues, of rows and rows of old women, seated on inverted baskets,
shelling peas; looking unutterable things at the fat bundles of
asparagus with which the dainty shops were fortified as with a
breastwork; and, at the herbalist’s doors, gratefully inhaling scents
as of veal-stuffing yet uncooked, dreamily mixed up with capsicums,
brown-paper, seeds, even with hints of lusty snails and fine young curly
leeches. Many and many a pleasant stroll they had among the poultry
markets, where ducks and fowls, with necks unnaturally long, lay
stretched out in pairs, ready for cooking; where there were speckled
eggs in mossy baskets, white country sausages beyond impeachment by
surviving cat or dog, or horse or donkey; new cheeses to any wild
extent, live birds in coops and cages, looking much too big to be
natural, in consequence of those receptacles being much too little;
rabbits, alive and dead, innumerable. Many a pleasant stroll they
had among the cool, refreshing, silvery fish-stalls, with a kind of
moonlight effect about their stock-in-trade, excepting always for
the ruddy lobsters. Many a pleasant stroll among the waggon-loads of
fragrant hay, beneath which dogs and tired waggoners lay fast asleep,
oblivious of the pieman and the public-house. But never half so good a
stroll as down among the steamboats on a bright morning.
There they lay, alongside of each other; hard and fast for ever, to all
appearance, but designing to get out somehow, and quite confident of
doing it; and in that faith shoals of passengers, and heaps of luggage,
were proceeding hurriedly on board. Little steam-boats dashed up and
down the stream incessantly. Tiers upon tiers of vessels, scores
of masts, labyrinths of tackle, idle sails, splashing oars, gliding
row-boats, lumbering barges, sunken piles, with ugly lodgings for
the water-rat within their mud-discoloured nooks; church steeples,
warehouses, house-roofs, arches, bridges, men and women, children,
casks, cranes, boxes, horses, coaches, idlers, and hard-labourers; there
they were, all jumbled up together, any summer morning, far beyond Tom’s
power of separation.
In the midst of all this turmoil there was an incessant roar from every
packet’s funnel, which quite expressed and carried out the uppermost
emotion of the scene. They all appeared to be perspiring and bothering
themselves, exactly as their passengers did; they never left off
fretting and chafing, in their own hoarse manner, once; but were always
panting out, without any stops, ‘Come along do make haste I’m very
nervous come along oh good gracious we shall never get there how late
you are do make haste I’m off directly come along!’
Even when they had left off, and had got safely out into the current,
on the smallest provocation they began again; for the bravest packet
of them all, being stopped by some entanglement in the river, would
immediately begin to fume and pant afresh, ‘oh here’s a stoppage what’s
the matter do go on there I’m in a hurry it’s done on purpose did you
ever oh my goodness DO go on here!’ and so, in a state of mind bordering
on distraction, would be last seen drifting slowly through the mist into
the summer light beyond, that made it red.
Tom’s ship, however; or, at least, the packet-boat in which Tom and his
sister took the greatest interest on one particular occasion; was not
off yet, by any means; but was at the height of its disorder. The press
of passengers was very great; another steam-boat lay on each side of
her; the gangways were choked up; distracted women, obviously bound
for Gravesend, but turning a deaf ear to all representations that this
particular vessel was about to sail for Antwerp, persisted in secreting
baskets of refreshments behind bulk-heads, and water-casks, and under
seats; and very great confusion prevailed.
It was so amusing, that Tom, with Ruth upon his arm, stood looking down
from the wharf, as nearly regardless as it was in the nature of flesh
and blood to be, of an elderly lady behind him, who had brought a large
umbrella with her, and didn’t know what to do with it. This tremendous
instrument had a hooked handle; and its vicinity was first made known
to him by a painful pressure on the windpipe, consequent upon its having
caught him round the throat. Soon after disengaging himself with perfect
good humour, he had a sensation of the ferule in his back; immediately
afterwards, of the hook entangling his ankles; then of the umbrella
generally, wandering about his hat, and flapping at it like a great
bird; and, lastly, of a poke or thrust below the ribs, which give him
such exceeding anguish, that he could not refrain from turning round to
offer a mild remonstrance.
Upon his turning round, he found the owner of the umbrella struggling
on tip-toe, with a countenance expressive of violent animosity, to look
down upon the steam-boats; from which he inferred that she had attacked
him, standing in the front row, by design, and as her natural enemy.
‘What a very ill-natured person you must be!’ said Tom.
The lady cried out fiercely, ‘Where’s the pelisse!’--meaning the
constabulary--and went on to say, shaking the handle of the umbrella
at Tom, that but for them fellers never being in the way when they was
wanted, she’d have given him in charge, she would.
‘If they greased their whiskers less, and minded the duties which
they’re paid so heavy for, a little more,’ she observed, ‘no one needn’t
be drove mad by scrouding so!’
She had been grievously knocked about, no doubt, for her bonnet was bent
into the shape of a cocked hat. Being a fat little woman, too, she was
in a state of great exhaustion and intense heat. Instead of pursuing the
altercation, therefore, Tom civilly inquired what boat she wanted to go
on board of?
‘I suppose,’ returned the lady, ‘as nobody but yourself can want to look
at a steam package, without wanting to go a-boarding of it, can they!
Booby!’
‘Which one do you want to look at then?’ said Tom. ‘We’ll make room for
you if we can. Don’t be so ill-tempered.’
‘No blessed creetur as ever I was with in trying times,’ returned the
lady, somewhat softened, ‘and they’re a many in their numbers, ever
brought it as a charge again myself that I was anythin’ but mild and
equal in my spirits. Never mind a contradicting of me, if you seem
to feel it does you good, ma’am, I often says, for well you know that
Sairey may be trusted not to give it back again. But I will not denige
that I am worrited and wexed this day, and with good reagion, Lord
forbid!’
By this time, Mrs Gamp (for it was no other than that experienced
practitioner) had, with Tom’s assistance, squeezed and worked herself
into a small corner between Ruth and the rail; where, after breathing
very hard for some little time, and performing a short series of
dangerous evolutions with her umbrella, she managed to establish herself
pretty comfortably.
‘And which of all them smoking monsters is the Ankworks boat, I wonder.
Goodness me!’ cried Mrs Gamp.
‘What boat did you want?’ asked Ruth.
‘The Ankworks package,’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘I will not deceive you, my
sweet. Why should I?’
‘That is the Antwerp packet in the middle,’ said Ruth.
‘And I wish it was in Jonadge’s belly, I do,’ cried Mrs Gamp; appearing
to confound the prophet with the whale in this miraculous aspiration.
Ruth said nothing in reply; but, as Mrs Gamp, laying her chin against
the cool iron of the rail, continued to look intently at the Antwerp
boat, and every now and then to give a little groan, she inquired
whether any child of hers was going aboard that morning? Or perhaps her
husband, she said kindly.
‘Which shows,’ said Mrs Gamp, casting up her eyes, ‘what a little way
you’ve travelled into this wale of life, my dear young creetur! As a
good friend of mine has frequent made remark to me, which her name,
my love, is Harris, Mrs Harris through the square and up the steps
a-turnin’ round by the tobacker shop, “Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we
know wot lays afore us!” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says, “not much, it’s
true, but more than you suppoge. Our calcilations, ma’am,” I says,
“respectin’ wot the number of a family will be, comes most times within
one, and oftener than you would suppoge, exact.” “Sairey,” says Mrs
Harris, in a awful way, “Tell me wot is my indiwidgle number.” “No, Mrs
Harris,” I says to her, “ex-cuge me, if you please. My own,” I says,
“has fallen out of three-pair backs, and had damp doorsteps settled
on their lungs, and one was turned up smilin’ in a bedstead unbeknown.
Therefore, ma’am,” I says, “seek not to proticipate, but take ‘em as
they come and as they go.” Mine,’ says Mrs Gamp, ‘mine is all gone, my
dear young chick. And as to husbands, there’s a wooden leg gone likeways
home to its account, which in its constancy of walkin’ into wine vaults,
and never comin’ out again ‘till fetched by force, was quite as weak as
flesh, if not weaker.’
When she had delivered this oration, Mrs Gamp leaned her chin upon the
cool iron again; and looking intently at the Antwerp packet, shook her
head and groaned.
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘I wouldn’t be a man and have such a think
upon my mind!--but nobody as owned the name of man, could do it!’
Tom and his sister glanced at each other; and Ruth, after a moment’s
hesitation, asked Mrs Gamp what troubled her so much.
‘My dear,’ returned that lady, dropping her voice, ‘you are single,
ain’t you?’
Ruth laughed blushed, and said ‘Yes.’
‘Worse luck,’ proceeded Mrs Gamp, ‘for all parties! But others is
married, and in the marriage state; and there is a dear young creetur
a-comin’ down this mornin’ to that very package, which is no more fit to
trust herself to sea, than nothin’ is!’
She paused here to look over the deck of the packet in question, and on
the steps leading down to it, and on the gangways. Seeming to have
thus assured herself that the object of her commiseration had not yet
arrived, she raised her eyes gradually up to the top of the escape-pipe,
and indignantly apostrophised the vessel:
‘Oh, drat you!’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella at it, ‘you’re a
nice spluttering nisy monster for a delicate young creetur to go and
be a passinger by; ain’t you! YOU never do no harm in that way, do
you? With your hammering, and roaring, and hissing, and lamp-iling, you
brute! Them Confugion steamers,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella
again, ‘has done more to throw us out of our reg’lar work and bring
ewents on at times when nobody counted on ‘em (especially them
screeching railroad ones), than all the other frights that ever was
took. I have heerd of one young man, a guard upon a railway, only three
years opened--well does Mrs Harris know him, which indeed he is her own
relation by her sister’s marriage with a master sawyer--as is godfather
at this present time to six-and-twenty blessed little strangers, equally
unexpected, and all on ‘um named after the Ingeines as was the cause.
Ugh!’ said Mrs Gamp, resuming her apostrophe, ‘one might easy know you
was a man’s inwention, from your disregardlessness of the weakness of
our naturs, so one might, you brute!’
It would not have been unnatural to suppose, from the first part of Mrs
Gamp’s lamentations, that she was connected with the stage-coaching or
post-horsing trade. She had no means of judging of the effect of her
concluding remarks upon her young companion; for she interrupted herself
at this point, and exclaimed:
‘There she identically goes! Poor sweet young creetur, there she goes,
like a lamb to the sacrifige! If there’s any illness when that wessel
gets to sea,’ said Mrs Gamp, prophetically, ‘it’s murder, and I’m the
witness for the persecution.’
She was so very earnest on the subject, that Tom’s sister (being as kind
as Tom himself) could not help saying something to her in reply.
‘Pray, which is the lady,’ she inquired, ‘in whom you are so much
interested?’
‘There!’ groaned Mrs Gamp. ‘There she goes! A-crossin’ the little wooden
bridge at this minute. She’s a-slippin’ on a bit of orangepeel!’ tightly
clutching her umbrella. ‘What a turn it give me.’
‘Do you mean the lady who is with that man wrapped up from head to foot
in a large cloak, so that his face is almost hidden?’
‘Well he may hide it!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘He’s good call to be ashamed
of himself. Did you see him a-jerking of her wrist, then?’
‘He seems to be hasty with her, indeed.’
‘Now he’s a-taking of her down into the close cabin!’ said Mrs Gamp,
impatiently. ‘What’s the man about! The deuce is in him, I think. Why
can’t he leave her in the open air?’
He did not, whatever his reason was, but led her quickly down and
disappeared himself, without loosening his cloak, or pausing on the
crowded deck one moment longer than was necessary to clear their way to
that part of the vessel.
Tom had not heard this little dialogue; for his attention had been
engaged in an unexpected manner. A hand upon his sleeve had caused
him to look round, just when Mrs Gamp concluded her apostrophe to the
steam-engine; and on his right arm, Ruth being on his left, he found
their landlord, to his great surprise.
He was not so much surprised at the man’s being there, as at his having
got close to him so quietly and swiftly; for another person had been
at his elbow one instant before; and he had not in the meantime been
conscious of any change or pressure in the knot of people among whom he
stood. He and Ruth had frequently remarked how noiselessly this landlord
of theirs came into and went out of his own house; but Tom was not the
less amazed to see him at his elbow now.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pinch,’ he said in his ear. ‘I am rather infirm,
and out of breath, and my eyes are not very good. I am not as young as I
was, sir. You don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak down yonder, with a
lady on his arm; a lady in a veil and a black shawl; do you?’
If HE did not, it was curious that in speaking he should have singled
out from all the crowd the very people whom he described; and should
have glanced hastily from them to Tom, as if he were burning to direct
his wandering eyes.
‘A gentleman in a large cloak!’ said Tom, ‘and a lady in a black shawl!
Let me see!’
‘Yes, yes!’ replied the other, with keen impatience. ‘A gentleman
muffled up from head to foot--strangely muffled up for such a morning
as this--like an invalid, with his hand to his face at this minute,
perhaps. No, no, no! not there,’ he added, following Tom’s gaze; ‘the
other way; in that direction; down yonder.’ Again he indicated, but this
time in his hurry, with his outstretched finger, the very spot on which
the progress of these persons was checked at that moment.
‘There are so many people, and so much motion, and so many objects,’
said Tom, ‘that I find it difficult to--no, I really don’t see a
gentleman in a large cloak, and a lady in a black shawl. There’s a lady
in a red shawl over there!’
‘No, no, no!’ cried his landlord, pointing eagerly again, ‘not there.
The other way; the other way. Look at the cabin steps. To the left. They
must be near the cabin steps. Do you see the cabin steps? There’s the
bell ringing already! DO you see the steps?’
‘Stay!’ said Tom, ‘you’re right. Look! there they go now. Is that the
gentleman you mean? Descending at this minute, with the folds of a great
cloak trailing down after him?’
‘The very man!’ returned the other, not looking at what Tom pointed out,
however, but at Tom’s own face. ‘Will you do me a kindness, sir, a great
kindness? Will you put that letter in his hand? Only give him that!
He expects it. I am charged to do it by my employers, but I am late in
finding him, and, not being as young as I have been, should never be
able to make my way on board and off the deck again in time. Will you
pardon my boldness, and do me that great kindness?’
His hands shook, and his face bespoke the utmost interest and agitation,
as he pressed the letter upon Tom, and pointed to its destination, like
the Tempter in some grim old carving.
To hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office
was not in Tom’s way. He took the letter; whispered Ruth to wait till
he returned, which would be immediately; and ran down the steps with all
the expedition he could make. There were so many people going down, so
many others coming up, such heavy goods in course of transit to and
fro, such a ringing of bell, blowing-off of steam, and shouting of men’s
voices, that he had much ado to force his way, or keep in mind to which
boat he was going. But he reached the right one with good speed, and
going down the cabin-stairs immediately, described the object of his
search standing at the upper end of the saloon, with his back towards
him, reading some notice which was hung against the wall. As Tom
advanced to give him the letter, he started, hearing footsteps, and
turned round.
What was Tom’s astonishment to find in him the man with whom he had had
the conflict in the field--poor Mercy’s husband. Jonas!
Tom understood him to say, what the devil did he want; but it was not
easy to make out what he said; he spoke so indistinctly.
‘I want nothing with you for myself,’ said Tom; ‘I was asked, a moment
since, to give you this letter. You were pointed out to me, but I didn’t
know you in your strange dress. Take it!’
He did so, opened it, and read the writing on the inside. The contents
were evidently very brief; not more perhaps than one line; but they
struck upon him like a stone from a sling. He reeled back as he read.
His emotion was so different from any Tom had ever seen before that he
stopped involuntarily. Momentary as his state of indecision was, the
bell ceased while he stood there, and a hoarse voice calling down the
steps, inquired if there was any to go ashore?
‘Yes,’ cried Jonas, ‘I--I am coming. Give me time. Where’s that woman!
Come back; come back here.’
He threw open another door as he spoke, and dragged, rather than led,
her forth. She was pale and frightened, and amazed to see her old
acquaintance; but had no time to speak, for they were making a great
stir above; and Jonas drew her rapidly towards the deck.
‘Where are we going? What is the matter?’
‘We are going back,’ said Jonas. ‘I have changed my mind. I can’t go.
Don’t question me, or I shall be the death of you, or some one else.
Stop there! Stop! We’re for the shore. Do you hear? We’re for the
shore!’
He turned, even in the madness of his hurry, and scowling darkly back
at Tom, shook his clenched hand at him. There are not many human faces
capable of the expression with which he accompanied that gesture.
He dragged her up, and Tom followed them. Across the deck, over the
side, along the crazy plank, and up the steps, he dragged her fiercely;
not bestowing any look on her, but gazing upwards all the while among
the faces on the wharf. Suddenly he turned again, and said to Tom with a
tremendous oath:
‘Where is he?’
Before Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to
a question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind,
and saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign
appearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with
a polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and
desperate manner.
‘Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!’ said the gentleman, raising his hat in
compliment to Mrs Chuzzlewit, ‘I ask your pardon twenty thousand times.
I am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this
nature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I
have not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great
infelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the
beehive--will you introduce me?’
‘This is Mr Montague,’ said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.
‘The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ pursued
that gentleman, ‘for having been the means of spoiling this excursion;
but as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short
little continental trip, my dear friend, of course?’
Jonas maintained a dogged silence.
‘May I die,’ cried Montague, ‘but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am
shocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city must be
paramount to every other consideration, when there is honey to be made;
and that is my best excuse. Here is a very singular old female dropping
curtseys on my right,’ said Montague, breaking off in his discourse,
and looking at Mrs Gamp, ‘who is not a friend of mine. Does anybody know
her?’
‘Ah! Well they knows me, bless their precious hearts!’ said Mrs Gamp,
‘not forgettin’ your own merry one, sir, and long may it be so! Wishin’
as every one’ (she delivered this in the form of a toast or sentiment)
‘was as merry, and as handsome-lookin’, as a little bird has whispered
me a certain gent is, which I will not name for fear I give offence
where none is doo! My precious lady,’ here she stopped short in her
merriment, for she had until now affected to be vastly entertained,
‘you’re too pale by half!’
‘YOU are here too, are you?’ muttered Jonas. ‘Ecod, there are enough of
you.’
‘I hope, sir,’ returned Mrs Gamp, dropping an indignant curtsey, ‘as no
bones is broke by me and Mrs Harris a-walkin’ down upon a public wharf.
Which was the very words she says to me (although they was the last
I ever had to speak) was these: “Sairey,” she says, “is it a public
wharf?” “Mrs Harris,” I makes answer, “can you doubt it? You have know’d
me now, ma’am, eight and thirty year; and did you ever know me go, or
wish to go, where I was not made welcome, say the words.” “No, Sairey,”
Mrs Harris says, “contrairy quite.” And well she knows it too. I am but
a poor woman, but I’ve been sought after, sir, though you may not think
it. I’ve been knocked up at all hours of the night, and warned out by
a many landlords, in consequence of being mistook for Fire. I goes out
workin’ for my bread, ‘tis true, but I maintains my independency, with
your kind leave, and which I will till death. I has my feelins as a
woman, sir, and I have been a mother likeways; but touch a pipkin as
belongs to me, or make the least remarks on what I eats or drinks, and
though you was the favouritest young for’ard hussy of a servant-gal as
ever come into a house, either you leaves the place, or me. My earnins
is not great, sir, but I will not be impoged upon. Bless the babe, and
save the mother, is my mortar, sir; but I makes so free as add to that,
Don’t try no impogician with the Nuss, for she will not abear it!’
Mrs Gamp concluded by drawing her shawl tightly over herself with both
hands, and, as usual, referring to Mrs Harris for full corroboration of
these particulars. She had that peculiar trembling of the head which,
in ladies of her excitable nature, may be taken as a sure indication
of their breaking out again very shortly; when Jonas made a timely
interposition.
‘As you ARE here,’ he said, ‘you had better see to her, and take her
home. I am otherwise engaged.’ He said nothing more; but looked at
Montague as if to give him notice that he was ready to attend him.
‘I am sorry to take you away,’ said Montague.
Jonas gave him a sinister look, which long lived in Tom’s memory, and
which he often recalled afterwards.
‘I am, upon my life,’ said Montague. ‘Why did you make it necessary?’
With the same dark glance as before, Jonas replied, after a moment’s
silence:
‘The necessity is none of my making. You have brought it about
yourself.’
He said nothing more. He said even this as if he were bound, and in the
other’s power, but had a sullen and suppressed devil within him, which
he could not quite resist. His very gait, as they walked away together,
was like that of a fettered man; but, striving to work out at his
clenched hands, knitted brows, and fast-set lips, was the same
imprisoned devil still.
They got into a handsome cabriolet which was waiting for them and drove
away.
The whole of this extraordinary scene had passed so rapidly and the
tumult which prevailed around as so unconscious of any impression from
it, that, although Tom had been one of the chief actors, it was like
a dream. No one had noticed him after they had left the packet. He had
stood behind Jonas, and so near him, that he could not help hearing all
that passed. He had stood there, with his sister on his arm, expecting
and hoping to have an opportunity of explaining his strange share in
this yet stranger business. But Jonas had not raised his eyes from the
ground; no one else had even looked towards him; and before he could
resolve on any course of action, they were all gone.
He gazed round for his landlord. But he had done that more than once
already, and no such man was to be seen. He was still pursuing this
search with his eyes, when he saw a hand beckoning to him from a
hackney-coach; and hurrying towards it, found it was Merry’s. She
addressed him hurriedly, but bent out of the window, that she might not
be overheard by her companion, Mrs Gamp.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Good heaven, what is it? Why did he tell me
last night to prepare for a long journey, and why have you brought us
back like criminals? Dear Mr Pinch!’ she clasped her hands distractedly,
‘be merciful to us. Whatever this dreadful secret is, be merciful, and
God will bless you!’
‘If any power of mercy lay with me,’ cried Tom, ‘trust me, you shouldn’t
ask in vain. But I am far more ignorant and weak than you.’
She withdrew into the coach again, and he saw the hand waving towards
him for a moment; but whether in reproachfulness or incredulity or
misery, or grief, or sad adieu, or what else, he could not, being so
hurried, understand. SHE was gone now; and Ruth and he were left to walk
away, and wonder.
Had Mr Nadgett appointed the man who never came, to meet him upon London
Bridge that morning? He was certainly looking over the parapet, and
down upon the steamboat-wharf at that moment. It could not have been
for pleasure; he never took pleasure. No. He must have had some business
there.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND, ARRIVING AT A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING, SET FORTH
UPON AN ENTERPRISE
The office of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance
Company being near at hand, and Mr Montague driving Jonas straight
there, they had very little way to go. But the journey might have been
one of several hours’ duration, without provoking a remark from either;
for it was clear that Jonas did not mean to break the silence which
prevailed between them, and that it was not, as yet, his dear friend’s
cue to tempt them into conversation.
He had thrown aside his cloak, as having now no motive for concealment,
and with that garment huddled on his knees, sat as far removed from his
companion as the limited space in such a carriage would allow. There
was a striking difference in his manner, compared with what it had been,
within a few minutes, when Tom encountered him so unexpectedly on board
the packet, or when the ugly change had fallen on him in Mr Montague’s
dressing-room. He had the aspect of a man found out and held at bay;
of being baffled, hunted, and beset; but there was now a dawning and
increasing purpose in his face, which changed it very much. It was
gloomy, distrustful, lowering; pale with anger and defeat; it still was
humbled, abject, cowardly and mean; but, let the conflict go on as it
would, there was one strong purpose wrestling with every emotion of his
mind, and casting the whole series down as they arose.
Not prepossessing in appearance at the best of times, it may be readily
supposed that he was not so now. He had left deep marks of his front
teeth in his nether lip; and those tokens of the agitation he had lately
undergone improved his looks as little as the heavy corrugations in his
forehead. But he was self-possessed now; unnaturally self-possessed,
indeed, as men quite otherwise than brave are known to be in desperate
extremities; and when the carriage stopped, he waited for no invitation,
but leapt hardily out, and went upstairs.
The chairman followed him; and closing the board-room door as soon as
they had entered, threw himself upon a sofa. Jonas stood before the
window, looking down into the street; and leaned against the sash,
resting his head upon his arms.
‘This is not handsome, Chuzzlewit!’ said Montague at length. ‘Not
handsome upon my soul!’
‘What would you have me do?’ he answered, looking round abruptly; ‘What
do you expect?’
‘Confidence, my good fellow. Some confidence!’ said Montague in an
injured tone.
‘Ecod! You show great confidence in me,’ retorted Jonas. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Do I not?’ said his companion, raising his head, and looking at him,
but he had turned again. ‘Do I not? Have I not confided to you the easy
schemes I have formed for our advantage; OUR advantage, mind; not mine
alone; and what is my return? Attempted flight!’
‘How do you know that? Who said I meant to fly?’
‘Who said? Come, come. A foreign boat, my friend, an early hour, a
figure wrapped up for disguise! Who said? If you didn’t mean to jilt
me, why were you there? If you didn’t mean to jilt me, why did you come
back?’
‘I came back,’ said Jonas, ‘to avoid disturbance.’
‘You were wise,’ rejoined his friend.
Jonas stood quite silent; still looking down into the street, and
resting his head upon his arms.
‘Now, Chuzzlewit,’ said Montague, ‘notwithstanding what has passed I
will be plain with you. Are you attending to me there? I only see your
back.’
‘I hear you. Go on!’
‘I say that notwithstanding what has passed, I will be plain with you.’
‘You said that before. And I have told you once I heard you say it. Go
on.’
‘You are a little chafed, but I can make allowance for that, and am,
fortunately, myself in the very best of tempers. Now, let us see how
circumstances stand. A day or two ago, I mentioned to you, my dear
fellow, that I thought I had discovered--’
‘Will you hold your tongue?’ said Jonas, looking fiercely round, and
glancing at the door.
‘Well, well!’ said Montague. ‘Judicious! Quite correct! My discoveries
being published, would be like many other men’s discoveries in this
honest world; of no further use to me. You see, Chuzzlewit, how
ingenuous and frank I am in showing you the weakness of my own position!
To return. I make, or think I make, a certain discovery which I take
an early opportunity of mentioning in your ear, in that spirit of
confidence which I really hoped did prevail between us, and was
reciprocated by you. Perhaps there is something in it; perhaps there is
nothing. I have my knowledge and opinion on the subject. You have yours.
We will not discuss the question. But, my good fellow, you have been
weak; what I wish to point out to you is, that you have been weak. I may
desire to turn this little incident to my account (indeed, I do--I’ll
not deny it), but my account does not lie in probing it, or using it
against you.’
‘What do you call using it against me?’ asked Jonas, who had not yet
changed his attitude.
‘Oh!’ said Montague, with a laugh. ‘We’ll not enter into that.’
‘Using it to make a beggar of me. Is that the use you mean?’
‘No.’
‘Ecod,’ muttered Jonas, bitterly. ‘That’s the use in which your account
DOES lie. You speak the truth there.’
‘I wish you to venture (it’s a very safe venture) a little more with
us, certainly, and to keep quiet,’ said Montague. ‘You promised me you
would; and you must. I say it plainly, Chuzzlewit, you MUST. Reason the
matter. If you don’t, my secret is worthless to me: and being so, it
may as well become the public property as mine; better, for I shall
gain some credit, bringing it to light. I want you, besides, to act as a
decoy in a case I have already told you of. You don’t mind that, I know.
You care nothing for the man (you care nothing for any man; you are
too sharp; so am I, I hope); and could bear any loss of his with
pious fortitude. Ha, ha, ha! You have tried to escape from the first
consequence. You cannot escape it, I assure you. I have shown you that
to-day. Now, I am not a moral man, you know. I am not the least in the
world affected by anything you may have done; by any little indiscretion
you may have committed; but I wish to profit by it if I can; and to a
man of your intelligence I make that free confession. I am not at all
singular in that infirmity. Everybody profits by the indiscretion of his
neighbour; and the people in the best repute, the most. Why do you give
me this trouble? It must come to a friendly agreement, or an unfriendly
crash. It must. If the former, you are very little hurt. If the
latter--well! you know best what is likely to happen then.’
Jonas left the window, and walked up close to him. He did not look
him in the face; it was not his habit to do that; but he kept his eyes
towards him--on his breast, or thereabouts--and was at great pains
to speak slowly and distinctly in reply. Just as a man in a state of
conscious drunkenness might be.
‘Lying is of no use now,’ he said. ‘I DID think of getting away this
morning, and making better terms with you from a distance.’
‘To be sure! to be sure!’ replied Montague. ‘Nothing more natural. I
foresaw that, and provided against it. But I am afraid I am interrupting
you.’
‘How the devil,’ pursued Jonas, with a still greater effort, ‘you made
choice of your messenger, and where you found him, I’ll not ask you. I
owed him one good turn before to-day. If you are so careless of men in
general, as you said you were just now, you are quite indifferent to
what becomes of such a crop-tailed cur as that, and will leave me to
settle my account with him in my own manner.’
If he had raised his eyes to his companion’s face, he would have seen
that Montague was evidently unable to comprehend his meaning. But
continuing to stand before him, with his furtive gaze directed as
before, and pausing here only to moisten his dry lips with his tongue,
the fact was lost upon him. It might have struck a close observer that
this fixed and steady glance of Jonas’s was a part of the alteration
which had taken place in his demeanour. He kept it riveted on one spot,
with which his thoughts had manifestly nothing to do; like as a juggler
walking on a cord or wire to any dangerous end, holds some object in his
sight to steady him, and never wanders from it, lest he trip.
Montague was quick in his rejoinder, though he made it at a venture.
There was no difference of opinion between him and his friend on THAT
point. Not the least.
‘Your great discovery,’ Jonas proceeded, with a savage sneer that
got the better of him for the moment, ‘may be true, and may be false.
Whichever it is, I dare say I’m no worse than other men.’
‘Not a bit,’ said Tigg. ‘Not a bit. We’re all alike--or nearly so.’
‘I want to know this,’ Jonas went on to say; ‘is it your own? You’ll not
wonder at my asking the question.’
‘My own!’ repeated Montague.
‘Aye!’ returned the other, gruffly. ‘Is it known to anybody else? Come!
Don’t waver about that.’
‘No!’ said Montague, without the smallest hesitation. ‘What would it be
worth, do you think, unless I had the keeping of it?’
Now, for the first time, Jonas looked at him. After a pause, he put out
his hand, and said, with a laugh:
‘Come! make things easy to me, and I’m yours. I don’t know that I may
not be better off here, after all, than if I had gone away this morning.
But here I am, and here I’ll stay now. Take your oath!’
He cleared his throat, for he was speaking hoarsely and said in a
lighter tone:
‘Shall I go to Pecksniff? When? Say when!’
‘Immediately!’ cried Montague. ‘He cannot be enticed too soon.’
‘Ecod!’ cried Jonas, with a wild laugh. ‘There’s some fun in catching
that old hypocrite. I hate him. Shall I go to-night?’
‘Aye! This,’ said Montague, ecstatically, ‘is like business! We
understand each other now! To-night, my good fellow, by all means.’
‘Come with me,’ cried Jonas. ‘We must make a dash; go down in state, and
carry documents, for he’s a deep file to deal with, and must be drawn
on with an artful hand, or he’ll not follow. I know him. As I can’t
take your lodgings or your dinners down, I must take you. Will you come
to-night?’
His friend appeared to hesitate; and neither to have anticipated this
proposal, nor to relish it very much.
‘We can concert our plans upon the road,’ said Jonas. ‘We must not go
direct to him, but cross over from some other place, and turn out of our
way to see him. I may not want to introduce you, but I must have you on
the spot. I know the man, I tell you.’
‘But what if the man knows me?’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders.
‘He know!’ cried Jonas. ‘Don’t you run that risk with fifty men a day!
Would your father know you? Did I know you? Ecod! You were another
figure when I saw you first. Ha, ha, ha! I see the rents and patches
now! No false hair then, no black dye! You were another sort of joker
in those days, you were! You even spoke different then. You’ve acted
the gentleman so seriously since, that you’ve taken in yourself. If he
should know you, what does it matter? Such a change is a proof of your
success. You know that, or you would not have made yourself known to me.
Will you come?’
‘My good fellow,’ said Montague, still hesitating, ‘I can trust you
alone.’
‘Trust me! Ecod, you may trust me now, far enough. I’ll try to go away
no more--no more!’ He stopped, and added in a more sober tone, ‘I can’t
get on without you. Will you come?’
‘I will,’ said Montague, ‘if that’s your opinion.’ And they shook hands
upon it.
The boisterous manner which Jonas had exhibited during the latter part
of this conversation, and which had gone on rapidly increasing with
almost every word he had spoken, from the time when he looked his
honourable friend in the face until now, did not now subside, but,
remaining at its height, abided by him. Most unusual with him at any
period; most inconsistent with his temper and constitution; especially
unnatural it would appear in one so darkly circumstanced; it abided by
him. It was not like the effect of wine, or any ardent drink, for he was
perfectly coherent. It even made him proof against the usual influence
of such means of excitement; for, although he drank deeply several times
that day, with no reserve or caution, he remained exactly the same man,
and his spirits neither rose nor fell in the least observable degree.
Deciding, after some discussion, to travel at night, in order that the
day’s business might not be broken in upon, they took counsel together
in reference to the means. Mr Montague being of opinion that four horses
were advisable, at all events for the first stage, as throwing a great
deal of dust into people’s eyes, in more senses than one, a travelling
chariot and four lay under orders for nine o’clock. Jonas did not go
home; observing, that his being obliged to leave town on business in
so great a hurry, would be a good excuse for having turned back so
unexpectedly in the morning. So he wrote a note for his portmanteau, and
sent it by a messenger, who duly brought his luggage back, with a short
note from that other piece of luggage, his wife, expressive of her wish
to be allowed to come and see him for a moment. To this request he sent
for answer, ‘she had better;’ and one such threatening affirmative being
sufficient, in defiance of the English grammar, to express a negative,
she kept away.
Mr Montague being much engaged in the course of the day, Jonas bestowed
his spirits chiefly on the doctor, with whom he lunched in the medical
officer’s own room. On his way thither, encountering Mr Nadgett in the
outer room, he bantered that stealthy gentleman on always appearing
anxious to avoid him, and inquired if he were afraid of him. Mr Nadgett
slyly answered, ‘No, but he believed it must be his way as he had been
charged with much the same kind of thing before.’
Mr Montague was listening to, or, to speak with greater elegance, he
overheard, this dialogue. As soon as Jonas was gone he beckoned Nadgett
to him with the feather of his pen, and whispered in his ear.
‘Who gave him my letter this morning?’
‘My lodger, sir,’ said Nadgett, behind the palm of his hand.
‘How came that about?’
‘I found him on the wharf, sir. Being so much hurried, and you not
arrived, it was necessary to do something. It fortunately occurred to
me, that if I gave it him myself I could be of no further use. I should
have been blown upon immediately.’
‘Mr Nadgett, you are a jewel,’ said Montague, patting him on the back.
‘What’s your lodger’s name?’
‘Pinch, sir. Thomas Pinch.’
Montague reflected for a little while, and then asked:
‘From the country, do you know?’
‘From Wiltshire, sir, he told me.’
They parted without another word. To see Mr Nadgett’s bow when Montague
and he next met, and to see Mr Montague acknowledge it, anybody might
have undertaken to swear that they had never spoken to each other
confidentially in all their lives.
In the meanwhile, Mr Jonas and the doctor made themselves very
comfortable upstairs, over a bottle of the old Madeira and some
sandwiches; for the doctor having been already invited to dine below at
six o’clock, preferred a light repast for lunch. It was advisable, he
said, in two points of view: First, as being healthy in itself. Secondly
as being the better preparation for dinner.
‘And you are bound for all our sakes to take particular care of your
digestion, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir,’ said the doctor smacking his
lips after a glass of wine; ‘for depend upon it, it is worth preserving.
It must be in admirable condition, sir; perfect chronometer-work.
Otherwise your spirits could not be so remarkable. Your bosom’s lord
sits lightly on its throne, Mr Chuzzlewit, as what’s-his-name says in
the play. I wish he said it in a play which did anything like common
justice to our profession, by the bye. There is an apothecary in
that drama, sir, which is a low thing; vulgar, sir; out of nature
altogether.’
Mr Jobling pulled out his shirt-frill of fine linen, as though he would
have said, ‘This is what I call nature in a medical man, sir;’ and
looked at Jonas for an observation.
Jonas not being in a condition to pursue the subject, took up a case of
lancets that was lying on the table, and opened it.
‘Ah!’ said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, ‘I always take ‘em out
of my pocket before I eat. My pockets are rather tight. Ha, ha, ha!’
Jonas had opened one of the shining little instruments; and was
scrutinizing it with a look as sharp and eager as its own bright edge.
‘Good steel, doctor. Good steel! Eh!’
‘Ye-es,’ replied the doctor, with the faltering modesty of ownership.
‘One might open a vein pretty dexterously with that, Mr Chuzzlewit.’
‘It has opened a good many in its time, I suppose?’ said Jonas looking
at it with a growing interest.
‘Not a few, my dear sir, not a few. It has been engaged in a--in a
pretty good practice, I believe I may say,’ replied the doctor, coughing
as if the matter-of-fact were so very dry and literal that he couldn’t
help it. ‘In a pretty good practice,’ repeated the doctor, putting
another glass of wine to his lips.
‘Now, could you cut a man’s throat with such a thing as this?’ demanded
Jonas.
‘Oh certainly, certainly, if you took him in the right place,’ returned
the doctor. ‘It all depends upon that.’
‘Where you have your hand now, hey?’ cried Jonas, bending forward to
look at it.
‘Yes,’ said the doctor; ‘that’s the jugular.’
Jonas, in his vivacity, made a sudden sawing in the air, so close behind
the doctor’s jugular that he turned quite red. Then Jonas (in the same
strange spirit of vivacity) burst into a loud discordant laugh.
‘No, no,’ said the doctor, shaking his head; ‘edge tools, edge tools;
never play with ‘em. A very remarkable instance of the skillful use of
edge-tools, by the way, occurs to me at this moment. It was a case of
murder. I am afraid it was a case of murder, committed by a member of
our profession; it was so artistically done.’
‘Aye!’ said Jonas. ‘How was that?’
‘Why, sir,’ returned Jobling, ‘the thing lies in a nutshell. A certain
gentleman was found, one morning, in an obscure street, lying in
an angle of a doorway--I should rather say, leaning, in an upright
position, in the angle of a doorway, and supported consequently by the
doorway. Upon his waistcoat there was one solitary drop of blood. He was
dead and cold; and had been murdered, sir.’
‘Only one drop of blood!’ said Jonas.
‘Sir, that man,’ replied the doctor, ‘had been stabbed to the heart.
Had been stabbed to the heart with such dexterity, sir, that he had
died instantly, and had bled internally. It was supposed that a
medical friend of his (to whom suspicion attached) had engaged him in
conversation on some pretence; had taken him, very likely, by the button
in a conversational manner; had examined his ground at leisure with
his other hand; had marked the exact spot; drawn out the instrument,
whatever it was, when he was quite prepared; and--’
‘And done the trick,’ suggested Jonas.
‘Exactly so,’ replied the doctor. ‘It was quite an operation in its way,
and very neat. The medical friend never turned up; and, as I tell you,
he had the credit of it. Whether he did it or not I can’t say.
But, having had the honour to be called in with two or three of my
professional brethren on the occasion, and having assisted to make a
careful examination of the wound, I have no hesitation in saying that
it would have reflected credit on any medical man; and that in an
unprofessional person it could not but be considered, either as an
extraordinary work of art, or the result of a still more extraordinary,
happy, and favourable conjunction of circumstances.’
His hearer was so much interested in this case, that the doctor went
on to elucidate it with the assistance of his own finger and thumb and
waistcoat; and at Jonas’s request, he took the further trouble of going
into a corner of the room, and alternately representing the murdered
man and the murderer; which he did with great effect. The bottle being
emptied and the story done, Jonas was in precisely the same boisterous
and unusual state as when they had sat down. If, as Jobling theorized,
his good digestion were the cause, he must have been a very ostrich.
At dinner it was just the same; and after dinner too; though wine was
drunk in abundance, and various rich meats eaten. At nine o’clock it was
still the same. There being a lamp in the carriage, he swore they would
take a pack of cards, and a bottle of wine; and with these things under
his cloak, went down to the door.
‘Out of the way, Tom Thumb, and get to bed!’
This was the salutation he bestowed on Mr Bailey, who, booted and
wrapped up, stood at the carriage door to help him in.
‘To bed, sir! I’m a-going, too,’ said Bailey.
He alighted quickly, and walked back into the hall, where Montague was
lighting a cigar; conducting Mr Bailey with him, by the collar.
‘You are not a-going to take this monkey of a boy, are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Montague.
He gave the boy a shake, and threw him roughly aside. There was more of
his familiar self in the action, than in anything he had done that day;
but he broke out laughing immediately afterwards, and making a thrust
at the doctor with his hand, in imitation of his representation of the
medical friend, went out to the carriage again, and took his seat. His
companion followed immediately. Mr Bailey climbed into the rumble. ‘It
will be a stormy night!’ exclaimed the doctor, as they started.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
The doctor’s prognostication in reference to the weather was speedily
verified. Although the weather was not a patient of his, and no third
party had required him to give an opinion on the case, the quick
fulfilment of his prophecy may be taken as an instance of his
professional tact; for, unless the threatening aspect of the night
had been perfectly plain and unmistakable, Mr Jobling would never have
compromised his reputation by delivering any sentiments on the subject.
He used this principle in Medicine with too much success to be unmindful
of it in his commonest transactions.
It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows
listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when
they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely
travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning.
Lightning flashed and quivered on the black horizon even now; and hollow
murmurings were in the wind, as though it had been blowing where the
thunder rolled, and still was charged with its exhausted echoes. But the
storm, though gathering swiftly, had not yet come up; and the prevailing
stillness was the more solemn, from the dull intelligence that seemed to
hover in the air, of noise and conflict afar off.
It was very dark; but in the murky sky there were masses of cloud which
shone with a lurid light, like monstrous heaps of copper that had been
heated in a furnace, and were growing cold. These had been advancing
steadily and slowly, but they were now motionless, or nearly so. As the
carriage clattered round the corners of the streets, it passed at every
one a knot of persons who had come there--many from their houses close
at hand, without hats--to look up at that quarter of the sky. And now a
very few large drops of rain began to fall, and thunder rumbled in the
distance.
Jonas sat in a corner of the carriage with his bottle resting on his
knee, and gripped as tightly in his hand as if he would have ground its
neck to powder if he could. Instinctively attracted by the night, he
had laid aside the pack of cards upon the cushion; and with the same
involuntary impulse, so intelligible to both of them as not to occasion
a remark on either side, his companion had extinguished the lamp. The
front glasses were down; and they sat looking silently out upon the
gloomy scene before them.
They were clear of London, or as clear of it as travellers can be whose
way lies on the Western Road, within a stage of that enormous city.
Occasionally they encountered a foot-passenger, hurrying to the nearest
place of shelter; or some unwieldy cart proceeding onward at a heavy
trot, with the same end in view. Little clusters of such vehicles were
gathered round the stable-yard or baiting-place of every wayside tavern;
while their drivers watched the weather from the doors and open windows,
or made merry within. Everywhere the people were disposed to bear each
other company rather than sit alone; so that groups of watchful faces
seemed to be looking out upon the night AND THEM, from almost every
house they passed.
It may appear strange that this should have disturbed Jonas, or rendered
him uneasy; but it did. After muttering to himself, and often changing
his position, he drew up the blind on his side of the carriage, and
turned his shoulder sulkily towards it. But he neither looked at his
companion, nor broke the silence which prevailed between them, and which
had fallen so suddenly upon himself, by addressing a word to him.
The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed; the rain poured down like
Heaven’s wrath. Surrounded at one moment by intolerable light, and
at the next by pitchy darkness, they still pressed forward on their
journey. Even when they arrived at the end of the stage, and might have
tarried, they did not; but ordered horses out immediately. Nor had this
any reference to some five minutes’ lull, which at that time seemed to
promise a cessation of the storm. They held their course as if they were
impelled and driven by its fury. Although they had not exchanged a dozen
words, and might have tarried very well, they seemed to feel, by joint
consent, that onward they must go.
Louder and louder the deep thunder rolled, as through the myriad
halls of some vast temple in the sky; fiercer and brighter became the
lightning, more and more heavily the rain poured down. The horses (they
were travelling now with a single pair) plunged and started from the
rills of quivering fire that seemed to wind along the ground before
them; but there these two men sat, and forward they went as if they were
led on by an invisible attraction.
The eye, partaking of the quickness of the flashing light, saw in its
every gleam a multitude of objects which it could not see at steady noon
in fifty times that period. Bells in steeples, with the rope and wheel
that moved them; ragged nests of birds in cornices and nooks; faces full
of consternation in the tilted waggons that came tearing past; their
frightened teams ringing out a warning which the thunder drowned;
harrows and ploughs left out in fields; miles upon miles of
hedge-divided country, with the distant fringe of trees as obvious as
the scarecrow in the bean-field close at hand; in a trembling, vivid,
flickering instant, everything was clear and plain; then came a flush
of red into the yellow light; a change to blue; a brightness so
intense that there was nothing else but light; and then the deepest and
profoundest darkness.
The lightning being very crooked and very dazzling may have presented
or assisted a curious optical illusion, which suddenly rose before the
startled eyes of Montague in the carriage, and as rapidly disappeared.
He thought he saw Jonas with his hand lifted, and the bottle clenched in
it like a hammer, making as if he would aim a blow at his head. At the
same time he observed (or so believed) an expression in his face--a
combination of the unnatural excitement he had shown all day, with a
wild hatred and fear--which might have rendered a wolf a less terrible
companion.
He uttered an involuntary exclamation, and called to the driver, who
brought his horses to a stop with all speed.
It could hardly have been as he supposed, for although he had not taken
his eyes off his companion, and had not seen him move, he sat reclining
in his corner as before.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Jonas. ‘Is that your general way of waking out
of your sleep?’
‘I could swear,’ returned the other, ‘that I have not closed my eyes!’
‘When you have sworn it,’ said Jonas, composedly, ‘we had better go on
again, if you have only stopped for that.’
He uncorked the bottle with the help of his teeth; and putting it to his
lips, took a long draught.
‘I wish we had never started on this journey. This is not,’ said
Montague, recoiling instinctively, and speaking in a voice that betrayed
his agitation; ‘this is not a night to travel in.’
‘Ecod! you’re right there,’ returned Jonas, ‘and we shouldn’t be out
in it but for you. If you hadn’t kept me waiting all day, we might have
been at Salisbury by this time; snug abed and fast asleep. What are we
stopping for?’
His companion put his head out of window for a moment, and drawing it in
again, observed (as if that were his cause of anxiety), that the boy was
drenched to the skin.
‘Serve him right,’ said Jonas. ‘I’m glad of it. What the devil are we
stopping for? Are you going to spread him out to dry?’
‘I have half a mind to take him inside,’ observed the other with some
hesitation.
‘Oh! thankee!’ said Jonas. ‘We don’t want any damp boys here; especially
a young imp like him. Let him be where he is. He ain’t afraid of a
little thunder and lightning, I dare say; whoever else is. Go on,
driver. We had better have HIM inside perhaps,’ he muttered with a
laugh; ‘and the horses!’
‘Don’t go too fast,’ cried Montague to the postillion; ‘and take care
how you go. You were nearly in the ditch when I called to you.’
This was not true; and Jonas bluntly said so, as they moved forward
again. Montague took little or no heed of what he said, but repeated
that it was not a night for travelling, and showed himself, both then
and afterwards, unusually anxious.
From this time Jonas recovered his former spirits, if such a term may be
employed to express the state in which he had left the city. He had his
bottle often at his mouth; roared out snatches of songs, without the
least regard to time or tune or voice, or anything but loud discordance;
and urged his silent friend to be merry with him.
‘You’re the best company in the world, my good fellow,’ said Montague
with an effort, ‘and in general irresistible; but to-night--do you hear
it?’
‘Ecod! I hear and see it too,’ cried Jonas, shading his eyes, for the
moment, from the lightning which was flashing, not in any one direction,
but all around them. ‘What of that? It don’t change you, nor me, nor our
affairs. Chorus, chorus,
It may lighten and storm,
Till it hunt the red worm
From the grass where the gibbet is driven;
But it can’t hurt the dead,
And it won’t save the head
That is doom’d to be rifled and riven.
That must be a precious old song,’ he added with an oath, as he stopped
short in a kind of wonder at himself. ‘I haven’t heard it since I was
a boy, and how it comes into my head now, unless the lightning put it
there, I don’t know. “Can’t hurt the dead”! No, no. “And won’t save the
head”! No, no. No! Ha, ha, ha!’
His mirth was of such a savage and extraordinary character, and was,
in an inexplicable way, at once so suited to the night, and yet such
a coarse intrusion on its terrors, that his fellow-traveller, always
a coward, shrunk from him in positive fear. Instead of Jonas being his
tool and instrument, their places seemed to be reversed. But there was
reason for this too, Montague thought; since the sense of his debasement
might naturally inspire such a man with the wish to assert a noisy
independence, and in that licence to forget his real condition. Being
quick enough, in reference to such subjects of contemplation, he was not
long in taking this argument into account and giving it its full weight.
But still, he felt a vague sense of alarm, and was depressed and uneasy.
He was certain he had not been asleep; but his eyes might have deceived
him; for, looking at Jonas now in any interval of darkness, he could
represent his figure to himself in any attitude his state of mind
suggested. On the other hand, he knew full well that Jonas had no
reason to love him; and even taking the piece of pantomime which had
so impressed his mind to be a real gesture, and not the working of
his fancy, the most that could be said of it was, that it was quite in
keeping with the rest of his diabolical fun, and had the same impotent
expression of truth in it. ‘If he could kill me with a wish,’ thought
the swindler, ‘I should not live long.’
He resolved that when he should have had his use of Jonas, he would
restrain him with an iron curb; in the meantime, that he could not do
better than leave him to take his own way, and preserve his own peculiar
description of good-humour, after his own uncommon manner. It was no
great sacrifice to bear with him; ‘for when all is got that can be got,’
thought Montague, ‘I shall decamp across the water, and have the laugh
on my side--and the gains.’
Such were his reflections from hour to hour; his state of mind being one
in which the same thoughts constantly present themselves over and
over again in wearisome repetition; while Jonas, who appeared to have
dismissed reflection altogether, entertained himself as before.
They agreed that they would go to Salisbury, and would cross to Mr
Pecksniff’s in the morning; and at the prospect of deluding that worthy
gentleman, the spirits of his amiable son-in-law became more boisterous
than ever.
As the night wore on, the thunder died away, but still rolled
gloomily and mournfully in the distance. The lightning too, though now
comparatively harmless, was yet bright and frequent. The rain was quite
as violent as it had ever been.
It was their ill-fortune, at about the time of dawn and in the last
stage of their journey, to have a restive pair of horses. These animals
had been greatly terrified in their stable by the tempest; and coming
out into the dreary interval between night and morning, when the glare
of the lightning was yet unsubdued by day, and the various objects in
their view were presented in indistinct and exaggerated shapes which
they would not have worn by night, they gradually became less and less
capable of control; until, taking a sudden fright at something by the
roadside, they dashed off wildly down a steep hill, flung the driver
from his saddle, drew the carriage to the brink of a ditch, stumbled
headlong down, and threw it crashing over.
The travellers had opened the carriage door, and had either jumped or
fallen out. Jonas was the first to stagger to his feet. He felt sick and
weak, and very giddy, and reeling to a five-barred gate, stood holding
by it; looking drowsily about as the whole landscape swam before his
eyes. But, by degrees, he grew more conscious, and presently observed
that Montague was lying senseless in the road, within a few feet of the
horses.
In an instant, as if his own faint body were suddenly animated by a
demon, he ran to the horses’ heads; and pulling at their bridles with
all his force, set them struggling and plunging with such mad violence
as brought their hoofs at every effort nearer to the skull of the
prostrate man; and must have led in half a minute to his brains being
dashed out on the highway.
As he did this, he fought and contended with them like a man possessed,
making them wilder by his cries.
‘Whoop!’ cried Jonas. ‘Whoop! again! another! A little more, a little
more! Up, ye devils! Hillo!’
As he heard the driver, who had risen and was hurrying up, crying to him
to desist, his violence increased.
‘Hiilo! Hillo!’ cried Jonas.
‘For God’s sake!’ cried the driver. ‘The gentleman--in the road--he’ll
be killed!’
The same shouts and the same struggles were his only answer. But the man
darting in at the peril of his own life, saved Montague’s, by dragging
him through the mire and water out of the reach of present harm. That
done, he ran to Jonas; and with the aid of his knife they very shortly
disengaged the horses from the broken chariot, and got them, cut and
bleeding, on their legs again. The postillion and Jonas had now leisure
to look at each other, which they had not had yet.
‘Presence of mind, presence of mind!’ cried Jonas, throwing up his hands
wildly. ‘What would you have done without me?’
‘The other gentleman would have done badly without ME,’ returned the
man, shaking his head. ‘You should have moved him first. I gave him up
for dead.’
‘Presence of mind, you croaker, presence of mind’ cried Jonas with a
harsh loud laugh. ‘Was he struck, do you think?’
They both turned to look at him. Jonas muttered something to himself,
when he saw him sitting up beneath the hedge, looking vacantly around.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Montague. ‘Is anybody hurt?’
‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, ‘it don’t seem so. There are no bones broken, after
all.’
They raised him, and he tried to walk. He was a good deal shaken, and
trembled very much. But with the exception of a few cuts and bruises
this was all the damage he had sustained.
‘Cuts and bruises, eh?’ said Jonas. ‘We’ve all got them. Only cuts and
bruises, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t have given sixpence for the gentleman’s head in half-a-dozen
seconds more, for all he’s only cut and bruised,’ observed the post-boy.
‘If ever you’re in an accident of this sort again, sir; which I hope
you won’t be; never you pull at the bridle of a horse that’s down, when
there’s a man’s head in the way. That can’t be done twice without there
being a dead man in the case; it would have ended in that, this time, as
sure as ever you were born, if I hadn’t come up just when I did.’
Jonas replied by advising him with a curse to hold his tongue, and to go
somewhere, whither he was not very likely to go of his own accord. But
Montague, who had listened eagerly to every word, himself diverted the
subject, by exclaiming: ‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Ecod! I forgot that monkey,’ said Jonas. ‘What’s become of him?’ A very
brief search settled that question. The unfortunate Mr Bailey had been
thrown sheer over the hedge or the five-barred gate; and was lying in
the neighbouring field, to all appearance dead.
‘When I said to-night, that I wished I had never started on this
journey,’ cried his master, ‘I knew it was an ill-fated one. Look at
this boy!’
‘Is that all?’ growled Jonas. ‘If you call THAT a sign of it--’
‘Why, what should I call a sign of it?’ asked Montague, hurriedly. ‘What
do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Jonas, stooping down over the body, ‘that I never heard
you were his father, or had any particular reason to care much about
him. Halloa. Hold up there!’
But the boy was past holding up, or being held up, or giving any other
sign of life than a faint and fitful beating of the heart. After some
discussion the driver mounted the horse which had been least injured,
and took the lad in his arms as well as he could; while Montague and
Jonas, leading the other horse, and carrying a trunk between them,
walked by his side towards Salisbury.
‘You’d get there in a few minutes, and be able to send assistance to
meet us, if you went forward, post-boy,’ said Jonas. ‘Trot on!’
‘No, no,’ cried Montague; ‘we’ll keep together.’
‘Why, what a chicken you are! You are not afraid of being robbed; are
you?’ said Jonas.
‘I am not afraid of anything,’ replied the other, whose looks and manner
were in flat contradiction to his words. ‘But we’ll keep together.’
‘You were mighty anxious about the boy, a minute ago,’ said Jonas. ‘I
suppose you know that he may die in the meantime?’
‘Aye, aye. I know. But we’ll keep together.’
As it was clear that he was not to be moved from this determination,
Jonas made no other rejoinder than such as his face expressed; and they
proceeded in company. They had three or four good miles to travel; and
the way was not made easier by the state of the road, the burden by
which they were embarrassed, or their own stiff and sore condition.
After a sufficiently long and painful walk, they arrived at the Inn; and
having knocked the people up (it being yet very early in the morning),
sent out messengers to see to the carriage and its contents, and roused
a surgeon from his bed to tend the chief sufferer. All the service he
could render, he rendered promptly and skillfully. But he gave it as
his opinion that the boy was labouring under a severe concussion of the
brain, and that Mr Bailey’s mortal course was run.
If Montague’s strong interest in the announcement could have been
considered as unselfish in any degree, it might have been a redeeming
trait in a character that had no such lineaments to spare. But it was
not difficult to see that, for some unexpressed reason best appreciated
by himself, he attached a strange value to the company and presence of
this mere child. When, after receiving some assistance from the surgeon
himself, he retired to the bedroom prepared for him, and it was broad
day, his mind was still dwelling on this theme.
‘I would rather have lost,’ he said, ‘a thousand pounds than lost the
boy just now. But I’ll return home alone. I am resolved upon that.
Chuzzlewit shall go forward first, and I will follow in my own time.
I’ll have no more of this,’ he added, wiping his damp forehead.
‘Twenty-four hours of this would turn my hair grey!’
After examining his chamber, and looking under the bed, and in the
cupboards, and even behind the curtains, with unusual caution (although
it was, as has been said, broad day), he double-locked the door by which
he had entered, and retired to rest. There was another door in the
room, but it was locked on the outer side; and with what place it
communicated, he knew not.
His fears or evil conscience reproduced this door in all his dreams. He
dreamed that a dreadful secret was connected with it; a secret which he
knew, and yet did not know, for although he was heavily responsible
for it, and a party to it, he was harassed even in his vision by
a distracting uncertainty in reference to its import. Incoherently
entwined with this dream was another, which represented it as the
hiding-place of an enemy, a shadow, a phantom; and made it the business
of his life to keep the terrible creature closed up, and prevent it
from forcing its way in upon him. With this view Nadgett, and he, and a
strange man with a bloody smear upon his head (who told him that he
had been his playfellow, and told him, too, the real name of an old
schoolmate, forgotten until then), worked with iron plates and nails to
make the door secure; but though they worked never so hard, it was all
in vain, for the nails broke, or changed to soft twigs, or what was
worse, to worms, between their fingers; the wood of the door splintered
and crumbled, so that even nails would not remain in it; and the iron
plates curled up like hot paper. All this time the creature on the other
side--whether it was in the shape of man, or beast, he neither knew nor
sought to know--was gaining on them. But his greatest terror was when
the man with the bloody smear upon his head demanded of him if he knew
this creatures name, and said that he would whisper it. At this the
dreamer fell upon his knees, his whole blood thrilling with inexplicable
fear, and held his ears. But looking at the speaker’s lips, he saw that
they formed the utterance of the letter ‘J’; and crying out aloud that
the secret was discovered, and they were all lost, he awoke.
Awoke to find Jonas standing at his bedside watching him. And that very
door wide open.
As their eyes met, Jonas retreated a few paces, and Montague sprang out
of bed.
‘Heyday!’ said Jonas. ‘You’re all alive this morning.’
‘Alive!’ the other stammered, as he pulled the bell-rope violently.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s your room to be sure,’ said Jonas; ‘but I’m almost inclined to ask
you what YOU are doing here? My room is on the other side of that
door. No one told me last night not to open it. I thought it led into a
passage, and was coming out to order breakfast. There’s--there’s no bell
in my room.’
Montague had in the meantime admitted the man with his hot water and
boots, who hearing this, said, yes, there was; and passed into the
adjoining room to point it out, at the head of the bed.
‘I couldn’t find it, then,’ said Jonas; ‘it’s all the same. Shall I
order breakfast?’
Montague answered in the affirmative. When Jonas had retired, whistling,
through his own room, he opened the door of communication, to take out
the key and fasten it on the inner side. But it was taken out already.
He dragged a table against the door, and sat down to collect himself, as
if his dreams still had some influence upon his mind.
‘An evil journey,’ he repeated several times. ‘An evil journey. But I’ll
travel home alone. I’ll have no more of this.’
His presentiment, or superstition, that it was an evil journey, did
not at all deter him from doing the evil for which the journey was
undertaken. With this in view, he dressed himself more carefully than
usual to make a favourable impression on Mr Pecksniff; and, reassured by
his own appearance, the beauty of the morning, and the flashing of
the wet boughs outside his window in the merry sunshine, was soon
sufficiently inspirited to swear a few round oaths, and hum the fag-end
of a song.
But he still muttered to himself at intervals, for all that: ‘I’ll
travel home alone!’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS
EXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH FORTITUDE
AND MAGNANIMITY
On the night of the storm, Mrs Lupin, hostess of the Blue Dragon, sat by
herself in her little bar. Her solitary condition, or the bad weather,
or both united, made Mrs Lupin thoughtful, not to say sorrowful. As she
sat with her chin upon her hand, looking out through a low back lattice,
rendered dim in the brightest day-time by clustering vine-leaves, she
shook her head very often, and said, ‘Dear me! Oh, dear, dear me!’
It was a melancholy time, even in the snugness of the Dragon bar.
The rich expanse of corn-field, pasture-land, green slope, and gentle
undulation, with its sparkling brooks, its many hedgerows, and its
clumps of beautiful trees, was black and dreary, from the diamond panes
of the lattice away to the far horizon, where the thunder seemed to roll
along the hills. The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine
and jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury; and when the lightning
gleamed it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at
the window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered
from the dismal night.
As a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed her
candle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood unheeded
at her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far off, was
untasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of attraction. She
had sat for a long time with her chin upon her hand, saying to herself
at intervals, ‘Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!’
She was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the
house-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn
catch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and walking
straight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather gruffly:
‘A pint of the best old beer here.’
He had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a
waterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was
wrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor’s coat, and had an
oil-skin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell
trickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging from a
certain liveliness of chin--he had so pulled down his hat, and pulled up
his collar, to defend himself from the weather, that she could only
see his chin, and even across that he drew the wet sleeve of his shaggy
coat, as she looked at him--Mrs Lupin set him down for a good-natured
fellow, too.
‘A bad night!’ observed the hostess cheerfully.
The traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it was,
rather.
‘There’s a fire in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Lupin, ‘and very good company
there. Hadn’t you better go and dry yourself?’
‘No, thankee,’ said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke;
he seemed to know the way.
‘It’s enough to give you your death of cold,’ observed the hostess.
‘I don’t take my death easy,’ returned the traveller; ‘or I should most
likely have took it afore to-night. Your health, ma’am!’
Mrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his
mouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his body
back, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is wrapped up,
and has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:
‘What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?’
Mrs Lupin complacently made answer, ‘Yes, the Dragon.’
‘Why, then, you’ve got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma’am,’ said
the traveller; ‘a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark, my boy!’
apostrophizing the premises, ‘have I come upon you at last, old buck!’
This was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim
the candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the
traveller:
‘Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any one
who brought me news of Mark. But it’s many and many a long day and month
since he left here and England. And whether he’s alive or dead, poor
fellow, Heaven above us only knows!’
She shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done so
too, for the light required a deal of trimming.
‘Where did he go, ma’am?’ asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.
‘He went,’ said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, ‘to America. He was
always tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may be lying
in prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some miserable
black, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape. How could he ever
go to America! Why didn’t he go to some of those countries where the
savages eat each other fairly, and give an equal chance to every one!’
Quite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a
chair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in his
arms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.
‘Yes, I will!’ cried Mark, ‘another--one more--twenty more! You
didn’t know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known me
anywheres! Ten more!’
‘So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I couldn’t,
and you spoke so gruff. I didn’t think you could speak gruff to me,
Mark, at first coming back.’
‘Fifteen more!’ said Mr Tapley. ‘How handsome and how young you look!
Six more! The last half-dozen warn’t a fair one, and must be done over
again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I
never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any
credit in it!’
When Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did
it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was
out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.
‘Mr Martin Chuzzlewit’s outside,’ he said. ‘I left him under the
cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to
keep quiet to-night, till we know the news from you, and what it’s best
for us to do.’
‘There’s not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,’ returned
the hostess. ‘If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they’d have
a bonfire in the street, late as it is.’
‘But they mustn’t know it to-night, my precious soul,’ said Mark; ‘so
have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it’s all
ready, put a light in the winder, and we’ll come in. One more! I long
to hear about old friends. You’ll tell me all about ‘em, won’t you; Mr
Pinch, and the butcher’s dog down the street, and the terrier over the
way, and the wheelwright’s, and every one of ‘em. When I first caught
sight of the church to-night, I thought the steeple would have choked
me, I did. One more! Won’t you? Not a very little one to finish off
with?’
‘You have had plenty, I am sure,’ said the hostess. ‘Go along with your
foreign manners!’
‘That ain’t foreign, bless you!’ cried Mark. ‘Native as oysters, that
is! One more, because it’s native! As a mark of respect for the land we
live in! This don’t count as between you and me, you understand,’ said
Mr Tapley. ‘I ain’t a-kissing you now, you’ll observe. I have been among
the patriots; I’m a-kissin’ my country.’
It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of
his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was
at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his
nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs Lupin, in a state of
great agitation and excitement, prepared for their reception.
The company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the
Dragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must have
affected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were, Martin and Mark
were overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched them with delighted
interest as they departed from the house, and passed close by them.
‘There’s the old tailor, Mark!’ whispered Martin.
‘There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir, ain’t
he? His figure’s so far altered, as it seems to me, that you might wheel
a rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks, than you could have
done conveniently when we know’d him. There’s Sam a-coming out, sir.’
‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Martin; ‘Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether that
horse of Pecksniff’s is alive still?’
‘Not a doubt on it, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘That’s a description of
animal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a long
time, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of “Sing’lar
Tenacity of Life in a Quadruped.” As if he had ever been alive in all
his life, worth mentioning! There’s the clerk, sir--wery drunk, as
usual.’
‘I see him!’ said Martin, laughing. ‘But, my life, how wet you are,
Mark!’
‘I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?’
‘Oh, not half as bad,’ said his fellow-traveller, with an air of great
vexation. ‘I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark, but to let us
change and change about. The rain has been beating on you ever since it
began.’
‘You don’t know how it pleases me, sir,’ said Mark, after a short
silence, ‘if I may make so bold as say so, to hear you a-going on in
that there uncommon considerate way of yours; which I don’t mean to
attend to, never, but which, ever since that time when I was floored in
Eden, you have showed.’
‘Ah, Mark!’ sighed Martin, ‘the less we say of that the better. Do I see
the light yonder?’
‘That’s the light!’ cried Mark. ‘Lord bless her, what briskness she
possesses! Now for it, sir. Neat wines, good beds, and first-rate
entertainment for man or beast.’
The kitchen fire burnt clear and red, the table was spread out, the
kettle boiled; the slippers were there, the boot-jack too, sheets of
ham were there, cooking on the gridiron; half-a-dozen eggs were there,
poaching in the frying-pan; a plethoric cherry-brandy bottle was there,
winking at a foaming jug of beer upon the table; rare provisions were
there, dangling from the rafters as if you had only to open your mouth,
and something exquisitely ripe and good would be glad of the excuse for
tumbling into it. Mrs Lupin, who for their sakes had dislodged the
very cook, high priestess of the temple, with her own genial hands was
dressing their repast.
It was impossible to help it--a ghost must have hugged her. The Atlantic
Ocean and the Red Sea being, in that respect, all one, Martin hugged
her instantly. Mr Tapley (as if the idea were quite novel, and had never
occurred to him before), followed, with much gravity, on the same side.
‘Little did I ever think,’ said Mrs Lupin, adjusting her cap and
laughing heartily; yes, and blushing too; ‘often as I have said that Mr
Pecksniff’s young gentlemen were the life and soul of the Dragon, and
that without them it would be too dull to live in--little did I ever
think I am sure, that any one of them would ever make so free as you, Mr
Martin! And still less that I shouldn’t be angry with him, but should be
glad with all my heart to be the first to welcome him home from America,
with Mark Tapley for his--’
‘For his friend, Mrs Lupin,’ interposed Martin.
‘For his friend,’ said the hostess, evidently gratified by this
distinction, but at the same time admonishing Mr Tapley with a fork
to remain at a respectful distance. ‘Little did I ever think that! But
still less, that I should ever have the changes to relate that I shall
have to tell you of, when you have done your supper!’
‘Good Heaven!’ cried Martin, changing colour, ‘what changes?’
‘SHE,’ said the hostess, ‘is quite well, and now at Mr Pecksniff’s.
Don’t be at all alarmed about her. She is everything you could wish.
It’s of no use mincing matters, or making secrets, is it?’ added Mrs
Lupin. ‘I know all about it, you see!’
‘My good creature,’ returned Martin, ‘you are exactly the person who
ought to know all about it. I am delighted to think you DO know about
that! But what changes do you hint at? Has any death occurred?’
‘No, no!’ said the hostess. ‘Not as bad as that. But I declare now that
I will not be drawn into saying another word till you have had your
supper. If you ask me fifty questions in the meantime, I won’t answer
one.’
She was so positive, that there was nothing for it but to get the supper
over as quickly as possible; and as they had been walking a great many
miles, and had fasted since the middle of the day, they did no great
violence to their own inclinations in falling on it tooth and nail. It
took rather longer to get through than might have been expected; for,
half-a-dozen times, when they thought they had finished, Mrs Lupin
exposed the fallacy of that impression triumphantly. But at last, in
the course of time and nature, they gave in. Then, sitting with
their slippered feet stretched out upon the kitchen hearth (which was
wonderfully comforting, for the night had grown by this time raw and
chilly), and looking with involuntary admiration at their dimpled,
buxom, blooming hostess, as the firelight sparkled in her eyes and
glimmered in her raven hair, they composed themselves to listen to her
news.
Many were the exclamations of surprise which interrupted her, when she
told them of the separation between Mr Pecksniff and his daughters, and
between the same good gentleman and Mr Pinch. But these were nothing to
the indignant demonstrations of Martin, when she related, as the common
talk of the neighbourhood, what entire possession he had obtained
over the mind and person of old Mr Chuzzlewit, and what high honour he
designed for Mary. On receipt of this intelligence, Martin’s slippers
flew off in a twinkling, and he began pulling on his wet boots with that
indefinite intention of going somewhere instantly, and doing something
to somebody, which is the first safety-valve of a hot temper.
‘He!’ said Martin, ‘smooth-tongued villain that he is! He! Give me that
other boot, Mark?’
‘Where was you a-thinking of going to, sir?’ inquired Mr Tapley drying
the sole at the fire, and looking coolly at it as he spoke, as if it
were a slice of toast.
‘Where!’ repeated Martin. ‘You don’t suppose I am going to remain here,
do you?’
The imperturbable Mark confessed that he did.
You do!’ retorted Martin angrily. ‘I am much obliged to you. What do you
take me for?’
‘I take you for what you are, sir,’ said Mark; ‘and, consequently, am
quite sure that whatever you do will be right and sensible. The boot,
sir.’
Martin darted an impatient look at him, without taking it, and walked
rapidly up and down the kitchen several times, with one boot and a
stocking on. But, mindful of his Eden resolution, he had already gained
many victories over himself when Mark was in the case, and he resolved
to conquer now. So he came back to the book-jack, laid his hand on
Mark’s shoulder to steady himself, pulled the boot off, picked up his
slippers, put them on, and sat down again. He could not help thrusting
his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, and muttering at intervals,
‘Pecksniff too! That fellow! Upon my soul! In-deed! What next?’ and so
forth; nor could he help occasionally shaking his fist at the chimney,
with a very threatening countenance; but this did not last long; and he
heard Mrs Lupin out, if not with composure, at all events in silence.
‘As to Mr Pecksniff himself,’ observed the hostess in conclusion,
spreading out the skirts of her gown with both hands, and nodding
her head a great many times as she did so, ‘I don’t know what to
say. Somebody must have poisoned his mind, or influenced him in some
extraordinary way. I cannot believe that such a noble-spoken gentleman
would go and do wrong of his own accord!’
A noble-spoken gentleman! How many people are there in the world, who,
for no better reason, uphold their Pecksniffs to the last and abandon
virtuous men, when Pecksniffs breathe upon them!
‘As to Mr Pinch,’ pursued the landlady, ‘if ever there was a dear, good,
pleasant, worthy soul alive, Pinch, and no other, is his name. But
how do we know that old Mr Chuzzlewit himself was not the cause of
difference arising between him and Mr Pecksniff? No one but themselves
can tell; for Mr Pinch has a proud spirit, though he has such a quiet
way; and when he left us, and was so sorry to go, he scorned to make his
story good, even to me.’
‘Poor old Tom!’ said Martin, in a tone that sounded like remorse.
‘It’s a comfort to know,’ resumed the landlady, ‘that he has his sister
living with him, and is doing well. Only yesterday he sent me back, by
post, a little’--here the colour came into her cheeks--‘a little trifle
I was bold enough to lend him when he went away; saying, with many
thanks, that he had good employment, and didn’t want it. It was the same
note; he hadn’t broken it. I never thought I could have been so little
pleased to see a bank-note come back to me as I was to see that.’
‘Kindly said, and heartily!’ said Martin. ‘Is it not, Mark?’
‘She can’t say anything as does not possess them qualities,’ returned
Mr Tapley; ‘which as much belongs to the Dragon as its licence. And now
that we have got quite cool and fresh, to the subject again, sir;
what will you do? If you’re not proud, and can make up your mind to go
through with what you spoke of, coming along, that’s the course for
you to take. If you started wrong with your grandfather (which, you’ll
excuse my taking the liberty of saying, appears to have been the case),
up with you, sir, and tell him so, and make an appeal to his affections.
Don’t stand out. He’s a great deal older than you, and if he was hasty,
you was hasty too. Give way, sir, give way.’
The eloquence of Mr Tapley was not without its effect on Martin but he
still hesitated, and expressed his reason thus:
‘That’s all very true, and perfectly correct, Mark; and if it were a
mere question of humbling myself before HIM, I would not consider it
twice. But don’t you see, that being wholly under this hypocrite’s
government, and having (if what we hear be true) no mind or will of his
own, I throw myself, in fact, not at his feet, but at the feet of
Mr Pecksniff? And when I am rejected and spurned away,’ said Martin,
turning crimson at the thought, ‘it is not by him; my own blood stirred
against me; but by Pecksniff--Pecksniff, Mark!’
‘Well, but we know beforehand,’ returned the politic Mr Tapley, ‘that
Pecksniff is a wagabond, a scoundrel, and a willain.’
‘A most pernicious villain!’ said Martin.
‘A most pernicious willain. We know that beforehand, sir; and,
consequently, it’s no shame to be defeated by Pecksniff. Blow
Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Tapley, in the fervour of his eloquence. ‘Who’s he!
It’s not in the natur of Pecksniff to shame US, unless he agreed with
us, or done us a service; and, in case he offered any audacity of that
description, we could express our sentiments in the English language,
I hope. Pecksniff!’ repeated Mr Tapley, with ineffable disdain. ‘What’s
Pecksniff, who’s Pecksniff, where’s Pecksniff, that he’s to be so much
considered? We’re not a-calculating for ourselves;’ he laid uncommon
emphasis on the last syllable of that word, and looked full in Martin’s
face; ‘we’re making a effort for a young lady likewise as has undergone
her share; and whatever little hope we have, this here Pecksniff is not
to stand in its way, I expect. I never heard of any act of Parliament,
as was made by Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Why, I wouldn’t see the man myself;
I wouldn’t hear him; I wouldn’t choose to know he was in company. I’d
scrape my shoes on the scraper of the door, and call that Pecksniff, if
you liked; but I wouldn’t condescend no further.’
The amazement of Mrs Lupin, and indeed of Mr Tapley himself for that
matter, at this impassioned flow of language, was immense. But Martin,
after looking thoughtfully at the fire for a short time, said:
‘You are right, Mark. Right or wrong, it shall be done. I’ll do it.’
‘One word more, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Only think of him so far as not to
give him a handle against you. Don’t you do anything secret that he
can report before you get there. Don’t you even see Miss Mary in the
morning, but let this here dear friend of ours’--Mr Tapley bestowed a
smile upon the hostess--‘prepare her for what’s a-going to happen, and
carry any little message as may be agreeable. She knows how. Don’t you?’
Mrs Lupin laughed and tossed her head. ‘Then you go in, bold and free as
a gentleman should. “I haven’t done nothing under-handed,” says you. “I
haven’t been skulking about the premises, here I am, for-give me, I ask
your pardon, God Bless You!”’
Martin smiled, but felt that it was good advice notwithstanding, and
resolved to act upon it. When they had ascertained from Mrs Lupin that
Pecksniff had already returned from the great ceremonial at which they
had beheld him in his glory; and when they had fully arranged the order
of their proceedings; they went to bed, intent upon the morrow.
In pursuance of their project as agreed upon at this discussion, Mr
Tapley issued forth next morning, after breakfast, charged with a letter
from Martin to his grandfather, requesting leave to wait upon him for a
few minutes. And postponing as he went along the congratulations of his
numerous friends until a more convenient season, he soon arrived at Mr
Pecksniff’s house. At that gentleman’s door; with a face so immovable
that it would have been next to an impossibility for the most acute
physiognomist to determine what he was thinking about, or whether he was
thinking at all; he straightway knocked.
A person of Mr Tapley’s observation could not long remain insensible
to the fact that Mr Pecksniff was making the end of his nose very
blunt against the glass of the parlour window, in an angular attempt to
discover who had knocked at the door. Nor was Mr Tapley slow to baffle
this movement on the part of the enemy, by perching himself on the
top step, and presenting the crown of his hat in that direction. But
possibly Mr Pecksniff had already seen him, for Mark soon heard his
shoes creaking, as he advanced to open the door with his own hands.
Mr Pecksniff was as cheerful as ever, and sang a little song in the
passage.
‘How d’ye do, sir?’ said Mark.
‘Oh!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tapley, I believe? The Prodigal returned! We
don’t want any beer, my friend.’
‘Thankee, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I couldn’t accommodate you if you did. A
letter, sir. Wait for an answer.’
‘For me?’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘And an answer, eh?’
‘Not for you, I think, sir,’ said Mark, pointing out the direction.
‘Chuzzlewit, I believe the name is, sir.’
‘Oh!’ returned Mr Pecksniff. ‘Thank you. Yes. Who’s it from, my good
young man?’
‘The gentleman it comes from wrote his name inside, sir,’ returned Mr
Tapley with extreme politeness. ‘I see him a-signing of it at the end,
while I was a-waitin’.’
‘And he said he wanted an answer, did he?’ asked Mr Pecksniff in his
most persuasive manner.
Mark replied in the affirmative.
‘He shall have an answer. Certainly,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tearing the
letter into small pieces, as mildly as if that were the most flattering
attention a correspondent could receive. ‘Have the goodness to give him
that, with my compliments, if you please. Good morning!’ Whereupon he
handed Mark the scraps; retired, and shut the door.
Mark thought it prudent to subdue his personal emotions, and return to
Martin at the Dragon. They were not unprepared for such a reception,
and suffered an hour or so to elapse before making another attempt.
When this interval had gone by, they returned to Mr Pecksniff’s house in
company. Martin knocked this time, while Mr Tapley prepared himself to
keep the door open with his foot and shoulder, when anybody came, and by
that means secure an enforced parley. But this precaution was needless,
for the servant-girl appeared almost immediately. Brushing quickly past
her as he had resolved in such a case to do, Martin (closely followed
by his faithful ally) opened the door of that parlour in which he knew
a visitor was most likely to be found; passed at once into the room; and
stood, without a word of notice or announcement, in the presence of his
grandfather.
Mr Pecksniff also was in the room; and Mary. In the swift instant of
their mutual recognition, Martin saw the old man droop his grey head,
and hide his face in his hands.
It smote him to the heart. In his most selfish and most careless day,
this lingering remnant of the old man’s ancient love, this buttress of a
ruined tower he had built up in the time gone by, with so much pride and
hope, would have caused a pang in Martin’s heart. But now, changed for
the better in his worst respect; looking through an altered medium on
his former friend, the guardian of his childhood, so broken and bowed
down; resentment, sullenness, self-confidence, and pride, were all swept
away, before the starting tears upon the withered cheeks. He could not
bear to see them. He could not bear to think they fell at sight of
him. He could not bear to view reflected in them, the reproachful and
irrevocable Past.
He hurriedly advanced to seize the old man’s hand in his, when Mr
Pecksniff interposed himself between them.
‘No, young man!’ said Mr Pecksniff, striking himself upon the breast,
and stretching out his other arm towards his guest as if it were a wing
to shelter him. ‘No, sir. None of that. Strike here, sir, here! Launch
your arrows at me, sir, if you’ll have the goodness; not at Him!’
‘Grandfather!’ cried Martin. ‘Hear me! I implore you, let me speak!’
‘Would you, sir? Would you?’ said Mr Pecksniff, dodging about, so as to
keep himself always between them. ‘Is it not enough, sir, that you come
into my house like a thief in the night, or I should rather say, for we
can never be too particular on the subject of Truth, like a thief in
the day-time; bringing your dissolute companions with you, to plant
themselves with their backs against the insides of parlour doors, and
prevent the entrance or issuing forth of any of my household’--Mark had
taken up this position, and held it quite unmoved--‘but would you also
strike at venerable Virtue? Would you? Know that it is not defenceless.
I will be its shield, young man. Assail me. Come on, sir. Fire away!’
‘Pecksniff,’ said the old man, in a feeble voice. ‘Calm yourself. Be
quiet.’
‘I can’t be calm,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘and I won’t be quiet. My
benefactor and my friend! Shall even my house be no refuge for your
hoary pillow!’
‘Stand aside!’ said the old man, stretching out his hand; ‘and let me
see what it is I used to love so dearly.’
‘It is right that you should see it, my friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘It
is well that you should see it, my noble sir. It is desirable that you
should contemplate it in its true proportions. Behold it! There it is,
sir. There it is!’
Martin could hardly be a mortal man, and not express in his face
something of the anger and disdain with which Mr Pecksniff inspired him.
But beyond this he evinced no knowledge whatever of that gentleman’s
presence or existence. True, he had once, and that at first, glanced at
him involuntarily, and with supreme contempt; but for any other heed he
took of him, there might have been nothing in his place save empty air.
As Mr Pecksniff withdrew from between them, agreeably to the wish just
now expressed (which he did during the delivery of the observations
last recorded), old Martin, who had taken Mary Graham’s hand in his, and
whispered kindly to her, as telling her she had no cause to be alarmed,
gently pushed her from him, behind his chair; and looked steadily at his
grandson.
‘And that,’ he said, ‘is he. Ah! that is he! Say what you wish to say.
But come no nearer,’
‘His sense of justice is so fine,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that he will
hear even him, although he knows beforehand that nothing can come of it.
Ingenuous mind!’ Mr Pecksniff did not address himself immediately to
any person in saying this, but assuming the position of the Chorus in a
Greek Tragedy, delivered his opinion as a commentary on the proceedings.
‘Grandfather!’ said Martin, with great earnestness. ‘From a painful
journey, from a hard life, from a sick-bed, from privation and distress,
from gloom and disappointment, from almost hopelessness and despair, I
have come back to you.’
‘Rovers of this sort,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, as Chorus, ‘very commonly
come back when they find they don’t meet with the success they expected
in their marauding ravages.’
‘But for this faithful man,’ said Martin, turning towards Mark, ‘whom
I first knew in this place, and who went away with me voluntarily, as
a servant, but has been, throughout, my zealous and devoted friend; but
for him, I must have died abroad. Far from home, far from any help or
consolation; far from the probability even of my wretched fate being
ever known to any one who cared to hear it--oh, that you would let me
say, of being known to you!’
The old man looked at Mr Pecksniff. Mr Pecksniff looked at him. ‘Did
you speak, my worthy sir?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. The old man
answered in the negative. ‘I know what you thought,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
with another smile. ‘Let him go on my friend. The development of
self-interest in the human mind is always a curious study. Let him go
on, sir.’
‘Go on!’ observed the old man; in a mechanical obedience, it appeared,
to Mr Pecksniff’s suggestion.
‘I have been so wretched and so poor,’ said Martin, ‘that I am indebted
to the charitable help of a stranger, in a land of strangers, for the
means of returning here. All this tells against me in your mind, I know.
I have given you cause to think I have been driven here wholly by want,
and have not been led on, in any degree, by affection or regret. When
I parted from you, Grandfather, I deserved that suspicion, but I do not
now. I do not now.’
The Chorus put its hand in its waistcoat, and smiled. ‘Let him go on,
my worthy sir,’ it said. ‘I know what you are thinking of, but don’t
express it prematurely.’
Old Martin raised his eyes to Mr Pecksniff’s face, and appearing to
derive renewed instruction from his looks and words, said, once again:
‘Go on!’
‘I have little more to say,’ returned Martin. ‘And as I say it now, with
little or no hope, Grandfather; whatever dawn of hope I had on entering
the room; believe it to be true. At least, believe it to be true.’
‘Beautiful Truth!’ exclaimed the Chorus, looking upward. ‘How is your
name profaned by vicious persons! You don’t live in a well, my holy
principle, but on the lips of false mankind. It is hard to bear with
mankind, dear sir’--addressing the elder Mr Chuzzlewit; ‘but let us do
so meekly. It is our duty so to do. Let us be among the Few who do their
duty. If,’ pursued the Chorus, soaring up into a lofty flight, ‘as the
poet informs us, England expects Every man to do his duty, England is
the most sanguine country on the face of the earth, and will find itself
continually disappointed.’
‘Upon that subject,’ said Martin, looking calmly at the old man as
he spoke, but glancing once at Mary, whose face was now buried in her
hands, upon the back of his easy-chair; ‘upon that subject which first
occasioned a division between us, my mind and heart are incapable of
change. Whatever influence they have undergone, since that unhappy time,
has not been one to weaken but to strengthen me. I cannot profess sorrow
for that, nor irresolution in that, nor shame in that. Nor would you
wish me, I know. But that I might have trusted to your love, if I had
thrown myself manfully upon it; that I might have won you over with
ease, if I had been more yielding and more considerate; that I should
have best remembered myself in forgetting myself, and recollecting you;
reflection, solitude, and misery, have taught me. I came resolved to say
this, and to ask your forgiveness; not so much in hope for the future,
as in regret for the past; for all that I would ask of you is, that you
would aid me to live. Help me to get honest work to do, and I would do
it. My condition places me at the disadvantage of seeming to have only
my selfish ends to serve, but try if that be so or not. Try if I be
self-willed, obdurate, and haughty, as I was; or have been disciplined
in a rough school. Let the voice of nature and association plead between
us, Grandfather; and do not, for one fault, however thankless, quite
reject me!’
As he ceased, the grey head of the old man drooped again; and he
concealed his face behind his outspread fingers.
‘My dear sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, bending over him, ‘you must not give
way to this. It is very natural, and very amiable, but you must not
allow the shameless conduct of one whom you long ago cast off, to move
you so far. Rouse yourself. Think,’ said Pecksniff, ‘think of Me, my
friend.’
‘I will,’ returned old Martin, looking up into his face. ‘You recall me
to myself. I will.’
‘Why, what,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sitting down beside him in a chair which
he drew up for the purpose, and tapping him playfully on the arm, ‘what
is the matter with my strong-minded compatriot, if I may venture to take
the liberty of calling him by that endearing expression? Shall I have
to scold my coadjutor, or to reason with an intellect like this? I think
not.’
‘No, no. There is no occasion,’ said the old man. ‘A momentary feeling.
Nothing more.’
‘Indignation,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, ‘WILL bring the scalding tear
into the honest eye, I know’--he wiped his own elaborately. ‘But we
have highest duties to perform than that. Rouse yourself, Mr Chuzzlewit.
Shall I give expression to your thoughts, my friend?’
‘Yes,’ said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, and looking at him,
half in vacancy and half in admiration, as if he were fascinated by
the man. ‘Speak for me, Pecksniff, Thank you. You are true to me. Thank
you!’
‘Do not unman me, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand vigorously,
‘or I shall be unequal to the task. It is not agreeable to my feelings,
my good sir, to address the person who is now before us, for when I
ejected him from this house, after hearing of his unnatural conduct from
your lips, I renounced communication with him for ever. But you desire
it; and that is sufficient. Young man! The door is immediately behind
the companion of your infamy. Blush if you can; begone without a blush,
if you can’t.’
Martin looked as steadily at his grandfather as if there had been a
dead silence all this time. The old man looked no less steadily at Mr
Pecksniff.
‘When I ordered you to leave this house upon the last occasion of your
being dismissed from it with disgrace,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘when,
stung and stimulated beyond endurance by your shameless conduct to this
extraordinarily noble-minded individual, I exclaimed “Go forth!” I told
you that I wept for your depravity. Do not suppose that the tear which
stands in my eye at this moment, is shed for you. It is shed for him,
sir. It is shed for him.’
Here Mr Pecksniff, accidentally dropping the tear in question on a
bald part of Mr Chuzzlewit’s head, wiped the place with his
pocket-handkerchief, and begged pardon.
‘It is shed for him, sir, whom you seek to make the victim of your
arts,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘whom you seek to plunder, to deceive, and to
mislead. It is shed in sympathy with him, and admiration of him; not in
pity for him, for happily he knows what you are. You shall not wrong
him further, sir, in any way,’ said Mr Pecksniff, quite transported with
enthusiasm, ‘while I have life. You may bestride my senseless corse,
sir. That is very likely. I can imagine a mind like yours deriving great
satisfaction from any measure of that kind. But while I continue to be
called upon to exist, sir, you must strike at him through me. Awe!’ said
Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at Martin with indignant jocularity; ‘and
in such a cause you will find me, my young sir, an Ugly Customer!’
Still Martin looked steadily and mildly at his grandfather. ‘Will you
give me no answer,’ he said, at length, ‘not a word?’
‘You hear what has been said,’ replied the old man, without averting his
eyes from the face of Mr Pecksniff; who nodded encouragingly.
‘I have not heard your voice. I have not heard your spirit,’ returned
Martin.
‘Tell him again,’ said the old man, still gazing up in Mr Pecksniff’s
face.
‘I only hear,’ replied Martin, strong in his purpose from the first, and
stronger in it as he felt how Pecksniff winced and shrunk beneath his
contempt; ‘I only hear what you say to me, grandfather.’
Perhaps it was well for Mr Pecksniff that his venerable friend found
in his (Mr Pecksniff’s) features an exclusive and engrossing object
of contemplation, for if his eyes had gone astray, and he had compared
young Martin’s bearing with that of his zealous defender, the latter
disinterested gentleman would scarcely have shown to greater advantage
than on the memorable afternoon when he took Tom Pinch’s last receipt
in full of all demands. One really might have thought there was some
quality in Mr Pecksniff--an emanation from the brightness and purity
within him perhaps--which set off and adorned his foes; they looked so
gallant and so manly beside him.
‘Not a word?’ said Martin, for the second time.
‘I remember that I have a word to say, Pecksniff,’ observed the old man.
‘But a word. You spoke of being indebted to the charitable help of some
stranger for the means of returning to England. Who is he? And what help
in money did he render you?’
Although he asked this question of Martin, he did not look towards him,
but kept his eyes on Mr Pecksniff as before. It appeared to have become
a habit with him, both in a literal and figurative sense, to look to Mr
Pecksniff alone.
Martin took out his pencil, tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and
hastily wrote down the particulars of his debt to Mr Bevan. The old man
stretched out his hand for the paper, and took it; but his eyes did not
wander from Mr Pecksniff’s face.
‘It would be a poor pride and a false humility,’ said Martin, in a
low voice, ‘to say, I do not wish that to be paid, or that I have any
present hope of being able to pay it. But I never felt my poverty so
deeply as I feel it now.’
‘Read it to me, Pecksniff,’ said the old man.
Mr Pecksniff, after approaching the perusal of the paper as if it were a
manuscript confession of a murder, complied.
‘I think, Pecksniff,’ said old Martin, ‘I could wish that to be
discharged. I should not like the lender, who was abroad, who had
no opportunity of making inquiry, and who did (as he thought) a kind
action, to suffer.’
‘An honourable sentiment, my dear sir. Your own entirely. But a
dangerous precedent,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘permit me to suggest.’
‘It shall not be a precedent,’ returned the old man. ‘It is the only
recognition of him. But we will talk of it again. You shall advise me.
There is nothing else?’
‘Nothing else,’ said Mr Pecksniff buoyantly, ‘but for you to recover
this intrusion--this cowardly and indefensible outrage on your
feelings--with all possible dispatch, and smile again.’
‘You have nothing more to say?’ inquired the old man, laying his hand
with unusual earnestness on Mr Pecksniff’s sleeve.
Mr Pecksniff would not say what rose to his lips. For reproaches he
observed, were useless.
‘You have nothing at all to urge? You are sure of that! If you have, no
matter what it is, speak freely. I will oppose nothing that you ask of
me,’ said the old man.
The tears rose in such abundance to Mr Pecksniff’s eyes at this proof
of unlimited confidence on the part of his friend, that he was fain to
clasp the bridge of his nose convulsively before he could at all compose
himself. When he had the power of utterance again, he said with great
emotion, that he hoped he should live to deserve this; and added, that
he had no other observation whatever to make.
For a few moments the old man sat looking at him, with that blank and
motionless expression which is not uncommon in the faces of those whose
faculties are on the wane, in age. But he rose up firmly too, and walked
towards the door, from which Mark withdrew to make way for him.
The obsequious Mr Pecksniff proffered his arm. The old man took it.
Turning at the door, he said to Martin, waving him off with his hand,
‘You have heard him. Go away. It is all over. Go!’
Mr Pecksniff murmured certain cheering expressions of sympathy and
encouragement as they retired; and Martin, awakening from the stupor
into which the closing portion of this scene had plunged him, to the
opportunity afforded by their departure, caught the innocent cause of
all in his embrace, and pressed her to his heart.
‘Dear girl!’ said Martin. ‘He has not changed you. Why, what an impotent
and harmless knave the fellow is!’
‘You have restrained yourself so nobly! You have borne so much!’
‘Restrained myself!’ cried Martin, cheerfully. ‘You were by, and were
unchanged, I knew. What more advantage did I want? The sight of me was
such a bitterness to the dog, that I had my triumph in his being forced
to endure it. But tell me, love--for the few hasty words we can exchange
now are precious--what is this which has been rumoured to me? Is it true
that you are persecuted by this knave’s addresses?’
‘I was, dear Martin, and to some extent am now; but my chief source
of unhappiness has been anxiety for you. Why did you leave us in such
terrible suspense?’
‘Sickness, distance; the dread of hinting at our real condition, the
impossibility of concealing it except in perfect silence; the knowledge
that the truth would have pained you infinitely more than uncertainty
and doubt,’ said Martin, hurriedly; as indeed everything else was done
and said, in those few hurried moments, ‘were the causes of my writing
only once. But Pecksniff? You needn’t fear to tell me the whole tale;
for you saw me with him face to face, hearing him speak, and not taking
him by the throat; what is the history of his pursuit of you? Is it
known to my grandfather?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he assists him in it?’
‘No,’ she answered eagerly.
‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Martin, ‘that it leaves his mind unclouded in that
one respect!’
‘I do not think,’ said Mary, ‘it was known to him at first. When
this man had sufficiently prepared his mind, he revealed it to him by
degrees. I think so, but I only know it from my own impression: now from
anything they told me. Then he spoke to me alone.’
‘My grandfather did?’ said Martin.
‘Yes--spoke to me alone, and told me--’
‘What the hound had said,’ cried Martin. ‘Don’t repeat it.’
‘And said I knew well what qualities he possessed; that he was
moderately rich; in good repute; and high in his favour and confidence.
But seeing me very much distressed, he said that he would not control
or force my inclinations, but would content himself with telling me the
fact. He would not pain me by dwelling on it, or reverting to it; nor
has he ever done so since, but has truly kept his word.’
‘The man himself?--’ asked Martin.
‘He has had few opportunities of pursuing his suit. I have never walked
out alone, or remained alone an instant in his presence. Dear Martin, I
must tell you,’ she continued, ‘that the kindness of your grandfather
to me remains unchanged. I am his companion still. An indescribable
tenderness and compassion seem to have mingled themselves with his old
regard; and if I were his only child, I could not have a gentler father.
What former fancy or old habit survives in this, when his heart has
turned so cold to you, is a mystery I cannot penetrate; but it has been,
and it is, a happiness to me, that I remained true to him; that if he
should wake from his delusion, even at the point of death, I am here,
love, to recall you to his thoughts.’
Martin looked with admiration on her glowing face, and pressed his lips
to hers.
‘I have sometimes heard, and read,’ she said, ‘that those whose powers
had been enfeebled long ago, and whose lives had faded, as it were, into
a dream, have been known to rouse themselves before death, and inquire
for familiar faces once very dear to them; but forgotten, unrecognized,
hated even, in the meantime. Think, if with his old impressions of this
man, he should suddenly resume his former self, and find in him his only
friend!’
‘I would not urge you to abandon him, dearest,’ said Martin, ‘though I
could count the years we are to wear out asunder. But the influence this
fellow exercises over him has steadily increased, I fear.’
She could not help admitting that. Steadily, imperceptibly, and surely,
until it was paramount and supreme. She herself had none; and yet
he treated her with more affection than at any previous time. Martin
thought the inconsistency a part of his weakness and decay.
‘Does the influence extend to fear?’ said Martin. ‘Is he timid of
asserting his own opinion in the presence of this infatuation? I fancied
so just now.’
‘I have thought so, often. Often when we are sitting alone, almost as
we used to do, and I have been reading a favourite book to him or he has
been talking quite cheerfully, I have observed that the entrance of
Mr Pecksniff has changed his whole demeanour. He has broken off
immediately, and become what you have seen to-day. When we first came
here he had his impetuous outbreaks, in which it was not easy for Mr
Pecksniff with his utmost plausibility to appease him. But these have
long since dwindled away. He defers to him in everything, and has no
opinion upon any question, but that which is forced upon him by this
treacherous man.’
Such was the account, rapidly furnished in whispers, and interrupted,
brief as it was, by many false alarms of Mr Pecksniff’s return;
which Martin received of his grandfather’s decline, and of that good
gentleman’s ascendancy. He heard of Tom Pinch too, and Jonas too, with
not a little about himself into the bargain; for though lovers are
remarkable for leaving a great deal unsaid on all occasions, and very
properly desiring to come back and say it, they are remarkable also for
a wonderful power of condensation, and can, in one way or other, give
utterance to more language--eloquent language--in any given short space
of time, than all the six hundred and fifty-eight members in the Commons
House of Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland;
who are strong lovers no doubt, but of their country only, which makes
all the difference; for in a passion of that kind (which is not always
returned), it is the custom to use as many words as possible, and
express nothing whatever.
A caution from Mr Tapley; a hasty interchange of farewells, and of
something else which the proverb says must not be told of afterwards;
a white hand held out to Mr Tapley himself, which he kissed with the
devotion of a knight-errant; more farewells, more something else’s; a
parting word from Martin that he would write from London and would do
great things there yet (Heaven knows what, but he quite believed it);
and Mark and he stood on the outside of the Pecksniffian halls.
‘A short interview after such an absence!’ said Martin, sorrowfully.
‘But we are well out of the house. We might have placed ourselves in a
false position by remaining there, even so long, Mark.’
‘I don’t know about ourselves, sir,’ he returned; ‘but somebody else
would have got into a false position, if he had happened to come back
again, while we was there. I had the door all ready, sir. If Pecksniff
had showed his head, or had only so much as listened behind it, I would
have caught him like a walnut. He’s the sort of man,’ added Mr Tapley,
musing, ‘as would squeeze soft, I know.’
A person who was evidently going to Mr Pecksniff’s house, passed them at
this moment. He raised his eyes at the mention of the architect’s name;
and when he had gone on a few yards, stopped and gazed at them. Mr
Tapley, also, looked over his shoulder, and so did Martin; for the
stranger, as he passed, had looked very sharply at them.
‘Who may that be, I wonder!’ said Martin. ‘The face seems familiar to
me, but I don’t know the man.’
‘He seems to have a amiable desire that his face should be tolerable
familiar to us,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘for he’s a-staring pretty hard. He’d
better not waste his beauty, for he ain’t got much to spare.’
Coming in sight of the Dragon, they saw a travelling carriage at the
door.
‘And a Salisbury carriage, eh?’ said Mr Tapley. ‘That’s what he came in
depend upon it. What’s in the wind now? A new pupil, I shouldn’t wonder.
P’raps it’s a order for another grammar-school, of the same pattern as
the last.’
Before they could enter at the door, Mrs Lupin came running out; and
beckoning them to the carriage showed them a portmanteau with the name
of CHUZZLEWIT upon it.
‘Miss Pecksniff’s husband that was,’ said the good woman to Martin. ‘I
didn’t know what terms you might be on, and was quite in a worry till
you came back.’
‘He and I have never interchanged a word yet,’ observed Martin; ‘and as
I have no wish to be better or worse acquainted with him, I will not put
myself in his way. We passed him on the road, I have no doubt. I am glad
he timed his coming as he did. Upon my word! Miss Pecksniff’s husband
travels gayly!’
‘A very fine-looking gentleman with him--in the best room now,’
whispered Mrs Lupin, glancing up at the window as they went into the
house. ‘He has ordered everything that can be got for dinner; and has
the glossiest moustaches and whiskers ever you saw.’
‘Has he?’ cried Martin, ‘why then we’ll endeavour to avoid him too, in
the hope that our self-denial may be strong enough for the sacrifice.
It is only for a few hours,’ said Martin, dropping wearily into a chair
behind the little screen in the bar. ‘Our visit has met with no success,
my dear Mrs Lupin, and I must go to London.’
‘Dear, dear!’ cried the hostess.
‘Yes, one foul wind no more makes a winter, than one swallow makes a
summer. I’ll try it again. Tom Pinch has succeeded. With his advice to
guide me, I may do the same. I took Tom under my protection once, God
save the mark!’ said Martin, with a melancholy smile; ‘and promised I
would make his fortune. Perhaps Tom will take me under HIS protection
now, and teach me how to earn my bread.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
FURTHER CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
It was a special quality, among the many admirable qualities possessed
by Mr Pecksniff, that the more he was found out, the more hypocrisy he
practised. Let him be discomfited in one quarter, and he refreshed and
recompensed himself by carrying the war into another. If his workings
and windings were detected by A, so much the greater reason was there
for practicing without loss of time on B, if it were only to keep his
hand in. He had never been such a saintly and improving spectacle to all
about him, as after his detection by Thomas Pinch. He had scarcely ever
been at once so tender in his humanity, and so dignified and exalted in
his virtue, as when young Martin’s scorn was fresh and hot upon him.
Having this large stock of superfluous sentiment and morality on hand
which must positively be cleared off at any sacrifice, Mr Pecksniff no
sooner heard his son-in-law announced, than he regarded him as a kind
of wholesale or general order, to be immediately executed. Descending,
therefore, swiftly to the parlour, and clasping the young man in
his arms, he exclaimed, with looks and gestures that denoted the
perturbation of his spirit:
‘Jonas. My child--she is well! There is nothing the matter?’
‘What, you’re at it again, are you?’ replied his son-in-law. ‘Even with
me? Get away with you, will you?’
‘Tell me she is well then,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tell me she is well my
boy!’
‘She’s well enough,’ retorted Jonas, disengaging himself. ‘There’s
nothing the matter with HER.’
‘There is nothing the matter with her!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, sitting down
in the nearest chair, and rubbing up his hair. ‘Fie upon my weakness!
I cannot help it, Jonas. Thank you. I am better now. How is my other
child; my eldest; my Cherrywerrychigo?’ said Mr Pecksniff, inventing a
playful little name for her, in the restored lightness of his heart.
‘She’s much about the same as usual,’ returned Jonas. ‘She sticks
pretty close to the vinegar-bottle. You know she’s got a sweetheart, I
suppose?’
‘I have heard of it,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘from headquarters; from my
child herself I will not deny that it moved me to contemplate the loss
of my remaining daughter, Jonas--I am afraid we parents are selfish, I
am afraid we are--but it has ever been the study of my life to qualify
them for the domestic hearth; and it is a sphere which Cherry will
adorn.’
‘She need adorn some sphere or other,’ observed the son-in-law, for she
ain’t very ornamental in general.’
‘My girls are now provided for,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘They are now
happily provided for, and I have not laboured in vain!’
This is exactly what Mr Pecksniff would have said, if one of his
daughters had drawn a prize of thirty thousand pounds in the lottery, or
if the other had picked up a valuable purse in the street, which nobody
appeared to claim. In either of these cases he would have invoked a
patriarchal blessing on the fortunate head, with great solemnity, and
would have taken immense credit to himself, as having meant it from the
infant’s cradle.
‘Suppose we talk about something else, now,’ observed Jonas, drily.
‘just for a change. Are you quite agreeable?’
‘Quite,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Ah, you wag, you naughty wag! You laugh at
poor old fond papa. Well! He deserves it. And he don’t mind it either,
for his feelings are their own reward. You have come to stay with me,
Jonas?’
‘No. I’ve got a friend with me,’ said Jonas.
‘Bring your friend!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in a gush of hospitality.
‘Bring any number of your friends!’
‘This ain’t the sort of man to be brought,’ said Jonas, contemptuously.
‘I think I see myself “bringing” him to your house, for a treat!
Thank’ee all the same; but he’s a little too near the top of the tree
for that, Pecksniff.’
The good man pricked up his ears; his interest was awakened. A position
near the top of the tree was greatness, virtue, goodness, sense, genius;
or, it should rather be said, a dispensation from all, and in itself
something immeasurably better than all; with Mr Pecksniff. A man who was
able to look down upon Mr Pecksniff could not be looked up at, by that
gentleman, with too great an amount of deference, or from a position of
too much humility. So it always is with great spirits.
‘I’ll tell you what you may do, if you like,’ said Jonas; ‘you may come
and dine with us at the Dragon. We were forced to come down to Salisbury
last night, on some business, and I got him to bring me over here this
morning, in his carriage; at least, not his own carriage, for we had
a breakdown in the night, but one we hired instead; it’s all the same.
Mind what you’re about, you know. He’s not used to all sorts; he only
mixes with the best!’
‘Some young nobleman who has been borrowing money of you at good
interest, eh?’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his forefinger facetiously. ‘I
shall be delighted to know the gay sprig.’
‘Borrowing!’ echoed Jonas. ‘Borrowing! When you’re a twentieth part as
rich as he is, you may shut up shop! We should be pretty well off if we
could buy his furniture, and plate, and pictures, by clubbing together.
A likely man to borrow: Mr Montague! Why since I was lucky enough (come!
and I’ll say, sharp enough, too) to get a share in the Assurance office
that he’s President of, I’ve made--never mind what I’ve made,’ said
Jonas, seeming to recover all at once his usual caution. ‘You know me
pretty well, and I don’t blab about such things. But, Ecod, I’ve made a
trifle.’
‘Really, my dear Jonas,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, with much warmth, ‘a
gentleman like this should receive some attention. Would he like to
see the church? or if he has a taste for the fine arts--which I have no
doubt he has, from the description you give of his circumstances--I can
send him down a few portfolios. Salisbury Cathedral, my dear Jonas,’
said Mr Pecksniff; the mention of the portfolios and his anxiety to
display himself to advantage, suggesting his usual phraseology in
that regard, ‘is an edifice replete with venerable associations,
and strikingly suggestive of the loftiest emotions. It is here we
contemplate the work of bygone ages. It is here we listen to the
swelling organ, as we stroll through the reverberating aisles. We have
drawings of this celebrated structure from the North, from the South,
from the East, from the West, from the South-East, from the Nor’West--’
During this digression, and indeed during the whole dialogue, Jonas had
been rocking on his chair, with his hands in his pockets and his head
thrown cunningly on one side. He looked at Mr Pecksniff now with such
shrewd meaning twinkling in his eyes, that Mr Pecksniff stopped, and
asked him what he was going to say.
‘Ecod!’ he answered. ‘Pecksniff if I knew how you meant to leave your
money, I could put you in the way of doubling it in no time. It wouldn’t
be bad to keep a chance like this snug in the family. But you’re such a
deep one!’
‘Jonas!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, much affected, ‘I am not a diplomatical
character; my heart is in my hand. By far the greater part of the
inconsiderable savings I have accumulated in the course of--I hope--a
not dishonourable or useless career, is already given, devised, and
bequeathed (correct me, my dear Jonas, if I am technically wrong), with
expressions of confidence, which I will not repeat; and in securities
which it is unnecessary to mention to a person whom I cannot, whom
I will not, whom I need not, name.’ Here he gave the hand of his
son-in-law a fervent squeeze, as if he would have added, ‘God bless you;
be very careful of it when you get it!’
Mr Jonas only shook his head and laughed, and, seeming to think better
of what he had had in his mind, said, ‘No. He would keep his own
counsel.’ But as he observed that he would take a walk, Mr Pecksniff
insisted on accompanying him, remarking that he could leave a card for
Mr Montague, as they went along, by way of gentleman-usher to himself at
dinner-time. Which he did.
In the course of their walk, Mr Jonas affected to maintain that close
reserve which had operated as a timely check upon him during the
foregoing dialogue. And as he made no attempt to conciliate Mr
Pecksniff, but, on the contrary, was more boorish and rude to him than
usual, that gentleman, so far from suspecting his real design, laid
himself out to be attacked with advantage. For it is in the nature of a
knave to think the tools with which he works indispensable to knavery;
and knowing what he would do himself in such a case, Mr Pecksniff
argued, ‘if this young man wanted anything of me for his own ends, he
would be polite and deferential.’
The more Jonas repelled him in his hints and inquiries, the more
solicitous, therefore, Mr Pecksniff became to be initiated into the
golden mysteries at which he had obscurely glanced. Why should there be
cold and worldly secrets, he observed, between relations? What was life
without confidence? If the chosen husband of his daughter, the man to
whom he had delivered her with so much pride and hope, such bounding
and such beaming joy; if he were not a green spot in the barren waste of
life, where was that oasis to be bound?
Little did Mr Pecksniff think on what a very green spot he planted one
foot at that moment! Little did he foresee when he said, ‘All is but
dust!’ how very shortly he would come down with his own!
Inch by inch, in his grudging and ill-conditioned way; sustained to the
life, for the hope of making Mr Pecksniff suffer in that tender place,
the pocket, where Jonas smarted so terribly himself, gave him an
additional and malicious interest in the wiles he was set on to
practise; inch by inch, and bit by bit, Jonas rather allowed the
dazzling prospects of the Anglo-Bengalee establishment to escape him,
than paraded them before his greedy listener. And in the same niggardly
spirit, he left Mr Pecksniff to infer, if he chose (which he DID choose,
of course), that a consciousness of not having any great natural gifts
of speech and manner himself, rendered him desirous to have the credit
of introducing to Mr Montague some one who was well endowed in those
respects, and so atone for his own deficiencies. Otherwise, he muttered
discontentedly, he would have seen his beloved father-in-law ‘far enough
off,’ before he would have taken him into his confidence.
Primed in this artful manner, Mr Pecksniff presented himself at
dinner-time in such a state of suavity, benevolence, cheerfulness,
politeness, and cordiality, as even he had perhaps never attained
before. The frankness of the country gentleman, the refinement of
the artist, the good-humoured allowance of the man of the world;
philanthropy, forbearance, piety, toleration, all blended together in a
flexible adaptability to anything and everything; were expressed in Mr
Pecksniff, as he shook hands with the great speculator and capitalist.
‘Welcome, respected sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to our humble village! We
are a simple people; primitive clods, Mr Montague; but we can appreciate
the honour of your visit, as my dear son-in-law can testify. It is very
strange,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand almost reverentially,
‘but I seem to know you. That towering forehead, my dear Jonas,’ said Mr
Pecksniff aside, ‘and those clustering masses of rich hair--I must have
seen you, my dear sir, in the sparkling throng.’
Nothing was more probable, they all agreed.
‘I could have wished,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to have had the honour of
introducing you to an elderly inmate of our house: to the uncle of our
friend. Mr Chuzzlewit, sir, would have been proud indeed to have taken
you by the hand.’
‘Is the gentleman here now?’ asked Montague, turning deeply red. ‘He
is,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
‘You said nothing about that, Chuzzlewit.’
‘I didn’t suppose you’d care to hear of it,’ returned Jonas. ‘You
wouldn’t care to know him, I can promise you.’
‘Jonas! my dear Jonas!’ remonstrated Mr Pecksniff. ‘Really!’
‘Oh! it’s all very well for you to speak up for him,’ said Jonas. ‘You
have nailed him. You’ll get a fortune by him.’
‘Oho! Is the wind in that quarter?’ cried Montague. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ and
here they all laughed--especially Mr Pecksniff.
‘No, no!’ said that gentleman, clapping his son-in-law playfully upon
the shoulder. ‘You must not believe all that my young relative says,
Mr Montague. You may believe him in official business, and trust him in
official business, but you must not attach importance to his flights of
fancy.’
‘Upon my life, Mr Pecksniff,’ cried Montague, ‘I attach the greatest
importance to that last observation of his. I trust and hope it’s true.
Money cannot be turned and turned again quickly enough in the ordinary
course, Mr Pecksniff. There is nothing like building our fortune on the
weaknesses of mankind.’
‘Oh fie! oh fie, for shame!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. But they all laughed
again--especially Mr Pecksniff.
‘I give you my honour that WE do it,’ said Montague.
‘Oh fie, fie!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘You are very pleasant. That I am
sure you don’t! That I am sure you don’t! How CAN you, you know?’
Again they all laughed in concert; and again Mr Pecksniff laughed
especially.
This was very agreeable indeed. It was confidential, easy,
straight-forward; and still left Mr Pecksniff in the position of being
in a gentle way the Mentor of the party. The greatest achievements in
the article of cookery that the Dragon had ever performed, were set
before them; the oldest and best wines in the Dragon’s cellar saw the
light on that occasion; a thousand bubbles, indicative of the wealth and
station of Mr Montague in the depths of his pursuits, were constantly
rising to the surface of the conversation; and they were as frank and
merry as three honest men could be. Mr Pecksniff thought it a pity (he
said so) that Mr Montague should think lightly of mankind and their
weaknesses. He was anxious upon this subject; his mind ran upon it; in
one way or another he was constantly coming back to it; he must make
a convert of him, he said. And as often as Mr Montague repeated his
sentiment about building fortunes on the weaknesses of mankind, and
added frankly, ‘WE do it!’ just as often Mr Pecksniff repeated ‘Oh fie!
oh fie, for shame! I am sure you don’t. How CAN you, you know?’ laying a
greater stress each time on those last words.
The frequent repetition of this playful inquiry on the part of Mr
Pecksniff, led at last to playful answers on the part of Mr Montague;
but after some little sharp-shooting on both sides, Mr Pecksniff became
grave, almost to tears; observing that if Mr Montague would give
him leave, he would drink the health of his young kinsman, Mr Jonas;
congratulating him upon the valuable and distinguished friendship he
had formed, but envying him, he would confess, his usefulness to his
fellow-creatures. For, if he understood the objects of that Institution
with which he was newly and advantageously connected--knowing them
but imperfectly--they were calculated to do Good; and for his (Mr
Pecksniff’s) part, if he could in any way promote them, he thought
he would be able to lay his head upon his pillow every night, with an
absolute certainty of going to sleep at once.
The transition from this accidental remark (for it was quite accidental
and had fallen from Mr Pecksniff in the openness of his soul), to the
discussion of the subject as a matter of business, was easy. Books,
papers, statements, tables, calculations of various kinds, were soon
spread out before them; and as they were all framed with one object,
it is not surprising that they should all have tended to one end. But
still, whenever Montague enlarged upon the profits of the office, and
said that as long as there were gulls upon the wing it must succeed, Mr
Pecksniff mildly said ‘Oh fie!’--and might indeed have remonstrated
with him, but that he knew he was joking. Mr Pecksniff did know he was
joking; because he said so.
There never had been before, and there never would be again, such
an opportunity for the investment of a considerable sum (the rate of
advantage increased in proportion to the amount invested), as at that
moment. The only time that had at all approached it, was the time when
Jonas had come into the concern; which made him ill-natured now, and
inclined him to pick out a doubt in this place, and a flaw in that, and
grumbling to advise Mr Pecksniff to think better of it. The sum which
would complete the proprietorship in this snug concern, was nearly equal
to Mr Pecksniff’s whole hoard; not counting Mr Chuzzlewit, that is to
say, whom he looked upon as money in the Bank, the possession of which
inclined him the more to make a dash with his own private sprats for
the capture of such a whale as Mr Montague described. The returns
began almost immediately, and were immense. The end of it was, that
Mr Pecksniff agreed to become the last partner and proprietor in the
Anglo-Bengalee, and made an appointment to dine with Mr Montague, at
Salisbury, on the next day but one, then and there to complete the
negotiation.
It took so long to bring the subject to this head, that it was nearly
midnight when they parted. When Mr Pecksniff walked downstairs to the
door, he found Mrs Lupin standing there, looking out.
‘Ah, my good friend!’ he said; ‘not a-bed yet! Contemplating the stars,
Mrs Lupin?’
‘It’s a beautiful starlight night, sir.’
‘A beautiful starlight night,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking up. ‘Behold
the planets, how they shine! Behold the--those two persons who were here
this morning have left your house, I hope, Mrs Lupin?’
‘Yes, sir. They are gone.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Behold the wonders of the
firmament, Mrs Lupin! how glorious is the scene! When I look up at those
shining orbs, I think that each of them is winking to the other to
take notice of the vanity of men’s pursuits. My fellow-men!’ cried Mr
Pecksniff, shaking his head in pity; ‘you are much mistaken; my wormy
relatives, you are much deceived! The stars are perfectly contented (I
suppose so) in their several spheres. Why are not you? Oh! do not strive
and struggle to enrich yourselves, or to get the better of each other,
my deluded friends, but look up there, with me!’
Mrs Lupin shook her head, and heaved a sigh. It was very affecting.
‘Look up there, with me!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, stretching out
his hand; ‘With me, a humble individual who is also an insect like
yourselves. Can silver, gold, or precious stones, sparkle like those
constellations! I think not. Then do not thirst for silver, gold, or
precious stones; but look up there, with me!’
With those words, the good man patted Mrs Lupin’s hand between his own,
as if he would have added ‘think of this, my good woman!’ and walked
away in a sort of ecstasy or rapture, with his hat under his arm.
Jonas sat in the attitude in which Mr Pecksniff had left him, gazing
moodily at his friend; who, surrounded by a heap of documents, was
writing something on an oblong slip of paper.
‘You mean to wait at Salisbury over the day after to-morrow, do you,
then?’ said Jonas.
‘You heard our appointment,’ returned Montague, without raising his
eyes. ‘In any case I should have waited to see after the boy.’
They appeared to have changed places again; Montague being in high
spirits; Jonas gloomy and lowering.
‘You don’t want me, I suppose?’ said Jonas.
‘I want you to put your name here,’ he returned, glancing at him with a
smile, ‘as soon as I have filled up the stamp. I may as well have your
note of hand for that extra capital. That’s all I want. If you wish
to go home, I can manage Mr Pecksniff now, alone. There is a perfect
understanding between us.’
Jonas sat scowling at him as he wrote, in silence. When he had
finished his writing, and had dried it on the blotting paper in his
travelling-desk; he looked up, and tossed the pen towards him.
‘What, not a day’s grace, not a day’s trust, eh?’ said Jonas bitterly.
‘Not after the pains I have taken with to-night’s work?’
‘To night’s work was a part of our bargain,’ replied Montague; ‘and so
was this.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ said Jonas, advancing to the table. ‘You
know best. Give it here!’
Montague gave him the paper. After pausing as if he could not make up
his mind to put his name to it, Jonas dipped his pen hastily in the
nearest inkstand, and began to write. But he had scarcely marked the
paper when he started back, in a panic.
‘Why, what the devil’s this?’ he said. ‘It’s bloody!’
He had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he
attached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it
had come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked
at Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him.
Even when he used a different pen, and the right ink, he made some
scratches on another paper first, as half believing they would turn red
also.
‘Black enough, this time,’ he said, handing the note to Montague.
‘Good-bye.’
‘Going now! how do you mean to get away from here?’
‘I shall cross early in the morning to the high road, before you are out
of bed; and catch the day-coach, going up. Good-bye!’
‘You are in a hurry!’
‘I have something to do,’ said Jonas. ‘Good-bye!’
His friend looked after him as he went out, in surprise, which gradually
gave place to an air of satisfaction and relief.
‘It happens all the better. It brings about what I wanted, without any
difficulty. I shall travel home alone.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
IN WHICH TOM PINCH AND HIS SISTER TAKE A LITTLE PLEASURE; BUT QUITE IN A
DOMESTIC WAY, AND WITH NO CEREMONY ABOUT IT
Tom Pinch and his sister having to part, for the dispatch of the
morning’s business, immediately after the dispersion of the other actors
in the scene upon the wharf with which the reader has been already made
acquainted, had no opportunity of discussing the subject at that time.
But Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in the triangular parlour,
thought about nothing else all day; and, when their hour of meeting in
the afternoon approached, they were very full of it, to be sure.
There was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come out
of the Temple by one way; and that was past the fountain. Coming through
Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps leading into Garden
Court, and to look once all round him; and if Ruth had come to meet him,
there he would see her; not sauntering, you understand (on account of
the clerks), but coming briskly up, with the best little laugh upon her
face that ever played in opposition to the fountain, and beat it all to
nothing. For, fifty to one, Tom had been looking for her in the wrong
direction, and had quite given her up, while she had been tripping
towards him from the first; jingling that little reticule of hers (with
all the keys in it) to attract his wandering observation.
Whether there was life enough left in the slow vegetation of Fountain
Court for the smoky shrubs to have any consciousness of the brightest
and purest-hearted little woman in the world, is a question for
gardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of plants. But, that
it was a good thing for that same paved yard to have such a delicate
little figure flitting through it; that it passed like a smile from the
grimy old houses, and the worn flagstones, and left them duller, darker,
sterner than before; there is no sort of doubt. The Temple fountain
might have leaped up twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful
maidenhood, that in her person stole on, sparkling, through the dry and
dusty channels of the Law; the chirping sparrows, bred in Temple
chinks and crannies, might have held their peace to listen to imaginary
skylarks, as so fresh a little creature passed; the dingy boughs, unused
to droop, otherwise than in their puny growth, might have bent down in
a kindred gracefulness to shed their benedictions on her graceful head;
old love letters, shut up in iron boxes in the neighbouring offices, and
made of no account among the heaps of family papers into which they had
strayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, they formed a part, might
have stirred and fluttered with a moment’s recollection of their ancient
tenderness, as she went lightly by. Anything might have happened that
did not happen, and never will, for the love of Ruth.
Something happened, too, upon the afternoon of which the history treats.
Not for her love. Oh no! quite by accident, and without the least
reference to her at all.
Either she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little too late--she was
so precise in general, that she timed it to half a minute--but no Tom
was there. Well! But was anybody else there, that she blushed so deeply,
after looking round, and tripped off down the steps with such unusual
expedition?
Why, the fact is, that Mr Westlock was passing at that moment. The
Temple is a public thoroughfare; they may write up on the gates that it
is not, but so long as the gates are left open it is, and will be; and
Mr Westlock had as good a right to be there as anybody else. But why did
she run away, then? Not being ill dressed, for she was much too neat for
that, why did she run away? The brown hair that had fallen down beneath
her bonnet, and had one impertinent imp of a false flower clinging to
it, boastful of its licence before all men, THAT could not have been the
cause, for it looked charming. Oh! foolish, panting, frightened little
heart, why did she run away!
Merrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the dimples sparkled on
its sunny face. John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the whispering
water broke and fell; as roguishly the dimples twinkled, as he stole
upon her footsteps.
Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she feign to be
unconscious of his coming! Why wish herself so far away, yet be so
flutteringly happy there!
‘I felt sure it was you,’ said John, when he overtook her in the
sanctuary of Garden Court. ‘I knew I couldn’t be mistaken.’
She was SO surprised.
‘You are waiting for your brother,’ said John. ‘Let me bear you
company.’
So light was the touch of the coy little hand, that he glanced down to
assure himself he had it on his arm. But his glance, stopping for
an instant at the bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went no
farther.
They walked up and down three or four times, speaking about Tom and his
mysterious employment. Now that was a very natural and innocent subject,
surely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her eyes, did she let them
fall again immediately, and seek the uncongenial pavement of the court?
They were not such eyes as shun the light; they were not such eyes
as require to be hoarded to enhance their value. They were much too
precious and too genuine to stand in need of arts like those. Somebody
must have been looking at them!
They found out Tom, though, quickly enough. This pair of eyes descried
him in the distance, the moment he appeared. He was staring about him,
as usual, in all directions but the right one; and was as obstinate
in not looking towards them, as if he had intended it. As it was plain
that, being left to himself, he would walk away home, John Westlock
darted off to stop him.
This made the approach of poor little Ruth, by herself, one of the
most embarrassing of circumstances. There was Tom, manifesting extreme
surprise (he had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small occasions);
there was John, making as light of it as he could, but explaining at the
same time with most unnecessary elaboration; and here was she, coming
towards them, with both of them looking at her, conscious of blushing to
a terrible extent, but trying to throw up her eyebrows carelessly, and
pout her rosy lips, as if she were the coolest and most unconcerned of
little women.
Merrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the dimples, merging
into one another, swelled into a general smile, that covered the whole
surface of the basin.
‘What an extraordinary meeting!’ said Tom. ‘I should never have dreamed
of seeing you two together here.’
‘Quite accidental,’ John was heard to murmur.
‘Exactly,’ cried Tom; ‘that’s what I mean, you know. If it wasn’t
accidental, there would be nothing remarkable in it.’
‘To be sure,’ said John.
‘Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have met in,’ pursued Tom,
quite delighted. ‘Such an unlikely spot!’
John rather disputed that. On the contrary, he considered it a very
likely spot, indeed. He was constantly passing to and fro there, he
said. He shouldn’t wonder if it were to happen again. His only wonder
was, that it had never happened before.
By this time Ruth had got round on the farther side of her brother, and
had taken his arm. She was squeezing it now, as much as to say ‘Are you
going to stop here all day, you dear, old, blundering Tom?’
Tom answered the squeeze as if it had been a speech. ‘John,’ he said,
‘if you’ll give my sister your arm, we’ll take her between us, and walk
on. I have a curious circumstance to relate to you. Our meeting could
not have happened better.’
Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling dimples
twinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a laugh
against the basin’s rim, and vanished.
‘Tom,’ said his friend, as they turned into the noisy street, ‘I have a
proposition to make. It is, that you and your sister--if she will so far
honour a poor bachelor’s dwelling--give me a great pleasure, and come
and dine with me.’
‘What, to-day?’ cried Tom.
‘Yes, to-day. It’s close by, you know. Pray, Miss Pinch, insist upon it.
It will be very disinterested, for I have nothing to give you.’
‘Oh! you must not believe that, Ruth,’ said Tom. ‘He is the most
tremendous fellow, in his housekeeping, that I ever heard of, for a
single man. He ought to be Lord Mayor. Well! what do you say? Shall we
go?’
‘If you please, Tom,’ rejoined his dutiful little sister.
‘But I mean,’ said Tom, regarding her with smiling admiration; ‘is there
anything you ought to wear, and haven’t got? I am sure I don’t know,
John; she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for anything I can
tell.’
There was a great deal of laughing at this, and there were divers
compliments from John Westlock--not compliments HE said at least (and
really he was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no one could
deny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but she made no objection; so it was
an engagement.
‘If I had known it a little sooner,’ said John, ‘I would have tried
another pudding. Not in rivalry; but merely to exalt that famous one. I
wouldn’t on any account have had it made with suet.’
‘Why not?’ asked Tom.
‘Because that cookery-book advises suet,’ said John Westlock; ‘and ours
was made with flour and eggs.’
‘Oh good gracious!’ cried Tom. ‘Ours was made with flour and eggs,
was it? Ha, ha, ha! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs! Why
anybody knows better than that. I know better than that! Ha, ha, ha!’
It is unnecessary to say that Tom had been present at the making of the
pudding, and had been a devoted believer in it all through. But he was
so delighted to have this joke against his busy little sister and was
tickled to that degree at having found her out, that he stopped
in Temple Bar to laugh; and it was no more to Tom, that he was
anathematized and knocked about by the surly passengers, than it would
have been to a post; for he continued to exclaim with unabated good
humour, ‘flour and eggs! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs!’
until John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from him, and left
him to have his laugh out by himself; which he had, and then came
dodging across the crowded street to them, with such sweet temper and
tenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom’s) beaming in his face,
God bless it, that it might have purified the air, though Temple Bar had
been, as in the golden days gone by, embellished with a row of rotting
human heads.
There are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors live, and, for
the desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising how well
they get on. John was very pathetic on the subject of his dreary life,
and the deplorable makeshifts and apologetic contrivances it involved,
but he really seemed to make himself pretty comfortable. His rooms were
the perfection of neatness and convenience at any rate; and if he were
anything but comfortable, the fault was certainly not theirs.
He had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into his best room (where
there was a beautiful little vase of fresh flowers on the table, all
ready for Ruth. Just as if he had expected her, Tom said), than, seizing
his hat, he bustled out again, in his most energetically bustling, way;
and presently came hurrying back, as they saw through the half-opened
door, attended by a fiery-faced matron attired in a crunched bonnet,
with particularly long strings to it hanging down her back; in
conjunction with whom he instantly began to lay the cloth for dinner,
polishing up the wine-glasses with his own hands, brightening the silver
top of the pepper-caster on his coat-sleeve, drawing corks and filling
decanters, with a skill and expedition that were quite dazzling. And
as if, in the course of this rubbing and polishing, he had rubbed an
enchanted lamp or a magic ring, obedient to which there were twenty
thousand supernatural slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being
in a white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, and attended by
another being with an oblong box upon his head, from which a banquet,
piping hot, was taken out and set upon the table.
Salmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a cool salad, sliced
cucumber, a tender duckling, and a tart--all there. They all came at the
right time. Where they came from, didn’t appear; but the oblong box was
constantly going and coming, and making its arrival known to the man in
the white waistcoat by bumping modestly against the outside of the door;
for, after its first appearance, it entered the room no more. He
was never surprised, this man; he never seemed to wonder at the
extraordinary things he found in the box, but took them out with a face
expressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable character, and put
them on the table. He was a kind man; gentle in his manners, and much
interested in what they ate and drank. He was a learned man, and knew
the flavour of John Westlock’s private sauces, which he softly and
feelingly described, as he handed the little bottles round. He was a
grave man, and a noiseless; for dinner being done, and wine and fruit
arranged upon the board, he vanished, box and all, like something that
had never been.
‘Didn’t I say he was a tremendous fellow in his housekeeping?’ cried
Tom. ‘Bless my soul! It’s wonderful.’
‘Ah, Miss Pinch,’ said John. ‘This is the bright side of the life we
lead in such a place. It would be a dismal life, indeed, if it didn’t
brighten up to-day’
‘Don’t believe a word he says,’ cried Tom. ‘He lives here like a
monarch, and wouldn’t change his mode of life for any consideration. He
only pretends to grumble.’
No, John really did not appear to pretend; for he was uncommonly earnest
in his desire to have it understood that he was as dull, solitary, and
uncomfortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate young man could,
in reason, be. It was a wretched life, he said, a miserable life. He
thought of getting rid of the chambers as soon as possible; and meant,
in fact, to put a bill up very shortly.
‘Well’ said Tom Pinch, ‘I don’t know where you can go, John, to be more
comfortable. That’s all I can say. What do YOU say, Ruth?’
Ruth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and said that she thought
Mr Westlock ought to be quite happy, and that she had no doubt he was.
Ah, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how timidly she said it!
‘But you are forgetting what you had to tell, Tom; what occurred this
morning,’ she added in the same breath.
‘So I am,’ said Tom. ‘We have been so talkative on other topics that I
declare I have not had time to think of it. I’ll tell it you at once,
John, in case I should forget it altogether.’
On Tom’s relating what had passed upon the wharf, his friend was very
much surprised, and took such a great interest in the narrative as
Tom could not quite understand. He believed he knew the old lady whose
acquaintance they had made, he said; and that he might venture to say,
from their description of her, that her name was Gamp. But of what
nature the communication could have been which Tom had borne so
unexpectedly; why its delivery had been entrusted to him; how it
happened that the parties were involved together; and what secret lay
at the bottom of the whole affair; perplexed him very much. Tom had been
sure of his taking some interest in the matter; but was not prepared for
the strong interest he showed. It held John Westlock to the subject even
after Ruth had left the room; and evidently made him anxious to pursue
it further than as a mere subject of conversation.
‘I shall remonstrate with my landlord, of course,’ said Tom; ‘though he
is a very singular secret sort of man, and not likely to afford me much
satisfaction; even if he knew what was in the letter.’
‘Which you may swear he did,’ John interposed.
‘You think so?’
‘I am certain of it.’
‘Well!’ said Tom, ‘I shall remonstrate with him when I see him (he
goes in and out in a strange way, but I will try to catch him tomorrow
morning), on his having asked me to execute such an unpleasant
commission. And I have been thinking, John, that if I went down to
Mrs What’s-her-name’s in the City, where I was before, you know--Mrs
Todgers’s--to-morrow morning, I might find poor Mercy Pecksniff there,
perhaps, and be able to explain to her how I came to have any hand in
the business.’
‘You are perfectly right, Tom,’ returned his friend, after a short
interval of reflection. ‘You cannot do better. It is quite clear to me
that whatever the business is, there is little good in it; and it is so
desirable for you to disentangle yourself from any appearance of willful
connection with it, that I would counsel you to see her husband, if you
can, and wash your hands of it by a plain statement of the facts. I have
a misgiving that there is something dark at work here, Tom. I will tell
you why, at another time; when I have made an inquiry or two myself.’
All this sounded very mysterious to Tom Pinch. But as he knew he could
rely upon his friend, he resolved to follow this advice.
Ah, but it would have been a good thing to have had a coat of
invisibility, wherein to have watched little Ruth, when she was left
to herself in John Westlock’s chambers, and John and her brother were
talking thus, over their wine! The gentle way in which she tried to get
up a little conversation with the fiery-faced matron in the crunched
bonnet, who was waiting to attend her; after making a desperate rally
in regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a washed-out yellow gown
with sprigs of the same upon it, so that it looked like a tesselated
work of pats of butter. That would have been pleasant. The grim and
griffin-like inflexibility with which the fiery-faced matron repelled
these engaging advances, as proceeding from a hostile and dangerous
power, who could have no business there, unless it were to deprive her
of a customer, or suggest what became of the self-consuming tea and
sugar, and other general trifles. That would have been agreeable. The
bashful, winning, glorious curiosity, with which little Ruth, when
fiery-face was gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that
were lying about, and had a particular interest in some delicate
paper-matches on the chimney-piece; wondering who could have made them.
That would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she
tied those flowers together; with which, almost blushing at her own
fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast, and
looking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take them out
again, now half resolved to leave them where they were. That would have
been delightful!
John seemed to think it all delightful; for coming in with Tom to
tea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the
tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became
absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the
open window, looking out upon the twilight.
There is little enough to see in Furnival’s Inn. It is a shady, quiet
place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business
there; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it
such a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of
the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which
had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him! What
power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars
that here and there appeared; the evening air, the City’s hum and stir,
the very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment,
that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes
could not have held them captive in a stronger chain?
The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still
Tom’s fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window
had its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her
breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.
‘Dear me!’ he cried, desisting with a start. ‘I am afraid I have been
very inconsiderate and unpolite.’
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!
‘Sing something to us, my dear,’ said Tom, ‘let us hear your voice.
Come!’
John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty
heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh,
dear no! Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom
loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few
simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time
while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend;
words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music
might have been the poet’s breath, giving utterance and expression to
his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the
singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked
little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners’ hearts again;
these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these
simple means prevailed, and she DID please them, let the still darkened
chamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.
The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting
paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers,
occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was
ready.
‘Good night!’ said Tom. ‘A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good
night!’
John thought he would walk with them.
‘No, no. Don’t!’ said Tom. ‘What nonsense! We can get home very well
alone. I couldn’t think of taking you out.’
But John said he would rather.
‘Are you sure you would rather?’ said Tom. ‘I am afraid you only say so
out of politeness.’
John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out.
Fiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure with
so cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.
Their host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not listen
to Tom’s dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy
dreams! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that put the
visions of the night to shame.
Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay
sleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a
portrait--whose?--from memory.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
IN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES
TEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS
On the next day’s official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home
without losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest
sallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit
to Todgers’s. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great
pleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but
because he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for
her own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from
Tom), was all eagerness to do.
‘She was so glad to see me,’ said Tom, ‘that I am sure she will be
glad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and
acceptable than mine.’
‘I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,’ she replied; ‘and
indeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may
like me, Tom.’
‘Oh, she is sure to do that!’ cried Tom, confidently.
‘What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of
thinking. Shouldn’t I, Tom, dear?’ said his little sister pinching him
upon the cheek.
Tom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had
no doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. ‘For you women,’ said
Tom, ‘you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such
nice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of
solicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like
your touch so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with
wounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with
wounds of the body. You are such--’
‘My goodness, Tom!’ his sister interposed. ‘You ought to fall in love
immediately.’
Tom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too;
and they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.
As they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs
Todgers’s place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of
a large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to
something very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best
advantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had
hazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation
to the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing
heartily at his mistake, when he pressed her arm in his, and pointed to
two persons at a little distance, who were looking in at the same window
with a deep interest in the chests of drawers and tables.
‘Hush!’ Tom whispered. ‘Miss Pecksniff, and the young gentleman to whom
she is going to be married.’
‘Why does he look as if he was going to be buried, Tom?’ inquired his
little sister.
‘Why, he is naturally a dismal young gentleman, I believe,’ said Tom
‘but he is very civil and inoffensive.’
‘I suppose they are furnishing their house,’ whispered Ruth.
‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ replied Tom. ‘We had better avoid speaking to
them.’
They could not very well avoid looking at them, however, especially
as some obstruction on the pavement, at a little distance, happened to
detain them where they were for a few moments. Miss Pecksniff had quite
the air of having taken the unhappy Moddle captive, and brought him
up to the contemplation of the furniture like a lamb to the altar.
He offered no resistance, but was perfectly resigned and quiet. The
melancholy depicted in the turn of his languishing head, and in his
dejected attitude, was extreme; and though there was a full-sized
four-post bedstead in the window, such a tear stood trembling in his eye
as seemed to blot it out.
‘Augustus, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘ask the price of the eight
rosewood chairs, and the loo table.’
‘Perhaps they are ordered already,’ said Augustus. ‘Perhaps they are
Another’s.’
‘They can make more like them, if they are,’ rejoined Miss Pecksniff.
‘No, no, they can’t,’ said Moddle. ‘It’s impossible!’
He appeared, for the moment, to be quite overwhelmed and stupefied by
the prospect of his approaching happiness; but recovering, entered the
shop. He returned immediately, saying in a tone of despair
‘Twenty-four pound ten!’
Miss Pecksniff, turning to receive this announcement, became conscious
of the observation of Tom Pinch and his sister.
‘Oh, really!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, glancing about her, as if for some
convenient means of sinking into the earth. ‘Upon my word, I--there
never was such a--to think that one should be so very--Mr Augustus
Moddle, Miss Pinch!’
Miss Pecksniff was quite gracious to Miss Pinch in this triumphant
introduction; exceedingly gracious. She was more than gracious; she was
kind and cordial. Whether the recollection of the old service Tom had
rendered her in knocking Mr Jonas on the head had wrought this change in
her opinions; or whether her separation from her parent had reconciled
her to all human-kind, or to all that interesting portion of human-kind
which was not friendly to him; or whether the delight of having some new
female acquaintance to whom to communicate her interesting prospects was
paramount to every other consideration; cordial and kind Miss Pecksniff
was. And twice Miss Pecksniff kissed Miss Pinch upon the cheek.
‘Augustus--Mr Pinch, you know. My dear girl!’ said Miss Pecksniff,
aside. ‘I never was so ashamed in my life.’
Ruth begged her not to think of it.
‘I mind your brother less than anybody else,’ simpered Miss Pecksniff.
‘But the indelicacy of meeting any gentleman under such circumstances!
Augustus, my child, did you--’
Here Miss Pecksniff whispered in his ear. The suffering Moddle repeated:
‘Twenty-four pound ten!’
‘Oh, you silly man! I don’t mean them,’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am
speaking of the--’
Here she whispered him again.
‘If it’s the same patterned chintz as that in the window; thirty-two,
twelve, six,’ said Moddle, with a sigh. ‘And very dear.’
Miss Pecksniff stopped him from giving any further explanation by laying
her hand upon his lips, and betraying a soft embarrassment. She then
asked Tom Pinch which way he was going.
‘I was going to see if I could find your sister,’ answered Tom, ‘to whom
I wished to say a few words. We were going to Mrs Todgers’s, where I had
the pleasure of seeing her before.’
‘It’s of no use your going on, then,’ said Cherry, ‘for we have not
long left there; and I know she is not at home. But I’ll take you to my
sister’s house, if you please. Augustus--Mr Moddle, I mean--and myself,
are on our way to tea there, now. You needn’t think of HIM,’ she added,
nodding her head as she observed some hesitation on Tom’s part. ‘He is
not at home.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Tom.
‘Oh, I am quite sure of that. I don’t want any MORE revenge,’ said Miss
Pecksniff, expressively. ‘But, really, I must beg you two gentlemen to
walk on, and allow me to follow with Miss Pinch. My dear, I never was so
taken by surprise!’
In furtherance of this bashful arrangement, Moddle gave his arm to Tom;
and Miss Pecksniff linked her own in Ruth’s.
‘Of course, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘it would be useless for me
to disguise, after what you have seen, that I am about to be united to
the gentleman who is walking with your brother. It would be in vain
to conceal it. What do you think of him? Pray, let me have your candid
opinion.’
Ruth intimated that, as far as she could judge, he was a very eligible
swain.
‘I am curious to know,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with loquacious frankness,
‘whether you have observed, or fancied, in this very short space of
time, that he is of a rather melancholy turn?’
‘So very short a time,’ Ruth pleaded.
‘No, no; but don’t let that interfere with your answer,’ returned Miss
Pecksniff. ‘I am curious to hear what you say.’
Ruth acknowledged that he had impressed her at first sight as looking
‘rather low.’
‘No, really?’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘Well! that is quite remarkable!
Everybody says the same. Mrs Todgers says the same; and Augustus informs
me that it is quite a joke among the gentlemen in the house. Indeed, but
for the positive commands I have laid upon him, I believe it would have
been the occasion of loaded fire-arms being resorted to more than once.
What do you think is the cause of his appearance of depression?’
Ruth thought of several things; such as his digestion, his tailor, his
mother, and the like. But hesitating to give utterance to any one of
them, she refrained from expressing an opinion.
‘My dear,’ said Miss Pecksniff; ‘I shouldn’t wish it to be known, but I
don’t mind mentioning it to you, having known your brother for so many
years--I refused Augustus three times. He is of a most amiable and
sensitive nature, always ready to shed tears if you look at him, which
is extremely charming; and he has never recovered the effect of that
cruelty. For it WAS cruel,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with a self-conviction
candour that might have adorned the diadem of her own papa. ‘There is
no doubt of it. I look back upon my conduct now with blushes. I always
liked him. I felt that he was not to me what the crowd of young men who
had made proposals had been, but something very different. Then what
right had I to refuse him three times?’
‘It was a severe trial of his fidelity, no doubt,’ said Ruth.
‘My dear,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was wrong. But such is the
caprice and thoughtlessness of our sex! Let me be a warning to you.
Don’t try the feelings of any one who makes you an offer, as I have
tried the feelings of Augustus; but if you ever feel towards a person
as I really felt towards him, at the very time when I was driving him
to distraction, let that feeling find expression, if that person throws
himself at your feet, as Augustus Moddle did at mine. Think,’ said Miss
Pecksniff, ‘what my feelings would have been, if I had goaded him to
suicide, and it had got into the papers!’
Ruth observed that she would have been full of remorse, no doubt.
‘Remorse!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, in a sort of snug and comfortable
penitence. ‘What my remorse is at this moment, even after making
reparation by accepting him, it would be impossible to tell you! Looking
back upon my giddy self, my dear, now that I am sobered down and
made thoughtful, by treading on the very brink of matrimony; and
contemplating myself as I was when I was like what you are now; I
shudder. I shudder. What is the consequence of my past conduct? Until
Augustus leads me to the altar he is not sure of me. I have blighted and
withered the affections of his heart to that extent that he is not sure
of me. I see that preying on his mind and feeding on his vitals. What
are the reproaches of my conscience, when I see this in the man I love!’
Ruth endeavoured to express some sense of her unbounded and flattering
confidence; and presumed that she was going to be married soon.
‘Very soon indeed,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘As soon as our house is
ready. We are furnishing now as fast as we can.’
In the same vein of confidence Miss Pecksniff ran through a general
inventory of the articles that were already bought with the articles
that remained to be purchased; what garments she intended to be married
in, and where the ceremony was to be performed; and gave Miss Pinch, in
short (as she told her), early and exclusive information on all points
of interest connected with the event.
While this was going forward in the rear, Tom and Mr Moddle walked on,
arm in arm, in the front, in a state of profound silence, which Tom at
last broke; after thinking for a long time what he could say that should
refer to an indifferent topic, in respect of which he might rely, with
some degree of certainty, on Mr Moddle’s bosom being unruffled.
‘I wonder,’ said Tom, ‘that in these crowded streets the foot-passengers
are not oftener run over.’
Mr Moddle, with a dark look, replied:
‘The drivers won’t do it.’
‘Do you mean?’ Tom began--
‘That there are some men,’ interrupted Moddle, with a hollow laugh, ‘who
can’t get run over. They live a charmed life. Coal waggons recoil from
them, and even cabs refuse to run them down. Ah!’ said Augustus, marking
Tom’s astonishment. ‘There are such men. One of ‘em is a friend of
mine.’
‘Upon my word and honour,’ thought Tom, ‘this young gentleman is in
a state of mind which is very serious indeed!’ Abandoning all idea of
conversation, he did not venture to say another word, but he was careful
to keep a tight hold upon Augustus’s arm, lest he should fly into the
road, and making another and a more successful attempt, should get up a
private little Juggernaut before the eyes of his betrothed. Tom was
so afraid of his committing this rash act, that he had scarcely ever
experienced such mental relief as when they arrived in safety at Mrs
Jonas Chuzzlewit’s house.
‘Walk up, pray, Mr Pinch,’ said Miss Pecksniff. For Tom halted,
irresolutely, at the door.
‘I am doubtful whether I should be welcome,’ replied Tom, ‘or, I ought
rather to say, I have no doubt about it. I will send up a message, I
think.’
‘But what nonsense that is!’ returned Miss Pecksniff, speaking apart
to Tom. ‘He is not at home, I am certain. I know he is not; and Merry
hasn’t the least idea that you ever--’
‘No,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Nor would I have her know it, on any account. I
am not so proud of that scuffle, I assure you.’
‘Ah, but then you are so modest, you see,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with
a smile. ‘But pray walk up. If you don’t wish her to know it, and do
wish to speak to her, pray walk up. Pray walk up, Miss Pinch. Don’t
stand here.’
Tom still hesitated for he felt that he was in an awkward position. But
Cherry passing him at this juncture, and leading his sister upstairs,
and the house-door being at the same time shut behind them, he followed
without quite knowing whether it was well or ill-judged so to do.
‘Merry, my darling!’ said the fair Miss Pecksniff, opening the door of
the usual sitting-room. ‘Here are Mr Pinch and his sister come to see
you! I thought we should find you here, Mrs Todgers! How do you do, Mrs
Gamp? And how do you do, Mr Chuffey, though it’s of no use asking you
the question, I am well aware.’
Honouring each of these parties, as she severally addressed them, with
an acid smile, Miss Charity presented ‘Mr Moddle.’
‘I believe you have seen HIM before,’ she pleasantly observed.
‘Augustus, my sweet child, bring me a chair.’
The sweet child did as he was told; and was then about to retire into a
corner to mourn in secret, when Miss Charity, calling him in an audible
whisper a ‘little pet,’ gave him leave to come and sit beside her. It
is to be hoped, for the general cheerfulness of mankind, that such a
doleful little pet was never seen as Mr Moddle looked when he complied.
So despondent was his temper, that he showed no outward thrill of
ecstasy when Miss Pecksniff placed her lily hand in his, and concealed
this mark of her favour from the vulgar gaze by covering it with a
corner of her shawl. Indeed, he was infinitely more rueful then than
he had been before; and, sitting uncomfortably upright in his chair,
surveyed the company with watery eyes, which seemed to say, without
the aid of language, ‘Oh, good gracious! look here! Won’t some kind
Christian help me!’
But the ecstasies of Mrs Gamp were sufficient to have furnished forth
a score of young lovers; and they were chiefly awakened by the sight of
Tom Pinch and his sister. Mrs Gamp was a lady of that happy temperament
which can be ecstatic without any other stimulating cause than a general
desire to establish a large and profitable connection. She added daily
so many strings to her bow, that she made a perfect harp of it; and upon
that instrument she now began to perform an extemporaneous concerto.
‘Why, goodness me!’ she said, ‘Mrs Chuzzlewit! To think as I should see
beneath this blessed ‘ouse, which well I know it, Miss Pecksniff, my
sweet young lady, to be a ‘ouse as there is not a many like, worse luck,
and wishin’ it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be
changed into a flowerin’ guardian, Mr Chuffey; to think as I should see
beneath this indiwidgle roof, identically comin’, Mr Pinch (I take the
liberty, though almost unbeknown), and do assure you of it, sir, the
smilinest and sweetest face as ever, Mrs Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin’
yourn, my dear good lady, and YOUR good lady’s too, sir, Mr Moddle, if
I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as
needn’t look through millstones, Mrs Todgers, to find out wot is wrote
upon the wall behind. Which no offence is meant, ladies and gentlemen;
none bein’ took, I hope. To think as I should see that smilinest and
sweetest face which me and another friend of mine, took notice of among
the packages down London Bridge, in this promiscous place, is a surprige
in-deed!’
Having contrived, in this happy manner, to invest every member of her
audience with an individual share and immediate personal interest in
her address, Mrs Gamp dropped several curtseys to Ruth, and smilingly
shaking her head a great many times, pursued the thread of her
discourse:
‘Now, ain’t we rich in beauty this here joyful arternoon, I’m sure. I
knows a lady, which her name, I’ll not deceive you, Mrs Chuzzlewit, is
Harris, her husband’s brother bein’ six foot three, and marked with
a mad bull in Wellington boots upon his left arm, on account of his
precious mother havin’ been worrited by one into a shoemaker’s shop,
when in a sitiwation which blessed is the man as has his quiver full of
sech, as many times I’ve said to Gamp when words has roge betwixt us on
account of the expense--and often have I said to Mrs Harris, “Oh, Mrs
Harris, ma’am! your countenance is quite a angel’s!” Which, but
for Pimples, it would be. “No, Sairey Gamp,” says she, “you best of
hard-working and industrious creeturs as ever was underpaid at any
price, which underpaid you are, quite diff’rent. Harris had it done
afore marriage at ten and six,” she says, “and wore it faithful next his
heart till the colour run, when the money was declined to be give back,
and no arrangement could be come to. But he never said it was a angel’s,
Sairey, wotever he might have thought.” If Mrs Harris’s husband was
here now,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking round, and chuckling as she dropped
a general curtsey, ‘he’d speak out plain, he would, and his dear wife
would be the last to blame him! For if ever a woman lived as know’d not
wot it was to form a wish to pizon them as had good looks, and had no
reagion give her by the best of husbands, Mrs Harris is that ev’nly
dispogician!’
With these words the worthy woman, who appeared to have dropped in
to take tea as a delicate little attention, rather than to have any
engagement on the premises in an official capacity, crossed to Mr
Chuffey, who was seated in the same corner as of old, and shook him by
the shoulder.
‘Rouge yourself, and look up! Come!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Here’s company, Mr
Chuffey.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ cried the old man, looking humbly round the room.
‘I know I’m in the way. I ask pardon, but I’ve nowhere else to go to.
Where is she?’
Merry went to him.
‘Ah!’ said the old man, patting her on the check. ‘Here she is. Here she
is! She’s never hard on poor old Chuffey. Poor old Chuff!’
As she took her seat upon a low chair by the old man’s side, and put
herself within the reach of his hand, she looked up once at Tom. It
was a sad look that she cast upon him, though there was a faint smile
trembling on her face. It was a speaking look, and Tom knew what it
said. ‘You see how misery has changed me. I can feel for a dependant
NOW, and set some value on his attachment.’
‘Aye, aye!’ cried Chuffey in a soothing tone. ‘Aye, aye, aye! Never mind
him. It’s hard to hear, but never mind him. He’ll die one day. There
are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year--three hundred and
sixty-six in leap year--and he may die on any one of ‘em.’
‘You’re a wearing old soul, and that’s the sacred truth,’ said Mrs Gamp,
contemplating him from a little distance with anything but favour, as he
continued to mutter to himself. ‘It’s a pity that you don’t know wot you
say, for you’d tire your own patience out if you did, and fret yourself
into a happy releage for all as knows you.’
‘His son,’ murmured the old man, lifting up his hand. ‘His son!’
‘Well, I’m sure!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you’re a-settlin’ of it, Mr Chuffey.
To your satigefaction, sir, I hope. But I wouldn’t lay a new pincushion
on it myself, sir, though you ARE so well informed. Drat the old
creetur, he’s a-layin’ down the law tolerable confident, too! A deal he
knows of sons! or darters either! Suppose you was to favour us with some
remarks on twins, sir, WOULD you be so good!’
The bitter and indignant sarcasm which Mrs Gamp conveyed into these
taunts was altogether lost on the unconscious Chuffey, who appeared to
be as little cognizant of their delivery as of his having given Mrs
Gamp offence. But that high-minded woman being sensitively alive to any
invasion of her professional province, and imagining that Mr Chuffey had
given utterance to some prediction on the subject of sons, which ought
to have emanated in the first instance from herself as the only lawful
authority, or which should at least have been on no account proclaimed
without her sanction and concurrence, was not so easily appeased. She
continued to sidle at Mr Chuffey with looks of sharp hostility, and to
defy him with many other ironical remarks, uttered in that low key
which commonly denotes suppressed indignation; until the entrance of
the teaboard, and a request from Mrs Jonas that she would make tea at a
side-table for the party that had unexpectedly assembled, restored her
to herself. She smiled again, and entered on her ministration with her
own particular urbanity.
‘And quite a family it is to make tea for,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘and wot a
happiness to do it! My good young ‘ooman’--to the servant-girl--‘p’raps
somebody would like to try a new-laid egg or two, not biled too hard.
Likeways, a few rounds o’ buttered toast, first cuttin’ off the crust,
in consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of ‘em; which Gamp
himself, Mrs Chuzzlewit, at one blow, being in liquor, struck out four,
two single, and two double, as was took by Mrs Harris for a keepsake,
and is carried in her pocket at this present hour, along with two
cramp-bones, a bit o’ ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant’s shoe,
in tin, with a little heel to put the nutmeg in; as many times I’ve seen
and said, and used for candle when required, within the month.’
As the privileges of the side-table--besides including the small
prerogatives of sitting next the toast, and taking two cups of tea to
other people’s one, and always taking them at a crisis, that is to
say, before putting fresh water into the tea-pot, and after it had been
standing for some time--also comprehended a full view of the company,
and an opportunity of addressing them as from a rostrum, Mrs Gamp
discharged the functions entrusted to her with extreme good-humour and
affability. Sometimes resting her saucer on the palm of her outspread
hand, and supporting her elbow on the table, she stopped between her
sips of tea to favour the circle with a smile, a wink, a roll of the
head, or some other mark of notice; and at those periods her countenance
was lighted up with a degree of intelligence and vivacity, which it was
almost impossible to separate from the benignant influence of distilled
waters.
But for Mrs Gamp, it would have been a curiously silent party. Miss
Pecksniff only spoke to her Augustus, and to him in whispers. Augustus
spoke to nobody, but sighed for every one, and occasionally gave himself
such a sounding slap upon the forehead as would make Mrs Todgers, who
was rather nervous, start in her chair with an involuntary exclamation.
Mrs Todgers was occupied in knitting, and seldom spoke. Poor Merry held
the hand of cheerful little Ruth between her own, and listening with
evident pleasure to all she said, but rarely speaking herself, sometimes
smiled, and sometimes kissed her on the cheek, and sometimes turned
aside to hide the tears that trembled in her eyes. Tom felt this change
in her so much, and was so glad to see how tenderly Ruth dealt with her,
and how she knew and answered to it, that he had not the heart to make
any movement towards their departure, although he had long since given
utterance to all he came to say.
The old clerk, subsiding into his usual state, remained profoundly
silent, while the rest of the little assembly were thus occupied, intent
upon the dreams, whatever they might be, which hardly seemed to stir
the surface of his sluggish thoughts. The bent of these dull fancies
combining probably with the silent feasting that was going on about him,
and some struggling recollection of the last approach to revelry he had
witnessed, suggested a strange question to his mind. He looked round
upon a sudden, and said:
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’
‘No one,’ said Merry, turning to him. ‘What is the matter? We are all
here.’
‘All here!’ cried the old man. ‘All here! Where is he then--my old
master, Mr Chuzzlewit, who had the only son? Where is he?’
‘Hush! Hush!’ said Merry, speaking kindly to him. ‘That happened long
ago. Don’t you recollect?’
‘Recollect!’ rejoined the old man, with a cry of grief. ‘As if I could
forget! As if I ever could forget!’
He put his hand up to his face for a moment; and then repeated turning
round exactly as before:
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’
‘No one!’ said Merry.
At first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavoured
to deceive him; but peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed
she, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion.
‘You think not. But they don’t tell you. No, no, poor thing! They don’t
tell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making here, if there is
no one dead? Foul play! Go see who it is!’
She made a sign to them not to speak to him, which indeed they had
little inclination to do; and remained silent herself. So did he for
a short time; but then he repeated the same question with an eagerness
that had a peculiar terror in it.
‘There’s some one dead,’ he said, ‘or dying; and I want to knows who it
is. Go see, go see! Where’s Jonas?’
‘In the country,’ she replied.
The old man gazed at her as if he doubted what she said, or had not
heard her; and, rising from his chair, walked across the room and
upstairs, whispering as he went, ‘Foul play!’ They heard his footsteps
overhead, going up into that corner of the room in which the bed stood
(it was there old Anthony had died); and then they heard him coming down
again immediately. His fancy was not so strong or wild that it pictured
to him anything in the deserted bedchamber which was not there; for he
returned much calmer, and appeared to have satisfied himself.
‘They don’t tell you,’ he said to Merry in his quavering voice, as
he sat down again, and patted her upon the head. ‘They don’t tell me
either; but I’ll watch, I’ll watch. They shall not hurt you; don’t be
frightened. When you have sat up watching, I have sat up watching too.
Aye, aye, I have!’ he piped out, clenching his weak, shrivelled hand.
‘Many a night I have been ready!’
He said this with such trembling gaps and pauses in his want of breath,
and said it in his jealous secrecy so closely in her ear, that little
or nothing of it was understood by the visitors. But they had heard
and seen enough of the old man to be disquieted, and to have left
their seats and gathered about him; thereby affording Mrs Gamp,
whose professional coolness was not so easily disturbed, an eligible
opportunity for concentrating the whole resources of her powerful mind
and appetite upon the toast and butter, tea and eggs. She had brought
them to bear upon those viands with such vigour that her face was in the
highest state of inflammation, when she now (there being nothing left to
eat or drink) saw fit to interpose.
‘Why, highty tighty, sir!’ cried Mrs Gamp, ‘is these your manners? You
want a pitcher of cold water throw’d over you to bring you round; that’s
my belief, and if you was under Betsey Prig you’d have it, too, I do
assure you, Mr Chuffey. Spanish Flies is the only thing to draw this
nonsense out of you; and if anybody wanted to do you a kindness, they’d
clap a blister of ‘em on your head, and put a mustard poultige on your
back. ‘Who’s dead, indeed! It wouldn’t be no grievous loss if some one
was, I think!’
‘He’s quiet now, Mrs Gamp,’ said Merry. ‘Don’t disturb him.’
‘Oh, bother the old wictim, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ replied that zealous lady,
‘I ain’t no patience with him. You give him his own way too much by
half. A worritin’ wexagious creetur!’
No doubt with the view of carrying out the precepts she enforced, and
‘bothering the old wictim’ in practice as well as in theory, Mrs Gamp
took him by the collar of his coat, and gave him some dozen or two of
hearty shakes backward and forward in his chair; that exercise being
considered by the disciples of the Prig school of nursing (who are very
numerous among professional ladies) as exceedingly conducive to repose,
and highly beneficial to the performance of the nervous functions.
Its effect in this instance was to render the patient so giddy and
addle-headed, that he could say nothing more; which Mrs Gamp regarded as
the triumph of her art.
‘There!’ she said, loosening the old man’s cravat, in consequence of his
being rather black in the face, after this scientific treatment. ‘Now,
I hope, you’re easy in your mind. If you should turn at all faint we
can soon rewive you, sir, I promige you. Bite a person’s thumbs, or
turn their fingers the wrong way,’ said Mrs Gamp, smiling with the
consciousness of at once imparting pleasure and instruction to her
auditors, ‘and they comes to, wonderful, Lord bless you!’
As this excellent woman had been formerly entrusted with the care of Mr
Chuffey on a previous occasion, neither Mrs Jonas nor anybody else had
the resolution to interfere directly with her mode of treatment;
though all present (Tom Pinch and his sister especially) appeared to be
disposed to differ from her views. For such is the rash boldness of the
uninitiated, that they will frequently set up some monstrous abstract
principle, such as humanity, or tenderness, or the like idle folly, in
obstinate defiance of all precedent and usage; and will even venture to
maintain the same against the persons who have made the precedents
and established the usage, and who must therefore be the best and most
impartial judges of the subject.
‘Ah, Mr Pinch!’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘It all comes of this unfortunate
marriage. If my sister had not been so precipitate, and had not united
herself to a Wretch, there would have been no Mr Chuffey in the house.’
‘Hush!’ cried Tom. ‘She’ll hear you.’
‘I should be very sorry if she did hear me, Mr Pinch,’ said Cherry,
raising her voice a little; ‘for it is not in my nature to add to the
uneasiness of any person; far less of my own sister. I know what a
sister’s duties are, Mr Pinch, and I hope I always showed it in my
practice. Augustus, my dear child, find my pocket-handkerchief, and give
it to me.’
Augustus obeyed, and took Mrs Todgers aside to pour his griefs into her
friendly bosom.
‘I am sure, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, looking after her betrothed and
glancing at her sister, ‘that I ought to be very grateful for the
blessings I enjoy, and those which are yet in store for me. When I
contrast Augustus’--here she was modest and embarrased--‘who, I don’t
mind saying to you, is all softness, mildness, and devotion, with the
detestable man who is my sister’s husband; and when I think, Mr Pinch,
that in the dispensations of this world, our cases might have been
reversed; I have much to be thankful for, indeed, and much to make me
humble and contented.’
Contented she might have been, but humble she assuredly was not. Her
face and manner experienced something so widely different from humility,
that Tom could not help understanding and despising the base motives
that were working in her breast. He turned away, and said to Ruth, that
it was time for them to go.
‘I will write to your husband,’ said Tom to Merry, ‘and explain to him,
as I would have done if I had met him here, that if he has sustained any
inconvenience through my means, it is not my fault; a postman not being
more innocent of the news he brings, than I was when I handed him that
letter.’
‘I thank you!’ said Merry. ‘It may do some good.’
She parted tenderly from Ruth, who with her brother was in the act of
leaving the room, when a key was heard in the lock of the door below,
and immediately afterwards a quick footstep in the passage. Tom stopped,
and looked at Merry.
It was Jonas, she said timidly.
‘I had better not meet him on the stairs, perhaps,’ said Tom, drawing
his sister’s arm through his, and coming back a step or two. ‘I’ll wait
for him here, a moment.’
He had scarcely said it when the door opened, and Jonas entered. His
wife came forward to receive him; but he put her aside with his hand,
and said in a surly tone:
‘I didn’t know you’d got a party.’
As he looked, at the same time, either by accident or design, towards
Miss Pecksniff; and as Miss Pecksniff was only too delighted to quarrel
with him, she instantly resented it.
‘Oh dear!’ she said, rising. ‘Pray don’t let us intrude upon your
domestic happiness! That would be a pity. We have taken tea here, sir,
in your absence; but if you will have the goodness to send us a note of
the expense, receipted, we shall be happy to pay it. Augustus, my love,
we will go, if you please. Mrs Todgers, unless you wish to remain here,
we shall be happy to take you with us. It would be a pity, indeed, to
spoil the bliss which this gentleman always brings with him, especially
into his own home.’
‘Charity! Charity!’ remonstrated her sister, in such a heartfelt tone
that she might have been imploring her to show the cardinal virtue whose
name she bore.
‘Merry, my dear, I am much obliged to you for your advice,’ returned
Miss Pecksniff, with a stately scorn--by the way, she had not been
offered any--‘but I am not his slave--’
‘No, nor wouldn’t have been if you could,’ interrupted Jonas. ‘We know
all about it.’
‘WHAT did you say, sir?’ cried Miss Pecksniff, sharply.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ retorted Jonas, lounging down upon a chair. ‘I am not
a-going to say it again. If you like to stay, you may stay. If you like
to go, you may go. But if you stay, please to be civil.’
‘Beast!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, sweeping past him. ‘Augustus! He is
beneath your notice!’ Augustus had been making some faint and sickly
demonstration of shaking his fist. ‘Come away, child,’ screamed Miss
Pecksniff, ‘I command you!’
The scream was elicited from her by Augustus manifesting an intention to
return and grapple with him. But Miss Pecksniff giving the fiery youth
a pull, and Mrs Todgers giving him a push they all three tumbled out
of the room together, to the music of Miss Pecksniff’s shrill
remonstrances.
All this time Jonas had seen nothing of Tom and his sister; for they
were almost behind the door when he opened it, and he had sat down with
his back towards them, and had purposely kept his eyes upon the opposite
side of the street during his altercation with Miss Pecksniff, in order
that his seeming carelessness might increase the exasperation of that
wronged young damsel. His wife now faltered out that Tom had been
waiting to see him; and Tom advanced.
The instant he presented himself, Jonas got up from his chair, and
swearing a great oath, caught it in his grasp, as if he would have
felled Tom to the ground with it. As he most unquestionably would have
done, but that his very passion and surprise made him irresolute, and
gave Tom, in his calmness, an opportunity of being heard.
‘You have no cause to be violent, sir,’ said Tom. ‘Though what I wish to
say relates to your own affairs, I know nothing of them, and desire to
know nothing of them.’
Jonas was too enraged to speak. He held the door open; and stamping his
foot upon the ground, motioned Tom away.
‘As you cannot suppose,’ said Tom, ‘that I am here with any view of
conciliating you or pleasing myself, I am quite indifferent to your
reception of me, or your dismissal of me. Hear what I have to say, if
you are not a madman! I gave you a letter the other day, when you were
about to go abroad.’
‘You Thief, you did!’ retorted Jonas. ‘I’ll pay you for the carriage of
it one day, and settle an old score besides. I will!’
‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, ‘you needn’t waste words or threats. I wish you
to understand--plainly because I would rather keep clear of you and
everything that concerns you: not because I have the least apprehension
of your doing me any injury: which would be weak indeed--that I am no
party to the contents of that letter. That I know nothing of it. That I
was not even aware that it was to be delivered to you; and that I had it
from--’
‘By the Lord!’ cried Jonas, fiercely catching up the chair, ‘I’ll knock
your brains out, if you speak another word.’
Tom, nevertheless, persisting in his intention, and opening his lips to
speak again, Jonas set upon him like a savage; and in the quickness and
ferocity of his attack would have surely done him some grievous injury,
defenceless as he was, and embarrassed by having his frightened sister
clinging to his arm, if Merry had not run between them, crying to
Tom for the love of Heaven to leave the house. The agony of this poor
creature, the terror of his sister, the impossibility of making himself
audible, and the equal impossibility of bearing up against Mrs Gamp, who
threw herself upon him like a feather-bed, and forced him backwards down
the stairs by the mere oppression of her dead weight, prevailed. Tom
shook the dust of that house off his feet, without having mentioned
Nadgett’s name.
If the name could have passed his lips; if Jonas, in the insolence of
his vile nature, had never roused him to do that old act of manliness,
for which (and not for his last offence) he hated him with such
malignity; if Jonas could have learned, as then he could and would have
learned, through Tom’s means, what unsuspected spy there was upon him;
he would have been saved from the commission of a Guilty Deed, then
drawing on towards its black accomplishment. But the fatality was of
his own working; the pit was of his own digging; the gloom that gathered
round him was the shadow of his own life.
His wife had closed the door, and thrown herself before it, on the
ground, upon her knees. She held up her hands to him now, and besought
him not to be harsh with her, for she had interposed in fear of
bloodshed.
‘So, so!’ said Jonas, looking down upon her, as he fetched his breath.
‘These are your friends, are they, when I am away? You plot and tamper
with this sort of people, do you?’
‘No, indeed! I have no knowledge of these secrets, and no clue to
their meaning. I have never seen him since I left home but once--but
twice--before to-day.’
‘Oh!’ sneered Jonas, catching at this correction. ‘But once, but twice,
eh? Which do you mean? Twice and once, perhaps. Three times! How many
more, you lying jade?’
As he made an angry motion with his hand, she shrunk down hastily. A
suggestive action! Full of a cruel truth!
‘How many more times?’ he repeated.
‘No more. The other morning, and to-day, and once besides.’
He was about to retort upon her, when the clock struck. He started
stopped, and listened; appearing to revert to some engagement, or to
some other subject, a secret within his own breast, recalled to him by
this record of the progress of the hours.
‘Don’t lie there! Get up!’
Having helped her to rise, or rather hauled her up by the arm, he went
on to say:
‘Listen to me, young lady; and don’t whine when you have no occasion, or
I may make some for you. If I find him in my house again, or find that
you have seen him in anybody else’s house, you’ll repent it. If you are
not deaf and dumb to everything that concerns me, unless you have my
leave to hear and speak, you’ll repent it. If you don’t obey exactly
what I order, you’ll repent it. Now, attend. What’s the time?’
‘It struck eight a minute ago.’
He looked towards her intently; and said, with a laboured distinctness,
as if he had got the words off by heart:
‘I have been travelling day and night, and am tired. I have lost some
money, and that don’t improve me. Put my supper in the little off-room
below, and have the truckle-bed made. I shall sleep there to-night, and
maybe to-morrow night; and if I can sleep all day to-morrow, so much
the better, for I’ve got trouble to sleep off, if I can. Keep the house
quiet, and don’t call me. Mind! Don’t call me. Don’t let anybody call
me. Let me lie there.’
She said it should be done. Was that all?
‘All what? You must be prying and questioning!’ he angrily retorted.
‘What more do you want to know?’
‘I want to know nothing, Jonas, but what you tell me. All hope of
confidence between us has long deserted me!’
‘Ecod, I should hope so!’ he muttered.
‘But if you will tell me what you wish, I will be obedient and will
try to please you. I make no merit of that, for I have no friend in
my father or my sister, but am quite alone. I am very humble and
submissive. You told me you would break my spirit, and you have done so.
Do not break my heart too!’
She ventured, as she said these words, to lay her hand upon his
shoulder. He suffered it to rest there, in his exultation; and the whole
mean, abject, sordid, pitiful soul of the man, looked at her, for the
moment, through his wicked eyes.
For the moment only; for, with the same hurried return to something
within himself, he bade her, in a surly tone, show her obedience by
executing his commands without delay. When she had withdrawn he paced
up and down the room several times; but always with his right hand
clenched, as if it held something; which it did not, being empty. When
he was tired of this, he threw himself into a chair, and thoughtfully
turned up the sleeve of his right arm, as if he were rather musing
about its strength than examining it; but, even then, he kept the hand
clenched.
He was brooding in this chair, with his eyes cast down upon the ground,
when Mrs Gamp came in to tell him that the little room was ready. Not
being quite sure of her reception after interfering in the quarrel, Mrs
Gamp, as a means of interesting and propitiating her patron, affected a
deep solicitude in Mr Chuffey.
‘How is he now, sir?’ she said.
‘Who?’ cried Jonas, raising his head, and staring at her.
‘To be sure!’ returned the matron with a smile and a curtsey. ‘What am I
thinking of! You wasn’t here, sir, when he was took so strange. I never
see a poor dear creetur took so strange in all my life, except a patient
much about the same age, as I once nussed, which his calling was the
custom-’us, and his name was Mrs Harris’s own father, as pleasant a
singer, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever you heerd, with a voice like a Jew’s-harp
in the bass notes, that it took six men to hold at sech times, foaming
frightful.’
‘Chuffey, eh?’ said Jonas carelessly, seeing that she went up to the
old, clerk, and looked at him. ‘Ha!’
‘The creetur’s head’s so hot,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘that you might heat a
flat-iron at it. And no wonder I am sure, considerin’ the things he
said!’
‘Said!’ cried Jonas. ‘What did he say?’
Mrs Gamp laid her hand upon her heart, to put some check upon its
palpitations, and turning up her eyes replied in a faint voice:
‘The awfulest things, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever I heerd! Which Mrs Harris’s
father never spoke a word when took so, some does and some don’t, except
sayin’ when he come round, “Where is Sairey Gamp?” But raly, sir, when
Mr Chuffey comes to ask who’s lyin’ dead upstairs, and--’
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs!’ repeated Jonas, standing aghast.
Mrs Gamp nodded, made as if she were swallowing, and went on.
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs; sech was his Bible language; and where was
Mr Chuzzlewit as had the only son; and when he goes upstairs a-looking
in the beds and wandering about the rooms, and comes down again
a-whisperin’ softly to his-self about foul play and that; it gives me
sech a turn, I don’t deny it, Mr Chuzzlewit, that I never could have kep
myself up but for a little drain o’ spirits, which I seldom touches, but
could always wish to know where to find, if so dispoged, never knowin’
wot may happen next, the world bein’ so uncertain.’
‘Why, the old fool’s mad!’ cried Jonas, much disturbed.
‘That’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and I will not deceive you. I
believe as Mr Chuffey, sir, rekwires attention (if I may make so bold),
and should not have his liberty to wex and worrit your sweet lady as he
does.’
‘Why, who minds what he says?’ retorted Jonas.
‘Still he is worritin’ sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘No one don’t mind him, but
he IS a ill conwenience.’
‘Ecod you’re right,’ said Jonas, looking doubtfully at the subject of
this conversation. ‘I have half a mind to shut him up.’
Mrs Gamp rubbed her hands, and smiled, and shook her head, and sniffed
expressively, as scenting a job.
‘Could you--could you take care of such an idiot, now, in some spare
room upstairs?’ asked Jonas.
‘Me and a friend of mine, one off, one on, could do it, Mr Chuzzlewit,’
replied the nurse; ‘our charges not bein’ high, but wishin’ they was
lower, and allowance made considerin’ not strangers. Me and Betsey Prig,
sir, would undertake Mr Chuffey reasonable,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking at
him with her head on one side, as if he had been a piece of goods, for
which she was driving a bargain; ‘and give every satigefaction. Betsey
Prig has nussed a many lunacies, and well she knows their ways,
which puttin’ ‘em right close afore the fire, when fractious, is the
certainest and most compoging.’
While Mrs Gamp discoursed to this effect, Jonas was walking up and down
the room again, glancing covertly at the old clerk, as he did so. He now
made a stop, and said:
‘I must look after him, I suppose, or I may have him doing some
mischief. What say you?’
‘Nothin’ more likely!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘As well I have experienged, I
do assure you, sir.’
‘Well! Look after him for the present, and--let me see--three days from
this time let the other woman come here, and we’ll see if we can make
a bargain of it. About nine or ten o’clock at night, say. Keep your eye
upon him in the meanwhile, and don’t talk about it. He’s as mad as a
March hare!’
‘Madder!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘A deal madder!’
‘See to him, then; take care that he does no harm; and recollect what I
have told you.’
Leaving Mrs Gamp in the act of repeating all she had been told, and
of producing in support of her memory and trustworthiness, many
commendations selected from among the most remarkable opinions of the
celebrated Mrs Harris, he descended to the little room prepared for him,
and pulling off his coat and his boots, put them outside the door before
he locked it. In locking it, he was careful so to adjust the key as to
baffle any curious person who might try to peep in through the key-hole;
and when he had taken these precautions, he sat down to his supper.
‘Mr Chuff,’ he muttered, ‘it’ll be pretty easy to be even with YOU. It’s
of no use doing things by halves, and as long as I stop here, I’ll take
good care of you. When I’m off you may say what you please. But it’s
a d--d strange thing,’ he added, pushing away his untouched plate, and
striding moodily to and fro, ‘that his drivellings should have taken
this turn just now.’
After pacing the little room from end to end several times, he sat down
in another chair.
‘I say just now, but for anything I know, he may have been carrying on
the same game all along. Old dog! He shall be gagged!’
He paced the room again in the same restless and unsteady way; and then
sat down upon the bedstead, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking
at the table. When he had looked at it for a long time, he remembered
his supper; and resuming the chair he had first occupied, began to eat
with great rapacity; not like a hungry man, but as if he were determined
to do it. He drank too, roundly; sometimes stopping in the middle of a
draught to walk, and change his seat and walk again, and dart back to
the table and fall to, in a ravenous hurry, as before.
It was now growing dark. As the gloom of evening, deepening into
night, came on, another dark shade emerging from within him seemed to
overspread his face, and slowly change it. Slowly, slowly; darker and
darker; more and more haggard; creeping over him by little and little,
until it was black night within him and without.
The room in which he had shut himself up, was on the ground floor, at
the back of the house. It was lighted by a dirty skylight, and had a
door in the wall, opening into a narrow covered passage or blind-alley,
very little frequented after five or six o’clock in the evening, and
not in much use as a thoroughfare at any hour. But it had an outlet in a
neighbouring street.
The ground on which this chamber stood had, at one time, not within his
recollection, been a yard; and had been converted to its present purpose
for use as an office. But the occasion for it died with the man who
built it; and saving that it had sometimes served as an apology for a
spare bedroom, and that the old clerk had once held it (but that was
years ago) as his recognized apartment, it had been little troubled by
Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son. It was a blotched, stained, mouldering room,
like a vault; and there were water-pipes running through it, which at
unexpected times in the night, when other things were quiet, clicked and
gurgled suddenly, as if they were choking.
The door into the court had not been open for a long, long time; but the
key had always hung in one place, and there it hung now. He was prepared
for its being rusty; for he had a little bottle of oil in his pocket and
the feather of a pen, with which he lubricated the key and the lock too,
carefully. All this while he had been without his coat, and had nothing
on his feet but his stockings. He now got softly into bed in the same
state, and tossed from side to side to tumble it. In his restless
condition that was easily done.
When he arose, he took from his portmanteau, which he had caused to be
carried into that place when he came home, a pair of clumsy shoes,
and put them on his feet; also a pair of leather leggings, such
as countrymen are used to wear, with straps to fasten them to the
waistband. In these he dressed himself at leisure. Lastly, he took out
a common frock of coarse dark jean, which he drew over his own
under-clothing; and a felt hat--he had purposely left his own upstairs.
He then sat himself down by the door, with the key in his hand, waiting.
He had no light; the time was dreary, long, and awful. The ringers were
practicing in a neighbouring church, and the clashing of the bells was
almost maddening. Curse the clamouring bells, they seemed to know that
he was listening at the door, and to proclaim it in a crowd of voices to
all the town! Would they never be still?
They ceased at last, and then the silence was so new and terrible that
it seemed the prelude to some dreadful noise. Footsteps in the court!
Two men. He fell back from the door on tiptoe, as if they could have
seen him through its wooden panels.
They passed on, talking (he could make out) about a skeleton which had
been dug up yesterday, in some work of excavation near at hand, and was
supposed to be that of a murdered man. ‘So murder is not always found
out, you see,’ they said to one another as they turned the corner.
Hush!
He put the key into the lock, and turned it. The door resisted for a
while, but soon came stiffly open; mingling with the sense of fever in
his mouth, a taste of rust, and dust, and earth, and rotting wood. He
looked out; passed out; locked it after him.
All was clear and quiet, as he fled away.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CONCLUSION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
Did no men passing through the dim streets shrink without knowing why,
when he came stealing up behind them? As he glided on, had no child in
its sleep an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling on its
bed, that troubled its innocent rest? Did no dog howl, and strive to
break its rattling chain, that it might tear him; no burrowing rat,
scenting the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw a passage after him,
that it might hold a greedy revel at the feast of his providing? When he
looked back, across his shoulder, was it to see if his quick footsteps
still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already moist and
clogged with the red mire that stained the naked feet of Cain!
He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached it;
riding a part of the way, then alighting and walking on again. He
travelled for a considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-coach,
which came up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of his road,
bribed the driver of a return post-chaise to take him on with him; and
then made across the country at a run, and saved a mile or two before he
struck again into the road. At last, as his plan was, he came up with a
certain lumbering, slow, night-coach, which stopped wherever it could,
and was stopping then at a public-house, while the guard and coachman
ate and drank within.
He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he quitted
it no more until it was within a few miles of its destination, but
occupied the same place all night.
All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by night. It
is a false fancy, as who should know better than he?
The fishes slumbered in the cold, bright, glistening streams and rivers,
perhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees; and in
their stalls and pastures beasts were quiet; and human creatures slept.
But what of that, when the solemn night was watching, when it never
winked, when its darkness watched no less than its light! The stately
trees, the moon and shining stars, the softly stirring wind, the
over-shadowed lane, the broad, bright countryside, they all kept watch.
There was not a blade of growing grass or corn, but watched; and the
quieter it was, the more intent and fixed its watch upon him seemed to
be.
And yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he slept,
and did not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot it in his
troubled dreams, it came up steadily, and woke him. But it never woke
him to remorse, or to abandonment of his design.
He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed, thinking of
a moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old clerk put
his head in at the door, and beckoned him. At this signal he arose
immediately--being already dressed in the clothes he actually wore at
that time--and accompanied him into a strange city, where the names of
the streets were written on the walls in characters quite new to him;
which gave him no surprise or uneasiness, for he remembered in his dream
to have been there before. Although these streets were very precipitous,
insomuch that to get from one to another it was necessary to descend
great heights by ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep
bells, and swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him
little emotion beyond the first thrill of terror; his anxieties being
concentrated on his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival
that was about to be holden there, and in which he had come to take
a part. Already, great crowds began to fill the streets, and in
one direction myriads of people came rushing down an interminable
perspective, strewing flowers and making way for others on white horses,
when a terrible figure started from the throng, and cried out that it
was the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread, there was a
wild hurrying on to Judgment; and the press became so great that he and
his companion (who was constantly changing, and was never the same man
two minutes together, though he never saw one man come or another go),
stood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying the multitude; in which
there were many faces that he knew, and many that he did not know, but
dreamed he did; when all at once a struggling head rose up among the
rest--livid and deadly, but the same as he had known it--and denounced
him as having appointed that direful day to happen. They closed
together. As he strove to free the hand in which he held a club, and
strike the blow he had so often thought of, he started to the knowledge
of his waking purpose and the rising of the sun.
The sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a world
astir, to divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of Night--of
wakeful, watchful, silent, and attentive Night, with so much leisure for
the observation of his wicked thoughts--that he dreaded most. There is
no glare in the night. Even Glory shows to small advantage in the night,
upon a crowded battle-field. How then shows Glory’s blood-relation,
bastard Murder!
Aye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself now. Murder.
He had come to do it.
‘Let me get down here’ he said
‘Short of the town, eh!’ observed the coachman.
‘I may get down where I please, I suppose?’
‘You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please yourself. It
won’t break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn’t have broken ‘em if
we’d never found you. Be a little quicker. That’s all.’
The guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his money.
In the jealousy and distrust of what he contemplated, he thought this
man looked at him with more than common curiosity.
‘What are you staring at?’ said Jonas.
‘Not at a handsome man,’ returned the guard. ‘If you want your fortune
told, I’ll tell you a bit of it. You won’t be drowned. That’s a
consolation for you.’
Before he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to the
dialogue by giving him a cut with his whip, and bidding him get out for a
surly dog. The guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment, and they
drove off, laughing; leaving him to stand in the road and shake his fist
at them. He was not displeased though, on second thoughts, to have
been taken for an ill-conditioned common country fellow; but rather
congratulated himself upon it as a proof that he was well disguised.
Wandering into a copse by the road-side--but not in that place; two or
three miles off--he tore out from a fence a thick, hard, knotted stake;
and, sitting down beneath a hayrick, spent some time in shaping it, in
peeling off the bark, and fashioning its jagged head with his knife.
The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.
At that serene and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came out
of the city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on which Mr
Pecksniff had agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his appointment,
and was now going home. His host was riding with him for a short
distance; meaning to return by a pleasant track, which Mr Pecksniff had
engaged to show him, through some fields. Jonas knew their plans. He had
hung about the inn-yard while they were at dinner and had heard their
orders given.
They were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have been
heard at some distance; far above the sound of their carriage wheels
or horses’ hoofs. They came on noisily, to where a stile and footpath
indicated their point of separation. Here they stopped.
‘It’s too soon. Much too soon,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘But this is the
place, my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through the little
wood you’ll come to. The path is narrower there, but you can’t miss it.
When shall I see you again? Soon I hope?’
‘I hope so,’ replied Montague.
‘Good night!’
‘Good night. And a pleasant ride!’
So long as Mr Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at intervals
to salute him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and waving his hand.
But when his new partner had disappeared, and this show was no longer
necessary, he sat down on the stile with looks so altered, that he might
have grown ten years older in the meantime.
He was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had succeeded, but he
showed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his difficult part before
his late companion had fatigued him, perhaps, or it may be that the
evening whispered to his conscience, or it may be (as it HAS been) that
a shadowy veil was dropping round him, closing out all thoughts but the
presentiment and vague foreknowledge of impending doom.
If there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a coming
wind, or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide themselves in
their glass arteries; may not that subtle liquor of the blood perceive,
by properties within itself, that hands are raised to waste and spill
it; and in the veins of men run cold and dull as his did, in that hour!
So cold, although the air was warm; so dull, although the sky was
bright; that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily resumed
his walk. He checked himself as hastily; undecided whether to pursue the
footpath, which was lonely and retired, or to go back by the road.
He took the footpath.
The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of the birds
was in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. Thatched roofs of
poor men’s homes were in the distance; and an old grey spire, surmounted
by a Cross, rose up between him and the coming night.
He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had ever
mocked and turned away from it; but, before going down into a hollow
place, he looked round, once, upon the evening prospect, sorrowfully.
Then he went down, down, down, into the dell.
It brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood, through which
the path went winding on, dwindling away into a slender sheep-track. He
paused before entering; for the stillness of this spot almost daunted
him.
The last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant, making a path of
golden light along the stems and branches in its range, which, even as
he looked, began to die away, yielding gently to the twilight that came
creeping on. It was so very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss about
the trunks of some old trees, seemed to have grown out of the silence,
and to be its proper offspring. Those other trees which were subdued
by blasts of wind in winter time, had not quite tumbled down, but being
caught by others, lay all bare and scathed across their leafy arms, as
if unwilling to disturb the general repose by the crash of their fall.
Vistas of silence opened everywhere, into the heart and innermost
recesses of the wood; beginning with the likeness of an aisle, a
cloister, or a ruin open to the sky; then tangling off into a deep green
rustling mystery, through which gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs, and
ivy-covered stems, and trembling leaves, and bark-stripped bodies of old
trees stretched out at length, were faintly seen in beautiful confusion.
As the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he entered
it. Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping bough which stretched
across his path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals a narrow opening
showed him passing on, or the sharp cracking of some tender branch
denoted where he went; then, he was seen or heard no more.
Never more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear; one man
excepted. That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other side,
near where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon afterwards.
What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if it were
a hell!
The body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary spot, it lay among
the last year’s leaves of oak and beech, just as it had fallen headlong
down. Sopping and soaking in among the leaves that formed its pillow;
oozing down into the boggy ground, as if to cover itself from human
sight; forcing its way between and through the curling leaves, as if
those senseless things rejected and forswore it and were coiled up in
abhorrence; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the whole summer night
from earth to heaven.
The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely, that he
cast into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn away
in his passage, and fell with violence upon the grass. But he quickly
gained his feet again, and keeping underneath a hedge with his body
bent, went running on towards the road. The road once reached, he fell
into a rapid walk, and set on toward London.
And he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened when he
thought of it--when did he not think of it!--but he was not sorry. He
had had a terror and dread of the wood when he was in it; but being
out of it, and having committed the crime, his fears were now diverted,
strangely, to the dark room he had left shut up at home. He had a
greater horror, infinitely greater, of that room than of the wood. Now
that he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond comparison more dismal
and more dreadful than the wood. His hideous secret was shut up in the
room, and all its terrors were there; to his thinking it was not in the
wood at all.
He walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for a
coach, which he knew would pass through, on its way to London, before
long; and which he also knew was not the coach he had travelled down by,
for it came from another place. He sat down outside the door here, on
a bench, beside a man who was smoking his pipe. Having called for some
beer, and drunk, he offered it to this companion, who thanked him, and
took a draught. He could not help thinking that, if the man had known
all, he might scarcely have relished drinking out of the same cup with
him.
‘A fine night, master!’ said this person. ‘And a rare sunset.’
‘I didn’t see it,’ was his hasty answer.
‘Didn’t see it?’ returned the man.
‘How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?’
‘Asleep! Aye, aye.’ The man appeared surprised by his unexpected
irritability, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. They had
not sat very long, when there was a knocking within.
‘What’s that?’ cried Jonas.
‘Can’t say, I’m sure,’ replied the man.
He made no further inquiry, for the last question had escaped him in
spite of himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the closed-up
room; of the possibility of their knocking at the door on some special
occasion; of their being alarmed at receiving no answer; of their
bursting it open; of their finding the room empty; of their fastening
the door into the court, and rendering it impossible for him to get into
the house without showing himself in the garb he wore, which would lead
to rumour, rumour to detection, detection to death. At that instant, as
if by some design and order of circumstances, the knocking had come.
It still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he had
conjured up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his beer and
walked on again. And having slunk about, in places unknown to him all
day; and being out at night, in a lonely road, in an unusual dress and
in that wandering and unsettled frame of mind; he stopped more than once
to look about him, hoping he might be in a dream.
Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been
bent, too desperately and too long, on setting himself free. If the
thing could have come over again, he would have done it again. His
malignant and revengeful passions were not so easily laid. There was no
more penitence or remorse within him now than there had been while the
deed was brewing.
Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and
could not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that
infernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way,
not only fearful FOR himself, but OF himself; for being, as it were, a
part of the room: a something supposed to be there, yet missing from it:
he invested himself with its mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in
his mind the ugly chamber, false and quiet, false and quiet, through the
dark hours of two nights; and the tumbled bed, and he not in it, though
believed to be; he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom, and was
at once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.
When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and
was carried briskly onward towards home. Now, in taking his seat among
the people behind, who were chiefly country people, he conceived a fear
that they knew of the murder, and would tell him that the body had been
found; which, considering the time and place of the commission of the
crime, were events almost impossible to have happened yet, as he very
well knew. But although he did know it, and had therefore no reason
to regard their ignorance as anything but the natural sequence to
the facts, still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. So far
encouraged him, that he began to believe the body never would be found,
and began to speculate on that probability. Setting off from this point,
and measuring time by the rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and
what had gone before the bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and
disordered images of which he was the constant prey; he came by
daylight to regard the murder as an old murder, and to think himself
comparatively safe because it had not been discovered yet. Yet! When the
sun which looked into the wood, and gilded with its rising light a dead
man’s lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win him to a thought
of Heaven, on its going down last night!
But here were London streets again. Hush!
It was but five o’clock. He had time enough to reach his own house
unobserved, and before there were many people in the streets, if nothing
had happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped down from
the coach without troubling the driver to stop his horses; and hurrying
across the road, and in and out of every by-way that lay near his
course, at length approached his own dwelling. He used additional
caution in his immediate neighbourhood; halting first to look all
down the street before him; then gliding swiftly through that one, and
stopping to survey the next, and so on.
The passage-way was empty when his murderer’s face looked into it. He
stole on, to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb his own
imaginary rest.
He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand,
and pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous fear beset
his mind.
What if the murdered man were there before him!
He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.
He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust
and damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old.
He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away
and sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard.
These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.
The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the
clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his
view; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every
sound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking
which should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch,
and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written
in his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the
blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the
bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!
The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the
blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread
outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his
mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in
his bed, and cried:
‘Who’s there?’
It was his wife.
He asked her what it was o’clock? Nine.
‘Did--did no one knock at my door yesterday?’ he faltered. ‘Something
disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have
got no notice from me.’
‘No one,’ she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless,
for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.
‘Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,’ she said, ‘but I told him you were
tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little
consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let in the
cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early;
but he hasn’t been again.’
Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at
the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even
him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and
keep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.
He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go
upstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came
into that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his
secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he
had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that they might see
him without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and
called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that
they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the
time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all,
he could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them,
but stood at his own door listening to the murmur of their distant
conversation.
He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at
the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because
of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they
observed him, but he thought them very silent.
And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening,
and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or
tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or
resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he
always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening. For
he knew it must come. And his present punishment, and torture and
distraction, were, to listen for its coming.
Hush!
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
BEARS TIDINGS OF MARTIN AND OF MARK, AS WELL AS OF A THIRD PERSON NOT
QUITE UNKNOWN TO THE READER. EXHIBITS FILIAL PIETY IN AN UGLY ASPECT;
AND CASTS A DOUBTFUL RAY OF LIGHT UPON A VERY DARK PLACE
Tom Pinch and Ruth were sitting at their early breakfast, with the
window open, and a row of the freshest little plants ranged before it
on the inside by Ruth’s own hands; and Ruth had fastened a sprig of
geranium in Tom’s button-hole, to make him very smart and summer-like
for the day (it was obliged to be fastened in, or that dear old Tom
was certain to lose it); and people were crying flowers up and down the
street; and a blundering bee, who had got himself in between the
two sashes of the window, was bruising his head against the glass,
endeavouring to force himself out into the fine morning, and considering
himself enchanted because he couldn’t do it; and the morning was as fine
a morning as ever was seen; and the fragrant air was kissing Ruth and
rustling about Tom, as if it said, ‘how are you, my dears; I came all
this way on purpose to salute you;’ and it was one of those glad times
when we form, or ought to form, the wish that every one on earth were
able to be happy, and catching glimpses of the summer of the heart, to
feel the beauty of the summer of the year.
It was even a pleasanter breakfast than usual; and it was always a
pleasant one. For little Ruth had now two pupils to attend, each three
times a week; and each two hours at a time; and besides this, she had
painted some screens and card-racks, and, unknown to Tom (was there ever
anything so delightful!), had walked into a certain shop which dealt
in such articles, after often peeping through the window; and had taken
courage to ask the Mistress of that shop whether she would buy them. And
the mistress had not only bought them, but had ordered more, and that
very morning Ruth had made confession of these facts to Tom, and had
handed him the money in a little purse she had worked expressly for the
purpose. They had been in a flutter about this, and perhaps had shed a
happy tear or two for anything the history knows to the contrary; but
it was all over now; and a brighter face than Tom’s, or a brighter face
than Ruth’s, the bright sun had not looked on since he went to bed last
night.
‘My dear girl,’ said Tom, coming so abruptly on the subject, that he
interrupted himself in the act of cutting a slice of bread, and left
the knife sticking in the loaf, ‘what a queer fellow our landlord is!
I don’t believe he has been home once since he got me into that
unsatisfactory scrape. I begin to think he will never come home again.
What a mysterious life that man does lead, to be sure!’
‘Very strange. Is it not, Tom?’
‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘I hope it is only strange. I hope there may be
nothing wrong in it. Sometimes I begin to be doubtful of that. I must
have an explanation with him,’ said Tom, shaking his head as if this
were a most tremendous threat, ‘when I can catch him!’
A short double knock at the door put Tom’s menacing looks to flight, and
awakened an expression of surprise instead.
‘Heyday!’ said Tom. ‘An early hour for visitors! It must be John, I
suppose.’
‘I--I--don’t think it was his knock, Tom,’ observed his little sister.
‘No?’ said Tom. ‘It surely can’t be my employer suddenly arrived in
town; directed here by Mr Fips; and come for the key of the office. It’s
somebody inquiring for me, I declare! Come in, if you please!’
But when the person came in, Tom Pinch, instead of saying, ‘Did you
wish to speak with me, sir?’ or, ‘My name is Pinch, sir; what is your
business, may I ask?’ or addressing him in any such distant terms; cried
out, ‘Good gracious Heaven!’ and seized him by both hands, with the
liveliest manifestations of astonishment and pleasure.
The visitor was not less moved than Tom himself, and they shook hands a
great many times, without another word being spoken on either side. Tom
was the first to find his voice.
‘Mark Tapley, too!’ said Tom, running towards the door, and shaking
hands with somebody else. ‘My dear Mark, come in. How are you, Mark? He
don’t look a day older than he used to do at the Dragon. How ARE you,
Mark?’
‘Uncommonly jolly, sir, thank’ee,’ returned Mr Tapley, all smiles and
bows. ‘I hope I see you well, sir.’
‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. ‘How
delightful it is to hear his old voice again! My dear Martin, sit down.
My sister, Martin. Mr Chuzzlewit, my love. Mark Tapley from the Dragon,
my dear. Good gracious me, what a surprise this is! Sit down. Lord,
bless me!’
Tom was in such a state of excitement that he couldn’t keep himself
still for a moment, but was constantly running between Mark and Martin,
shaking hands with them alternately, and presenting them over and over
again to his sister.
‘I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday,’
said Tom. ‘What a day it was! and what a passion you were in! And don’t
you remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I
was going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him, and you were looking out
for a situation? And don’t you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury,
Martin, with John Westlock, eh! Good gracious me! Ruth, my dear,
Mr Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the Dragon. More cups and
saucers, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both!’
And then Tom (as John Westlock had done on his arrival) ran off to the
loaf to cut some bread and butter for them; and before he had spread a
single slice, remembered something else, and came running back again to
tell it; and then he shook hands with them again; and then he introduced
his sister again; and then he did everything he had done already all
over again; and nothing Tom could do, and nothing Tom could say, was
half sufficient to express his joy at their safe return.
Mr Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space
of time he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as
waiter, or attendant upon the party; a fact which was first suggested to
them by his temporary absence in the kitchen, and speedy return with a
kettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the tea-pot with a
self-possession that was quite his own.
‘Sit down, and take your breakfast, Mark,’ said Tom. ‘Make him sit down
and take his breakfast, Martin.’
‘Oh! I gave him up, long ago, as incorrigible,’ Martin replied. ‘He
takes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew
his value.’
‘She knows it, bless you!’ said Tom. ‘I have told her all about Mark
Tapley. Have I not, Ruth?’
‘Yes, Tom.’
‘Not all,’ returned Martin, in a low voice. ‘The best of Mark Tapley is
only known to one man, Tom; and but for Mark he would hardly be alive to
tell it!’
‘Mark!’ said Tom Pinch energetically; ‘if you don’t sit down this
minute, I’ll swear at you!’
‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘sooner than you should do that, I’ll
com-ply. It’s a considerable invasion of a man’s jollity to be made so
partickler welcome, but a Werb is a word as signifies to be, to do,
or to suffer (which is all the grammar, and enough too, as ever I wos
taught); and if there’s a Werb alive, I’m it. For I’m always a-bein’,
sometimes a-doin’, and continually a-sufferin’.’
‘Not jolly yet?’ asked Tom, with a smile.
‘Why, I was rather so, over the water, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘and
not entirely without credit. But Human Natur’ is in a conspiracy again’
me; I can’t get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be
wrote upon my tomb: “He was a man as might have come out strong if he
could have got a chance. But it was denied him.”’
Mr Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin, and
subsequently attacking the breakfast, with an appetite not at all
expressive of blighted hopes, or insurmountable despondency.
In the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his
sister, and related to them what had passed at Mr Pecksniff’s
house; adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and
disappointments he had undergone since he left England.
‘For your faithful stewardship in the trust I left with you, Tom,’ he
said, ‘and for all your goodness and disinterestedness, I can never
thank you enough. When I add Mary’s thanks to mine--’
Ah, Tom! The blood retreated from his cheeks, and came rushing back, so
violently, that it was pain to feel it; ease though, ease, compared with
the aching of his wounded heart.
‘When I add Mary’s thanks to mine,’ said Martin, ‘I have made the only
poor acknowledgment it is in our power to offer; but if you knew how
much we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure.’
And if they had known how much Tom felt--but that no human creature ever
knew--they would have set some store by him. Indeed they would.
Tom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it,
as it gave Martin pleasure; but he was unable, at that moment. No drop
of envy or bitterness was in his soul; but he could not master the firm
utterance of her name.
He inquired what Martin’s projects were.
‘No longer to make your fortune, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘but to try to live.
I tried that once in London, Tom; and failed. If you will give me the
benefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under
your guidance. I will do anything Tom, anything, to gain a livelihood by
my own exertions. My hopes do not soar above that, now.’
High-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find the pride of his old companion
humbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once, at
once, he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep
emotions, and spoke out bravely.
‘Your hopes do not soar above that!’ cried Tom. ‘Yes they do. How can
you talk so! They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her,
Martin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her,
Martin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe
that you were ever cast down in spirit, or poor in pocket, Martin.
Advice, and friendly counsel! Why, of course. But you shall have better
advice and counsel (though you cannot have more friendly) than mine. You
shall consult John Westlock. We’ll go there immediately. It is yet so
early that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to
business; they are in my way; and I can leave you there, to talk
over your affairs with him. So come along. Come along. I am a man of
occupation now, you know,’ said Tom, with his pleasantest smile; ‘and
have no time to lose. Your hopes don’t soar higher than that? I dare
say they don’t. I know you, pretty well. They’ll be soaring out of sight
soon, Martin, and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind.’
‘Aye! But I may be a little changed,’ said Martin, ‘since you knew me
pretty well, Tom.’
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Why should you be changed? You talk
as if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow! Come to John
Westlock’s, come. Come along, Mark Tapley. It’s Mark’s doing, I have
no doubt; and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your
companion.’
‘There’s no credit to be got through being jolly with YOU, Mr Pinch,
anyways,’ said Mark, with his face all wrinkled up with grins. ‘A parish
doctor might be jolly with you. There’s nothing short of goin’ to the
U-nited States for a second trip, as would make it at all creditable to
be jolly, arter seein’ you again!’
Tom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out
into the street, and away to John Westlock’s by the nearest road; for
his hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on
always being exact to his time.
John Westlock was at home, but, strange to say, was rather embarrassed
to see them; and when Tom was about to go into the room where he
was breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a
mysterious stranger, for John shut that door as he said it, and led them
into the next room.
He was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley; and received
Martin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not
inspire John Westlock with any unusual interest; and twice or
thrice observed that he looked at Tom Pinch doubtfully; not to say
compassionately. He thought, and blushed to think, that he knew the
cause of this.
‘I apprehend you are engaged,’ said Martin, when Tom had announced the
purport of their visit. ‘If you will allow me to come again at your own
time, I shall be glad to do so.’
‘I AM engaged,’ replied John, with some reluctance; ‘but the matter on
which I am engaged is one, to say the truth, more immediately demanding
your knowledge than mine.’
‘Indeed!’ cried Martin.
‘It relates to a member of your family, and is of a serious nature. If
you will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to
me to have it privately communicated to you, in order that you may judge
of its importance for yourself.’
‘And in the meantime,’ said Tom, ‘I must really take myself off, without
any further ceremony.’
‘Is your business so very particular,’ asked Martin, ‘that you cannot
remain with us for half an hour? I wish you could. What IS your
business, Tom?’
It was Tom’s turn to be embarrassed now; but he plainly said, after a
little hesitation:
‘Why, I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin; though I hope
soon to be in a condition to do so, and am aware of no other reason
to prevent my doing so now, than the request of my employer. It’s an
awkward position to be placed in,’ said Tom, with an uneasy sense of
seeming to doubt his friend, ‘as I feel every day; but I really cannot
help it, can I, John?’
John Westlock replied in the negative; and Martin, expressing himself
perfectly satisfied, begged them not to say another word; though he
could not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held, and why
he was so secret, and embarrassed, and unlike himself, in reference to
it. Nor could he help reverting to it, in his own mind, several times
after Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was
ended, taking Mr Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might
accompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury.
‘And what do you mean to do, Mark?’ asked Tom, as they walked on
together.
‘Mean to do, sir?’ returned Mr Tapley.
‘Aye. What course of life do you mean to pursue?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘The fact is, that I have been a-thinking
rather of the matrimonial line, sir.’
‘You don’t say so, Mark!’ cried Tom.
‘Yes, sir. I’ve been a-turnin’ of it over.’
‘And who is the lady, Mark?’
‘The which, sir?’ said Mr Tapley.
‘The lady. Come! You know what I said,’ replied Tom, laughing, ‘as well
as I do!’
Mr Tapley suppressed his own inclination to laugh; and with one of his
most whimsically-twisted looks, replied:
‘You couldn’t guess, I suppose, Mr Pinch?’
‘How is it possible?’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know any of your flames, Mark.
Except Mrs Lupin, indeed.’
‘Well, sir!’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘And supposing it was her!’
Tom stopping in the street to look at him, Mr Tapley for a moment
presented to his view an utterly stolid and expressionless face; a
perfect dead wall of countenance. But opening window after window in
it with astonishing rapidity, and lighting them all up as for a general
illumination, he repeated:
‘Supposin’, for the sake of argument, as it was her, sir!’
‘Why I thought such a connection wouldn’t suit you, Mark, on any terms!’
cried Tom.
‘Well, sir! I used to think so myself, once,’ said Mark. ‘But I ain’t so
clear about it now. A dear, sweet creetur, sir!’
‘A dear, sweet creature? To be sure she is,’ cried Tom. ‘But she always
was a dear, sweet creature, was she not?’
‘WAS she not!’ assented Mr Tapley.
‘Then why on earth didn’t you marry her at first, Mark, instead of
wandering abroad, and losing all this time, and leaving her alone by
herself, liable to be courted by other people?’
‘Why, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, in a spirit of unbounded confidence,
‘I’ll tell you how it come about. You know me, Mr Pinch, sir; there
ain’t a gentleman alive as knows me better. You’re acquainted with my
constitution, and you’re acquainted with my weakness. My constitution
is, to be jolly; and my weakness is, to wish to find a credit in it.
Wery good, sir. In this state of mind, I gets a notion in my head that
she looks on me with a eye of--with what you may call a favourable sort
of a eye in fact,’ said Mr Tapley, with modest hesitation.
‘No doubt,’ replied Tom. ‘We knew that perfectly well when we spoke on
this subject long ago; before you left the Dragon.’
Mr Tapley nodded assent. ‘Well, sir! But bein’ at that time full of
hopeful wisions, I arrives at the conclusion that no credit is to be got
out of such a way of life as that, where everything agreeable would be
ready to one’s hand. Lookin’ on the bright side of human life in short,
one of my hopeful wisions is, that there’s a deal of misery awaitin’ for
me; in the midst of which I may come out tolerable strong, and be jolly
under circumstances as reflects some credit. I goes into the world, sir,
wery boyant, and I tries this. I goes aboard ship first, and wery soon
discovers (by the ease with which I’m jolly, mind you) as there’s no
credit to be got THERE. I might have took warning by this, and gave it
up; but I didn’t. I gets to the U-nited States; and then I DO begin, I
won’t deny it, to feel some little credit in sustaining my spirits. What
follows? Jest as I’m a-beginning to come out, and am a-treadin’ on the
werge, my master deceives me.’
‘Deceives you!’ cried Tom.
‘Swindles me,’ retorted Mr Tapley with a beaming face. ‘Turns his back
on everything as made his service a creditable one, and leaves me high
and dry, without a leg to stand upon. In which state I returns home.
Wery good. Then all my hopeful wisions bein’ crushed; and findin’ that
there ain’t no credit for me nowhere; I abandons myself to despair,
and says, “Let me do that as has the least credit in it of all; marry a
dear, sweet creetur, as is wery fond of me; me bein’, at the same time,
wery fond of her; lead a happy life, and struggle no more again’ the
blight which settles on my prospects.”’
‘If your philosophy, Mark,’ said Tom, who laughed heartily at this
speech, ‘be the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs
Lupin has said “yes,” of course?’
‘Why, no, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley; ‘she hasn’t gone so far as that yet.
Which I attribute principally to my not havin’ asked her. But we was
wery agreeable together--comfortable, I may say--the night I come home.
It’s all right, sir.’
‘Well!’ said Tom, stopping at the Temple Gate. ‘I wish you joy, Mark,
with all my heart. I shall see you again to-day, I dare say. Good-bye
for the present.’
‘Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Mr Pinch!’ he added by way of soliloquy, as
he stood looking after him. ‘Although you ARE a damper to a honourable
ambition. You little think it, but you was the first to dash my hopes.
Pecksniff would have built me up for life, but your sweet temper pulled
me down. Good-bye, Mr Pinch!’
While these confidences were interchanged between Tom Pinch and Mark,
Martin and John Westlock were very differently engaged. They were no
sooner left alone together than Martin said, with an effort he could not
disguise:
‘Mr Westlock, we have met only once before, but you have known Tom a
long while, and that seems to render you familiar to me. I cannot
talk freely with you on any subject unless I relieve my mind of what
oppresses it just now. I see with pain that you so far mistrust me that
you think me likely to impose on Tom’s regardlessness of himself, or on
his kind nature, or some of his good qualities.’
‘I had no intention,’ replied John, ‘of conveying any such impression to
you, and am exceedingly sorry to have done so.’
‘But you entertain it?’ said Martin.
‘You ask me so pointedly and directly,’ returned the other, ‘that I
cannot deny the having accustomed myself to regard you as one who,
not in wantonness but in mere thoughtlessness of character, did not
sufficiently consider his nature and did not quite treat it as it
deserves to be treated. It is much easier to slight than to appreciate
Tom Pinch.’
This was not said warmly, but was energetically spoken too; for there
was no subject in the world (but one) on which the speaker felt so
strongly.
‘I grew into the knowledge of Tom,’ he pursued, ‘as I grew towards
manhood; and I have learned to love him as something, infinitely better
than myself. I did not think that you understood him when we met before.
I did not think that you greatly cared to understand him. The instances
of this which I observed in you were, like my opportunities for
observation, very trivial--and were very harmless, I dare say. But they
were not agreeable to me, and they forced themselves upon me; for I was
not upon the watch for them, believe me. You will say,’ added John, with
a smile, as he subsided into more of his accustomed manner, ‘that I am
not by any means agreeable to you. I can only assure you, in reply, that
I would not have originated this topic on any account.’
‘I originated it,’ said Martin; ‘and so far from having any complaint
to make against you, highly esteem the friendship you entertain for
Tom, and the very many proofs you have given him of it. Why should
I endeavour to conceal from you’--he coloured deeply though--‘that
I neither understood him nor cared to understand him when I was his
companion; and that I am very truly sorry for it now!’
It was so sincerely said, at once so modestly and manfully, that John
offered him his hand as if he had not done so before; and Martin giving
his in the same open spirit, all constraint between the young men
vanished.
‘Now pray,’ said John, ‘when I tire your patience very much in what I
am going to say, recollect that it has an end to it, and that the end is
the point of the story.’
With this preface, he related all the circumstances connected with his
having presided over the illness and slow recovery of the patient at the
Bull; and tacked on to the skirts of that narrative Tom’s own account of
the business on the wharf. Martin was not a little puzzled when he came
to an end, for the two stories seemed to have no connection with each
other, and to leave him, as the phrase is, all abroad.
‘If you will excuse me for one moment,’ said John, rising, ‘I will beg
you almost immediately to come into the next room.’
Upon that, he left Martin to himself, in a state of considerable
astonishment; and soon came back again to fulfil his promise.
Accompanying him into the next room, Martin found there a third person;
no doubt the stranger of whom his host had spoken when Tom Pinch
introduced him.
He was a young man; with deep black hair and eyes. He was gaunt and
pale; and evidently had not long recovered from a severe illness. He
stood as Martin entered, but sat again at John’s desire. His eyes were
cast downward; and but for one glance at them both, half in humiliation
and half in entreaty, he kept them so, and sat quite still and silent.
‘This person’s name is Lewsome,’ said John Westlock, ‘whom I have
mentioned to you as having been seized with an illness at the inn near
here, and undergone so much. He has had a very hard time of it, ever
since he began to recover; but, as you see, he is now doing well.’
As he did not move or speak, and John Westlock made a pause, Martin, not
knowing what to say, said that he was glad to hear it.
‘The short statement that I wish you to hear from his own lips, Mr
Chuzzlewit,’ John pursued--looking attentively at him, and not at
Martin--‘he made to me for the first time yesterday, and repeated to me
this morning, without the least variation of any essential particular. I
have already told you that he informed me before he was removed from the
Inn, that he had a secret to disclose to me which lay heavy on his mind.
But, fluctuating between sickness and health and between his desire to
relieve himself of it, and his dread of involving himself by revealing
it, he has, until yesterday, avoided the disclosure. I never pressed
him for it (having no idea of its weight or import, or of my right to do
so), until within a few days past; when, understanding from him, on his
own voluntary avowal, in a letter from the country, that it related to a
person whose name was Jonas Chuzzlewit; and thinking that it might throw
some light on that little mystery which made Tom anxious now and then; I
urged the point upon him, and heard his statement, as you will now,
from his own lips. It is due to him to say, that in the apprehension
of death, he committed it to writing sometime since, and folded it in a
sealed paper, addressed to me; which he could not resolve, however,
to place of his own act in my hands. He has the paper in his breast, I
believe, at this moment.’
The young man touched it hastily; in corroboration of the fact.
‘It will be well to leave that in our charge, perhaps,’ said John. ‘But
do not mind it now.’
As he said this, he held up his hand to bespeak Martin’s attention. It
was already fixed upon the man before him, who, after a short silence
said, in a low, weak, hollow voice:
‘What relation was Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit, who--’
‘--Who died--to me?’ said Martin. ‘He was my grandfather’s brother.’
‘I fear he was made away with. Murdered!’
‘My God!’ said Martin. ‘By whom?’
The young man, Lewsome, looked up in his face, and casting down his eyes
again, replied:
‘I fear, by me.’
‘By you?’ cried Martin.
‘Not by my act, but I fear by my means.’
‘Speak out!’ said Martin, ‘and speak the truth.’
‘I fear this IS the truth.’
Martin was about to interrupt him again, but John Westlock saying
softly, ‘Let him tell his story in his own way,’ Lewsome went on thus:
‘I have been bred a surgeon, and for the last few years have served a
general practitioner in the City, as his assistant. While I was in
his employment I became acquainted with Jonas Chuzzlewit. He is the
principal in this deed.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Martin, sternly. ‘Do you know he is the son
of the old man of whom you have spoken?’
‘I do,’ he answered.
He remained silent for some moments, when he resumed at the point where
he had left off.
‘I have reason to know it; for I have often heard him wish his old
father dead, and complain of his being wearisome to him, and a drag
upon him. He was in the habit of doing so, at a place of meeting we
had--three or four of us--at night. There was no good in the place you
may suppose, when you hear that he was the chief of the party. I wish I
had died myself, and never seen it!’
He stopped again; and again resumed as before.
‘We met to drink and game; not for large sums, but for sums that were
large to us. He generally won. Whether or no, he lent money at interest
to those who lost; and in this way, though I think we all secretly hated
him, he came to be the master of us. To propitiate him we made a jest of
his father; it began with his debtors; I was one; and we used to toast
a quicker journey to the old man, and a swift inheritance to the young
one.’
He paused again.
‘One night he came there in a very bad humour. He had been greatly
tried, he said, by the old man that day. He and I were alone together;
and he angrily told me, that the old man was in his second childhood;
that he was weak, imbecile, and drivelling; as unbearable to himself as
he was to other people; and that it would be a charity to put him out of
the way. He swore that he had often thought of mixing something with the
stuff he took for his cough, which should help him to die easily. People
were sometimes smothered who were bitten by mad dogs, he said; and why
not help these lingering old men out of their troubles too? He looked
full at me as he said so, and I looked full at him; but it went no
farther that night.’
He stopped once more, and was silent for so long an interval that John
Westlock said ‘Go on.’ Martin had never removed his eyes from his face,
but was so absorbed in horror and astonishment that he could not speak.
‘It may have been a week after that, or it may have been less or
more--the matter was in my mind all the time, but I cannot recollect the
time, as I should any other period--when he spoke to me again. We were
alone then, too; being there before the usual hour of assembling. There
was no appointment between us; but I think I went there to meet him, and
I know he came there to meet me. He was there first. He was reading
a newspaper when I went in, and nodded to me without looking up, or
leaving off reading. I sat down opposite and close to him. He said,
immediately, that he wanted me to get him some of two sorts of drugs.
One that was instantaneous in its effect; of which he wanted very
little. One that was slow and not suspicious in appearance; of which he
wanted more. While he was speaking to me he still read the newspaper. He
said “Drugs,” and never used any other word. Neither did I.’
‘This all agrees with what I have heard before,’ observed John Westlock.
‘I asked him what he wanted the drugs for? He said for no harm; to
physic cats; what did it matter to me? I was going out to a distant
colony (I had recently got the appointment, which, as Mr Westlock
knows, I have since lost by my sickness, and which was my only hope of
salvation from ruin), and what did it matter to me? He could get them
without my aid at half a hundred places, but not so easily as he could
get them of me. This was true. He might not want them at all, he said,
and he had no present idea of using them; but he wished to have them
by him. All this time he still read the newspaper. We talked about the
price. He was to forgive me a small debt--I was quite in his power--and
to pay me five pounds; and there the matter dropped, through others
coming in. But, next night, under exactly similar circumstances, I gave
him the drugs, on his saying I was a fool to think that he should ever
use them for any harm; and he gave me the money. We have never met
since. I only know that the poor old father died soon afterwards, just
as he would have died from this cause; and that I have undergone, and
suffer now, intolerable misery. Nothing’ he added, stretching out his
hands, ‘can paint my misery! It is well deserved, but nothing can paint
it.’
With that he hung his head, and said no more, wasted and wretched, he
was not a creature upon whom to heap reproaches that were unavailing.
‘Let him remain at hand,’ said Martin, turning from him; ‘but out of
sight, in Heaven’s name!’
‘He will remain here,’ John whispered. ‘Come with me!’ Softly turning
the key upon him as they went out, he conducted Martin into the
adjoining room, in which they had been before.
Martin was so amazed, so shocked, and confounded by what he had heard
that it was some time before he could reduce it to any order in his
mind, or could sufficiently comprehend the bearing of one part upon
another, to take in all the details at one view. When he, at length, had
the whole narrative clearly before him, John Westlock went on to point
out the great probability of the guilt of Jonas being known to other
people, who traded in it for their own benefit, and who were, by
such means, able to exert that control over him which Tom Pinch had
accidentally witnessed, and unconsciously assisted. This appeared so
plain, that they agreed upon it without difficulty; but instead of
deriving the least assistance from this source, they found that it
embarrassed them the more.
They knew nothing of the real parties who possessed this power. The only
person before them was Tom’s landlord. They had no right to question
Tom’s landlord, even if they could find him, which, according to Tom’s
account, it would not be easy to do. And granting that they did question
him, and he answered (which was taking a good deal for granted), he had
only to say, with reference to the adventure on the wharf, that he had
been sent from such and such a place to summon Jonas back on urgent
business, and there was an end of it.
Besides, there was the great difficulty and responsibility of moving at
all in the matter. Lewsome’s story might be false; in his wretched state
it might be greatly heightened by a diseased brain; or admitting it
to be entirely true, the old man might have died a natural death. Mr
Pecksniff had been there at the time; as Tom immediately remembered,
when he came back in the afternoon, and shared their counsels; and there
had been no secrecy about it. Martin’s grandfather was of right the
person to decide upon the course that should be taken; but to get at his
views would be impossible, for Mr Pecksniff’s views were certain to
be his. And the nature of Mr Pecksniff’s views in reference to his own
son-in-law might be easily reckoned upon.
Apart from these considerations, Martin could not endure the thought
of seeming to grasp at this unnatural charge against his relative, and
using it as a stepping-stone to his grandfather’s favour. But that he
would seem to do so, if he presented himself before his grandfather in
Mr Pecksniff’s house again, for the purpose of declaring it; and that
Mr Pecksniff, of all men, would represent his conduct in that despicable
light, he perfectly well knew. On the other hand to be in possession of
such a statement, and take no measures of further inquiry in reference
to it, was tantamount to being a partner in the guilt it professed to
disclose.
In a word, they were wholly unable to discover any outlet from this maze
of difficulty, which did not lie through some perplexed and entangled
thicket. And although Mr Tapley was promptly taken into their
confidence; and the fertile imagination of that gentleman suggested many
bold expedients, which, to do him justice, he was quite ready to carry
into instant operation on his own personal responsibility; still ‘bating
the general zeal of Mr Tapley’s nature, nothing was made particularly
clearer by these offers of service.
It was in this position of affairs that Tom’s account of the strange
behaviour of the decayed clerk, on the night of the tea-party, became
of great moment, and finally convinced them that to arrive at a more
accurate knowledge of the workings of that old man’s mind and memory,
would be to take a most important stride in their pursuit of the truth.
So, having first satisfied themselves that no communication had ever
taken place between Lewsome and Mr Chuffey (which would have accounted
at once for any suspicions the latter might entertain), they unanimously
resolved that the old clerk was the man they wanted.
But, like the unanimous resolution of a public meeting, which will
oftentimes declare that this or that grievance is not to be borne
a moment longer, which is nevertheless borne for a century or two
afterwards, without any modification, they only reached in this the
conclusion that they were all of one mind. For it was one thing to want
Mr Chuffey, and another thing to get at him; and to do that without
alarming him, or without alarming Jonas, or without being discomfited
by the difficulty of striking, in an instrument so out of tune and so
unused, the note they sought, was an end as far from their reach as
ever.
The question then became, who of those about the old clerk had had most
influence with him that night? Tom said his young mistress clearly.
But Tom and all of them shrunk from the thought of entrapping her,
and making her the innocent means of bringing retribution on her cruel
husband. Was there nobody else? Why yes. In a very different way, Tom
said, he was influenced by Mrs Gamp, the nurse; who had once had the
control of him, as he understood, for some time.
They caught at this immediately. Here was a new way out, developed in a
quarter until then overlooked. John Westlock knew Mrs Gamp; he had given
her employment; he was acquainted with her place of residence: for that
good lady had obligingly furnished him, at parting, with a pack of her
professional cards for general distribution. It was decided that Mrs
Gamp should be approached with caution, but approached without delay;
and that the depths of that discreet matron’s knowledge of Mr Chuffey,
and means of bringing them, or one of them, into communication with him,
should be carefully sounded.
On this service, Martin and John Westlock determined to proceed that
night; waiting on Mrs Gamp first, at her lodgings; and taking their
chance of finding her in the repose of private life, or of having to
seek her out, elsewhere, in the exercise of her professional duties. Tom
returned home, that he might lose no opportunity of having an interview
with Nadgett, by being absent in the event of his reappearance. And Mr
Tapley remained (by his own particular desire) for the time being in
Furnival’s Inn, to look after Lewsome; who might safely have been left
to himself, however, for any thought he seemed to entertain of giving
them the slip.
Before they parted on their several errands, they caused him to read
aloud, in the presence of them all, the paper which he had about him,
and the declaration he had attached to it, which was to the effect that
he had written it voluntarily, in the fear of death and in the torture
of his mind. And when he had done so, they all signed it, and taking it
from him, of his free will, locked it in a place of safety.
Martin also wrote, by John’s advice, a letter to the trustees of the
famous Grammar School, boldly claiming the successful design as his,
and charging Mr Pecksniff with the fraud he had committed. In this
proceeding also, John was hotly interested; observing, with his usual
irreverance, that Mr Pecksniff had been a successful rascal all his
life through, and that it would be a lasting source of happiness to him
(John) if he could help to do him justice in the smallest particular.
A busy day! But Martin had no lodgings yet; so when these matters were
disposed of, he excused himself from dining with John Westlock and was
fain to wander out alone, and look for some. He succeeded, after great
trouble, in engaging two garrets for himself and Mark, situated in a
court in the Strand, not far from Temple Bar. Their luggage, which was
waiting for them at a coach-office, he conveyed to this new place of
refuge; and it was with a glow of satisfaction, which as a selfish man
he never could have known and never had, that, thinking how much pains
and trouble he had saved Mark, and how pleased and astonished Mark would
be, he afterwards walked up and down, in the Temple, eating a meat-pie
for his dinner.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IN WHICH MRS HARRIS ASSISTED BY A TEAPOT, IS THE CAUSE OF A DIVISION
BETWEEN FRIENDS
Mrs Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore,
metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for
the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsey Prig; Mrs Prig, of
Bartlemy’s; or as some said Barklemy’s, or as some said Bardlemy’s; for
by all these endearing and familiar appellations, had the hospital of
Saint Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which
Betsey Prig adorned.
Mrs Gamp’s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind,
a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr Sweedlepipe’s may
have been, in the imagination of Mrs Gamp, a stately pile. If it were
not exactly that, to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much
accommodation as any person, not sanguine to insanity, could have looked
for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in
your mind; and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the
bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table
for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the
chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of Saint Bartholomew, by
falling into the fire.
Visitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an
unflagging recollection of this piece of furniture, by its size; which
was great. It was not a turn-up bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead,
nor yet a four-post bedstead, but what is poetically called a tent; the
sacking whereof was low and bulgy, insomuch that Mrs Gamp’s box would
not go under it, but stopped half-way, in a manner which, while it did
violence to the reason, likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The
frame too, which would have supported the canopy and hangings if there
had been any, was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber,
which on the slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came
tumbling down; harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors.
The bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity;
and at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty
curtain of blue check, which prevented the Zephyrs that were abroad in
Kingsgate Street, from visiting Mrs Gamp’s head too roughly. Some rusty
gowns and other articles of that lady’s wardrobe depended from the
posts; and these had so adapted themselves by long usage to her figure,
that more than one impatient husband coming in precipitately, at about
the time of twilight, had been for an instant stricken dumb by the
supposed discovery that Mrs Gamp had hanged herself. One gentleman,
coming on the usual hasty errand, had said indeed, that they looked like
guardian angels ‘watching of her in her sleep.’ But that, as Mrs Gamp
said, ‘was his first;’ and he never repeated the sentiment, though he
often repeated his visit.
The chairs in Mrs Gamp’s apartment were extremely large and
broad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for there being
but two in number. They were both elbow-chairs, of ancient mahogany; and
were chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats, which had
been originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny substance
of a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away with a
dismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs Gamp
wanted in chairs she made up in bandboxes; of which she had a great
collection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous valuables,
which were not, however, as well protected as the good woman, by a
pleasant fiction, seemed to think; for, though every bandbox had a
carefully closed lid, not one among them had a bottom; owing to which
cause the property within was merely, as it were, extinguished. The
chest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of
another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look, alone; but in regard of its
security it had a great advantage over the bandboxes, for as all the
handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at
its contents. This indeed was only to be done by one or two devices;
either by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell
out together, or by opening them singly with knives, like oysters.
Mrs Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the
fire-place; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals,
and mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives of
delicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented with
a small almanack, marked here and there in Mrs Gamp’s own hand with a
memorandum of the date at which some lady was expected to fall due. It
was also embellished with three profiles: one, in colours, of Mrs Gamp
herself in early life; one, in bronze, of a lady in feathers, supposed
to be Mrs Harris, as she appeared when dressed for a ball; and one, in
black, of Mr Gamp, deceased. The last was a full length, in order
that the likeness might be rendered more obvious and forcible by the
introduction of the wooden leg.
A pair of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a
pap-boat, a spoon for the administration of medicine to the refractory,
and lastly, Mrs Gamp’s umbrella, which as something of great price
and rarity, was displayed with particular ostentation, completed the
decorations of the chimney-piece and adjacent wall. Towards these
objects Mrs Gamp raised her eyes in satisfaction when she had arranged
the tea-board, and had concluded her arrangements for the reception
of Betsey Prig, even unto the setting forth of two pounds of Newcastle
salmon, intensely pickled.
‘There! Now drat you, Betsey, don’t be long!’ said Mrs Gamp,
apostrophizing her absent friend. ‘For I can’t abear to wait, I do
assure you. To wotever place I goes, I sticks to this one mortar, “I’m
easy pleased; it is but little as I wants; but I must have that little
of the best, and to the minute when the clock strikes, else we do not
part as I could wish, but bearin’ malice in our arts.”’
Her own preparations were of the best, for they comprehended a delicate
new loaf, a plate of fresh butter, a basin of fine white sugar, and
other arrangements on the same scale. Even the snuff with which she
now refreshed herself, was so choice in quality that she took a second
pinch.
‘There’s the little bell a-ringing now,’ said Mrs Gamp, hurrying to
the stair-head and looking over. ‘Betsey Prig, my--why it’s that there
disapintin’ Sweedlepipes, I do believe.’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ said the barber in a faint voice; ‘I’ve just come in.’
‘You’re always a-comin’ in, I think,’ muttered Mrs Gamp to herself,
‘except wen you’re a-goin’ out. I ha’n’t no patience with that man!’
‘Mrs Gamp,’ said the barber. ‘I say! Mrs Gamp!’
‘Well,’ cried Mrs Gamp, impatiently, as she descended the stairs. ‘What
is it? Is the Thames a-fire, and cooking its own fish, Mr Sweedlepipes?
Why wot’s the man gone and been a-doin’ of to himself? He’s as white as
chalk!’
She added the latter clause of inquiry, when she got downstairs, and
found him seated in the shaving-chair, pale and disconsolate.
‘You recollect,’ said Poll. ‘You recollect young--’
‘Not young Wilkins!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘Don’t say young Wilkins, wotever
you do. If young Wilkins’s wife is took--’
‘It isn’t anybody’s wife,’ exclaimed the little barber. ‘Bailey, young
Bailey!’
‘Why, wot do you mean to say that chit’s been a-doin’ of?’ retorted Mrs
Gamp, sharply. ‘Stuff and nonsense, Mrs Sweedlepipes!’
‘He hasn’t been a-doing anything!’ exclaimed poor Poll, quite desperate.
‘What do you catch me up so short for, when you see me put out to that
extent that I can hardly speak? He’ll never do anything again. He’s done
for. He’s killed. The first time I ever see that boy,’ said Poll, ‘I
charged him too much for a red-poll. I asked him three-halfpence for a
penny one, because I was afraid he’d beat me down. But he didn’t.
And now he’s dead; and if you was to crowd all the steam-engines and
electric fluids that ever was, into this shop, and set ‘em every one to
work their hardest, they couldn’t square the account, though it’s only a
ha’penny!’
Mr Sweedlepipe turned aside to the towel, and wiped his eyes with it.
‘And what a clever boy he was!’ he said. ‘What a surprising young chap
he was! How he talked! and what a deal he know’d! Shaved in this very
chair he was; only for fun; it was all his fun; he was full of it. Ah!
to think that he’ll never be shaved in earnest! The birds might every
one have died, and welcome,’ cried the little barber, looking round him
at the cages, and again applying to the towel, ‘sooner than I’d have
heard this news!’
‘How did you ever come to hear it?’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘who told you?’
‘I went out,’ returned the little barber, ‘into the City, to meet a
sporting gent upon the Stock Exchange, that wanted a few slow pigeons to
practice at; and when I’d done with him, I went to get a little drop
of beer, and there I heard everybody a-talking about it. It’s in the
papers.’
‘You are in a nice state of confugion, Mr Sweedlepipes, you are!’ said
Mrs Gamp, shaking her head; ‘and my opinion is, as half-a-dudgeon fresh
young lively leeches on your temples, wouldn’t be too much to clear your
mind, which so I tell you. Wot were they a-talkin’ on, and wot was in
the papers?’
‘All about it!’ cried the barber. ‘What else do you suppose? Him and his
master were upset on a journey, and he was carried to Salisbury, and
was breathing his last when the account came away. He never spoke
afterwards. Not a single word. That’s the worst of it to me; but that
ain’t all. His master can’t be found. The other manager of their office
in the city, Crimple, David Crimple, has gone off with the money, and is
advertised for, with a reward, upon the walls. Mr Montague, poor young
Bailey’s master (what a boy he was!) is advertised for, too. Some say
he’s slipped off, to join his friend abroad; some say he mayn’t have got
away yet; and they’re looking for him high and low. Their office is a
smash; a swindle altogether. But what’s a Life Assurance office to a
Life! And what a Life Young Bailey’s was!’
‘He was born into a wale,’ said Mrs Gamp, with philosophical coolness.
‘and he lived in a wale; and he must take the consequences of sech a
sitiwation. But don’t you hear nothink of Mr Chuzzlewit in all this?’
‘No,’ said Poll, ‘nothing to speak of. His name wasn’t printed as one of
the board, though some people say it was just going to be. Some believe
he was took in, and some believe he was one of the takers-in; but
however that may be, they can’t prove nothing against him. This morning
he went up of his own accord afore the Lord Mayor or some of them City
big-wigs, and complained that he’d been swindled, and that these two
persons had gone off and cheated him, and that he had just found out
that Montague’s name wasn’t even Montague, but something else. And they
do say that he looked like Death, owing to his losses. But, Lord
forgive me,’ cried the barber, coming back again to the subject of
his individual grief, ‘what’s his looks to me! He might have died and
welcome, fifty times, and not been such a loss as Bailey!’
At this juncture the little bell rang, and the deep voice of Mrs Prig
struck into the conversation.
‘Oh! You’re a-talkin’ about it, are you!’ observed that lady. ‘Well, I
hope you’ve got it over, for I ain’t interested in it myself.’
‘My precious Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘how late you are!’
The worthy Mrs Prig replied, with some asperity, ‘that if perwerse
people went off dead, when they was least expected, it warn’t no fault
of her’n.’ And further, ‘that it was quite aggrawation enough to be made
late when one was dropping for one’s tea, without hearing on it again.’
Mrs Gamp, deriving from this exhibition of repartee some clue to the
state of Mrs Prig’s feelings, instantly conducted her upstairs; deeming
that the sight of pickled salmon might work a softening change.
But Betsey Prig expected pickled salmon. It was obvious that she did;
for her first words, after glancing at the table, were:
‘I know’d she wouldn’t have a cowcumber!’
Mrs Gamp changed colour, and sat down upon the bedstead.
‘Lord bless you, Betsey Prig, your words is true. I quite forgot it!’
Mrs Prig, looking steadfastly at her friend, put her hand in her
pocket, and with an air of surly triumph drew forth either the oldest of
lettuces or youngest of cabbages, but at any rate, a green vegetable of
an expansive nature, and of such magnificent proportions that she was
obliged to shut it up like an umbrella before she could pull it out.
She also produced a handful of mustard and cress, a trifle of the herb
called dandelion, three bunches of radishes, an onion rather larger than
an average turnip, three substantial slices of beetroot, and a short
prong or antler of celery; the whole of this garden-stuff having been
publicly exhibited, but a short time before, as a twopenny salad, and
purchased by Mrs Prig on condition that the vendor could get it all into
her pocket. Which had been happily accomplished, in High Holborn, to
the breathless interest of a hackney-coach stand. And she laid so little
stress on this surprising forethought, that she did not even smile, but
returning her pocket into its accustomed sphere, merely recommended
that these productions of nature should be sliced up, for immediate
consumption, in plenty of vinegar.
‘And don’t go a-droppin’ none of your snuff in it,’ said Mrs Prig.
‘In gruel, barley-water, apple-tea, mutton-broth, and that, it don’t
signify. It stimulates a patient. But I don’t relish it myself.’
‘Why, Betsey Prig!’ cried Mrs Gamp, ‘how CAN you talk so!’
‘Why, ain’t your patients, wotever their diseases is, always asneezin’
their wery heads off, along of your snuff?’ said Mrs Prig.
‘And wot if they are!’ said Mrs Gamp
‘Nothing if they are,’ said Mrs Prig. ‘But don’t deny it, Sairah.’
‘Who deniges of it?’ Mrs Gamp inquired.
Mrs Prig returned no answer.
‘WHO deniges of it, Betsey?’ Mrs Gamp inquired again. Then Mrs Gamp, by
reversing the question, imparted a deeper and more awful character of
solemnity to the same. ‘Betsey, who deniges of it?’
It was the nearest possible approach to a very decided difference of
opinion between these ladies; but Mrs Prig’s impatience for the meal
being greater at the moment than her impatience of contradiction, she
replied, for the present, ‘Nobody, if you don’t, Sairah,’ and prepared
herself for tea. For a quarrel can be taken up at any time, but a
limited quantity of salmon cannot.
Her toilet was simple. She had merely to ‘chuck’ her bonnet and shawl
upon the bed; give her hair two pulls, one upon the right side and one
upon the left, as if she were ringing a couple of bells; and all was
done. The tea was already made, Mrs Gamp was not long over the salad,
and they were soon at the height of their repast.
The temper of both parties was improved, for the time being, by the
enjoyments of the table. When the meal came to a termination (which it
was pretty long in doing), and Mrs Gamp having cleared away, produced
the teapot from the top shelf, simultaneously with a couple of
wine-glasses, they were quite amiable.
‘Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, filling her own glass and passing the teapot,
‘I will now propoge a toast. My frequent pardner, Betsey Prig!’
‘Which, altering the name to Sairah Gamp; I drink,’ said Mrs Prig, ‘with
love and tenderness.’
From this moment symptoms of inflammation began to lurk in the nose of
each lady; and perhaps, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary,
in the temper also.
‘Now, Sairah,’ said Mrs Prig, ‘joining business with pleasure, wot is
this case in which you wants me?’
Mrs Gamp betraying in her face some intention of returning an evasive
answer, Betsey added:
‘IS it Mrs Harris?’
‘No, Betsey Prig, it ain’t,’ was Mrs Gamp’s reply.
‘Well!’ said Mrs Prig, with a short laugh. ‘I’m glad of that, at any
rate.’
‘Why should you be glad of that, Betsey?’ Mrs Gamp retorted, warmly.
‘She is unbeknown to you except by hearsay, why should you be glad? If
you have anythink to say contrairy to the character of Mrs Harris, which
well I knows behind her back, afore her face, or anywheres, is not to be
impeaged, out with it, Betsey. I have know’d that sweetest and best of
women,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her head, and shedding tears, ‘ever since
afore her First, which Mr Harris who was dreadful timid went and stopped
his ears in a empty dog-kennel, and never took his hands away or come
out once till he was showed the baby, wen bein’ took with fits, the
doctor collared him and laid him on his back upon the airy stones, and
she was told to ease her mind, his owls was organs. And I have know’d
her, Betsey Prig, when he has hurt her feelin’ art by sayin’ of his
Ninth that it was one too many, if not two, while that dear innocent was
cooin’ in his face, which thrive it did though bandy, but I have never
know’d as you had occagion to be glad, Betsey, on accounts of Mrs Harris
not requiring you. Require she never will, depend upon it, for her
constant words in sickness is, and will be, “Send for Sairey?”’
During this touching address, Mrs Prig adroitly feigning to be the
victim of that absence of mind which has its origin in excessive
attention to one topic, helped herself from the teapot without appearing
to observe it. Mrs Gamp observed it, however, and came to a premature
close in consequence.
‘Well, it ain’t her, it seems,’ said Mrs Prig, coldly; ‘who is it then?’
‘You have heerd me mention, Betsey,’ Mrs Gamp replied, after glancing in
an expressive and marked manner at the tea-pot, ‘a person as I took
care on at the time as you and me was pardners off and on, in that there
fever at the Bull?’
‘Old Snuffey,’ Mrs Prig observed.
Sarah Gamp looked at her with an eye of fire, for she saw in this
mistake of Mrs Prig, another willful and malignant stab at that same
weakness or custom of hers, an ungenerous allusion to which, on the part
of Betsey, had first disturbed their harmony that evening. And she saw
it still more clearly, when, politely but firmly correcting that lady
by the distinct enunciation of the word ‘Chuffey,’ Mrs Prig received the
correction with a diabolical laugh.
The best among us have their failings, and it must be conceded of Mrs
Prig, that if there were a blemish in the goodness of her disposition,
it was a habit she had of not bestowing all its sharp and acid
properties upon her patients (as a thoroughly amiable woman would have
done), but of keeping a considerable remainder for the service of her
friends. Highly pickled salmon, and lettuces chopped up in vinegar,
may, as viands possessing some acidity of their own, have encouraged and
increased this failing in Mrs Prig; and every application to the teapot
certainly did; for it was often remarked of her by her friends, that
she was most contradictory when most elevated. It is certain that her
countenance became about this time derisive and defiant, and that she
sat with her arms folded, and one eye shut up, in a somewhat offensive,
because obstrusively intelligent, manner.
Mrs Gamp observing this, felt it the more necessary that Mrs Prig should
know her place, and be made sensible of her exact station in society, as
well as of her obligations to herself. She therefore assumed an air of
greater patronage and importance, as she went on to answer Mrs Prig a
little more in detail.
‘Mr Chuffey, Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is weak in his mind. Excuge me
if I makes remark, that he may neither be so weak as people thinks, nor
people may not think he is so weak as they pretends, and what I knows,
I knows; and what you don’t, you don’t; so do not ask me, Betsey. But Mr
Chuffey’s friends has made propojals for his bein’ took care on, and has
said to me, “Mrs Gamp, WILL you undertake it? We couldn’t think,” they
says, “of trusting him to nobody but you, for, Sairey, you are gold as
has passed the furnage. Will you undertake it, at your own price, day
and night, and by your own self?” “No,” I says, “I will not. Do not
reckon on it. There is,” I says, “but one creetur in the world as I would
undertake on sech terms, and her name is Harris. But,” I says, “I
am acquainted with a friend, whose name is Betsey Prig, that I can
recommend, and will assist me. Betsey,” I says, “is always to be trusted
under me, and will be guided as I could desire.”’
Here Mrs Prig, without any abatement of her offensive manner again
counterfeited abstraction of mind, and stretched out her hand to the
teapot. It was more than Mrs Gamp could bear. She stopped the hand of
Mrs Prig with her own, and said, with great feeling:
‘No, Betsey! Drink fair, wotever you do!’
Mrs Prig, thus baffled, threw herself back in her chair, and closing the
same eye more emphatically, and folding her arms tighter, suffered her
head to roll slowly from side to side, while she surveyed her friend
with a contemptuous smile.
Mrs Gamp resumed:
‘Mrs Harris, Betsey--’
‘Bother Mrs Harris!’ said Betsey Prig.
Mrs Gamp looked at her with amazement, incredulity, and indignation;
when Mrs Prig, shutting her eye still closer, and folding her arms still
tighter, uttered these memorable and tremendous words:
‘I don’t believe there’s no sich a person!’
After the utterance of which expressions, she leaned forward, and
snapped her fingers once, twice, thrice; each time nearer to the face of
Mrs Gamp, and then rose to put on her bonnet, as one who felt that there
was now a gulf between them, which nothing could ever bridge across.
The shock of this blow was so violent and sudden, that Mrs Gamp sat
staring at nothing with uplifted eyes, and her mouth open as if she
were gasping for breath, until Betsey Prig had put on her bonnet and
her shawl, and was gathering the latter about her throat. Then Mrs Gamp
rose--morally and physically rose--and denounced her.
‘What!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you bage creetur, have I know’d Mrs Harris five
and thirty year, to be told at last that there ain’t no sech a person
livin’! Have I stood her friend in all her troubles, great and small,
for it to come at last to sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter
hanging up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words! But well
you mayn’t believe there’s no sech a creetur, for she wouldn’t demean
herself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention
of your name, which, to my sinful sorrow, I have done, “What, Sairey
Gamp! debage yourself to HER!” Go along with you!’
‘I’m a-goin’, ma’am, ain’t I?’ said Mrs Prig, stopping as she said it.
‘You had better, ma’am,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Do you know who you’re talking to, ma’am?’ inquired her visitor.
‘Aperiently,’ said Mrs Gamp, surveying her with scorn from head to foot,
‘to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go along with
you!’
‘And YOU was a-goin’ to take me under you!’ cried Mrs Prig, surveying
Mrs Gamp from head to foot in her turn. ‘YOU was, was you? Oh, how kind!
Why, deuce take your imperence,’ said Mrs Prig, with a rapid change from
banter to ferocity, ‘what do you mean?’
‘Go along with you!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I blush for you.’
‘You had better blush a little for yourself, while you ARE about it!’
said Mrs Prig. ‘You and your Chuffeys! What, the poor old creetur isn’t
mad enough, isn’t he? Aha!’
‘He’d very soon be mad enough, if you had anything to do with him,’ said
Mrs Gamp.
‘And that’s what I was wanted for, is it?’ cried Mrs Prig, triumphantly.
‘Yes. But you’ll find yourself deceived. I won’t go near him. We shall
see how you get on without me. I won’t have nothink to do with him.’
‘You never spoke a truer word than that!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Go along with
you!’
She was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs Prig from
the room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold
it, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the
bedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or
four of which came rattling on the head of Mrs Gamp so smartly, that
when she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs Prig was gone.
She had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey,
proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do
with Mr Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in
Kingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place
of Mrs Prig, Mr Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.
‘Why, bless my life!’ exclaimed the little barber, ‘what’s amiss? The
noise you ladies have been making, Mrs Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen
have been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time,
trying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs!
It’ll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his
own water. In his fright, he’s been a-straining himself all to bits,
drawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have
thought it was Fire!’
Mrs Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning
up her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the
following lamentation:
‘Oh, Mr Sweedlepipes, which Mr Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive,
and a friend not havin’ the pleasure of bein’ beknown, wot I have took
from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she
had abuged me, bein’ in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she
come, but could not so believe, not bein’ used myself’--Mrs Gamp, by the
way, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in
the room--‘I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she
spoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!’ said Mrs
Gamp, in a violent burst of feeling, ‘nor worms forget!’
The little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the
teapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a
chair, sat down on one side of Mrs Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the
bed, supported her on the other.
‘You wonder what we want, I daresay,’ observed John. ‘I’ll tell you
presently, when you have recovered. It’s not pressing, for a few minutes
or so. How do you find yourself? Better?’
Mrs Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs
Harris’s name.
‘Have a little--’ John was at a loss what to call it.
‘Tea,’ suggested Martin.
‘It ain’t tea,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Physic of some sort, I suppose,’ cried John. ‘Have a little.’
Mrs Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. ‘On condition,’ she
passionately observed, ‘as Betsey never has another stroke of work from
me.’
‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘She shall never help to nurse ME.’
‘To think,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘as she should ever have helped to nuss that
friend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that--Ah!’
John looked at Martin.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was a narrow escape, Mrs Gamp.’
‘Narrer, in-deed!’ she returned. ‘It was only my having the night, and
hearin’ of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot
would she have said and done, if she had know’d what I know; that
perfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!’ cried Mrs Gamp, trampling
on the floor, in the absence of Mrs Prig, ‘that I should hear from that
same woman’s lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs Harris!’
‘Never mind,’ said John. ‘You know it is not true.’
‘Isn’t true!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘True! Don’t I know as that dear woman
is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin’ out of
window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls
me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs
of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father
says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him,
Mr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin’ in his throat,
where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin’ of
him on the floor a-lookin’ for it through the ouse and him a-choakin’
sweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you’ve showed
this night, but never shall you darken Sairey’s doors agen, you twining
serpiant!’
‘You were always so kind to her, too!’ said John, consolingly.
‘That’s the cutting part. That’s where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,’ Mrs
Gamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled
it.
‘Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!’ said John. ‘Chosen to help you
with Mr Chuffey!’
‘Chose once, but chose no more,’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘No pardnership with
Betsey Prig agen, sir!’
‘No, no,’ said John. ‘That would never do.’
‘I don’t know as it ever would have done, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied, with
a solemnity peculiar to a certain stage of intoxication. ‘Now that the
marks,’ by which Mrs Gamp is supposed to have meant mask, ‘is off
that creetur’s face, I do not think it ever would have done. There
are reagions in families for keeping things a secret, Mr Westlock, and
havin’ only them about you as you knows you can repoge in. Who could
repoge in Betsey Prig, arter her words of Mrs Harris, setting in that
chair afore my eyes!’
‘Quite true,’ said John; ‘quite. I hope you have time to find another
assistant, Mrs Gamp?’
Between her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what
was said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and
murmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs Prig had challenged--as if
it were a talisman against all earthly sorrows--seemed to wander in her
mind.
‘I hope,’ repeated John, ‘that you have time to find another assistant?’
‘Which short it is, indeed,’ cried Mrs Gamp, turning up her languid
eyes, and clasping Mr Westlock’s wrist with matronly affection.
‘To-morrow evenin’, sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr Chuzzlewit apinted
it from nine to ten.’
‘From nine to ten,’ said John, with a significant glance at Martin. ‘and
then Mr Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?’
‘He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,’ Mrs Gamp replied with a
mysterious air. ‘Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance
from Betsey Prig. I little know’d that woman. She’d have let it out!’
‘Let HIM out, you mean,’ said John.
‘Do I!’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘Oh!’
The severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very
slow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs Gamp’s
mouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a
short doze:
‘But I am a-keepin’ of you gentlemen, and time is precious.’
Mingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with
the belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd
avoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had
lately strayed, Mrs Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its
accustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity proceeded
to attire herself for a professional visit.
This preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than
the snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens and
the indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a
laying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs Gamp had
invested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and
sitting down again, declared herself quite ready.
‘It’s a ‘appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,’
she observed, ‘I’m sure. It isn’t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig
inflicts is frightful!’
Closing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her
commiseration for Betsey’s patients, she forgot to open them again until
she dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals like the
fabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten,
and of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her
sleep was peaceful.
The two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin,
stifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock’s ear,
‘What shall we do now?’
‘Stay here,’ he replied.
Mrs Gamp was heard to murmur ‘Mrs Harris’ in her sleep.
‘Rely upon it,’ whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, ‘that
you shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs Harris herself.
We know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks
to this quarrel, which confirms the old saying that when rogues fall
out, honest people get what they want. Let Jonas Chuzzlewit look to
himself; and let her sleep as long as she likes. We shall gain our end
in good time.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED
BETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER
It was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting together
before tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great many
things, but not at all about Lewsome’s story or anything connected with
it; for John Westlock--really John, for so young a man, was one of the
most considerate fellows in the world--had particularly advised Tom not
to mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her.
‘And I wouldn’t, Tom,’ he said, with a little hesitation, ‘I wouldn’t
have a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentle
heart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!’ Really John was
uncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tom
said, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.
But although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they were
less lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that this
originated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dull
himself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of her
quiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.
And there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tom
was looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towards
his face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, and
then grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon the summer weather,
she would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if she were about to throw
herself upon his neck; then check the impulse, and when he looked
round, show a laughing face, and speak to him very merrily; when she had
anything to give Tom, or had any excuse for coming near him, she would
flutter about him, and lay her bashful hand upon his shoulder, and not
be willing to withdraw it; and would show by all such means that there
was something on her heart which in her great love she longed to say to
him, but had not the courage to utter.
So they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not working, and
Tom with his book beside him, but not reading, when Martin knocked
at the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to open it; and he and
Martin came back into the room together. Tom looked surprised, for in
answer to his cordial greeting Martin had hardly spoken a word.
Ruth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of their
visitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom’s face, as if she were
seeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made the same mute
appeal to Martin.
Martin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood there
looking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but hastily
averted his head again, without doing so.
‘What has happened, Martin?’ Tom anxiously inquired. ‘My dear fellow,
what bad news do you bring?’
‘Oh, Tom!’ replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. ‘To hear you
feign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even more
than your ungenerous dealing.’
‘My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My--’ Tom could say no more.
‘How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so fervently
and sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that you
had deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of what
you used to be--of what I am sure you used to be--to tempt me, when you
had turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!’
His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for the
loss of a friend he had trusted in--it expressed such high past love
for Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed
unworthiness--that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, and
had no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monster
of deceit and falsehood.
‘I protest, as I must die,’ said Martin, ‘that I grieve over the loss
of what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my own
injuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that we
know the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear,
little as I showed it--little as I know I showed it--that when I had the
least consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.’
Tom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of Truth,
in a homely dress--it very often wears a homely dress, thank God!--when
he replied to him.
‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what is in your mind, or who has abused
it, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are false. There is
no truth whatever in the impression under which you labour. It is a
delusion from first to last; and I warn you that you will deeply regret
the wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I have been true to you,
and to myself. You will be very sorry for this. Indeed, you will be very
sorry for it, Martin.’
‘I AM sorry,’ returned Martin, shaking his head. ‘I think I never knew
what it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.’
‘At least,’ said Tom, ‘if I had always been what you charge me with
being now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had always been
despised by you, and had always deserved it, you should tell me in what
you have found me to be treacherous; and on what grounds you proceed. I
do not intreat you, therefore, to give me that satisfaction as a favour,
Martin, but I ask it of you as a right.’
‘My own eyes are my witnesses,’ returned Martin. ‘Am I to believe them?’
‘No,’ said Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me.’
‘Your own words. Your own manner,’ pursued Martin. ‘Am I to believe
THEM?’
‘No,’ replied Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me. But they never have
accused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose, has wronged
me almost as cruelly’--his calmness rather failed him here--‘as you have
done.’
‘I came here,’ said Martin; ‘and I appeal to your good sister to hear
me--’
‘Not to her,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Pray, do not appeal to her. She will
never believe you.’
He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.
‘I believe it, Tom!’
‘No, no,’ cried Tom, ‘of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. What
a silly little thing you are!’
‘I never meant,’ said Martin, hastily, ‘to appeal to you against your
brother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to you
to hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach--I
have not one reproach to vent--but in deep regret. You could not know in
what bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought of
Tom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forward
to the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I have
believed and trusted in him.’
‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. ‘He is
mistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be set
right at last.’
‘Heaven bless the day that sets me right!’ cried Martin, ‘if it could
ever come!’
‘Amen!’ said Tom. ‘And it will!’
Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:
‘You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting.
It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side--’
‘There is none on mine,’ said Tom.
‘--It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about.
I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that
might have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I
did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment
more than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and
there is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on
the other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the
choice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist
such temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded
to them; and I DO blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a
show of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me
to confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when
you had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,’ said Martin, with
emotion--‘hear me say it from my heart--I CANNOT believe, Tom, now that
I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your
nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by
chance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you;
I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded
your retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price,
bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I
have found out what you so much desired to keep secret.’
‘Be just,’ said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin’s
face since the commencement of this last address; ‘be just even in
your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your
accusation is!’
‘Why should I?’ returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards
the door. ‘You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and
though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be.
No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you
at this moment, and in this place--in which you are so amiable and so
good--as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we
first met. All good go with you, Tom!--I--’
‘You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?’ said Tom.
‘I--you--you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I--I hope it was a rash
choice,’ Martin faltered. ‘I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!’
And he was gone.
Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took
his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning
a leaf as he spoke: ‘He will be very sorry for this.’ And a tear stole
down his face, and dropped upon the page.
Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about
his neck.
‘No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!’
‘I am quite--comforted,’ said Tom. ‘It will be set right.’
‘Such a cruel, bad return!’ cried Ruth.
‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will
be set right.’
More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart
would break.
‘Don’t. Don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Why do you hide your face, my dear!’
Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.
‘Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; you
couldn’t hide the truth from me. Why didn’t you tell me? I am sure I
could have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!’
Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sister
hurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little history
was written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silent
touch.
‘In spite of that,’ said Ruth, ‘you have been so faithful and so good,
dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and have
struggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle,
and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hasty
look, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you have
been so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will THIS be set right too!
Will it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you who
deserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?’
And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck,
and wept for him, and poured out all her woman’s heart and soul in the
relief and pain of this disclosure.
It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, and
she was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom’s face. Then Tom spoke
to her thus, cheerily, though gravely:
‘I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not because
it assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of that
before), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.’
Tom’s eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed her
on the cheek.
‘My dear girl,’ said Tom; ‘with whatever feeling I regard her’--they
seemed to avoid the name by mutual consent--‘I have long ago--I am sure
I may say from the very first--looked upon it as a dream. As something
that might possibly have happened under very different circumstances,
but which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?’
She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to take
it for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.
‘By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed to
Martin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. You
would have her betrothed to me?’
‘Yes,’ she said directly.
‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, ‘but that might be setting it wrong, instead of
right. Do you think,’ said Tom, with a grave smile, ‘that even if she
had never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with
Me?’
‘Why not, dear Tom?’
Tom shook his head, and smiled again.
‘You think of me, Ruth,’ said Tom, ‘and it is very natural that you
should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of
poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come,
at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice
than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the
same principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and
choose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very
fine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and
perhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything
ordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become
one of that sort of people?’
‘No, Tom. But still I know,’ she added timidly, ‘that this is a sorrow
to you in your own better way.’
Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere
folly, and he gave it up.
‘My dear,’ said Tom, ‘I will repay your affection with the Truth and all
the Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so sometimes,
though I have always striven against it. But somebody who is precious to
you may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven with the departed
spirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the life on earth, which
is no harder to be borne than when you fell asleep. It is sorrowful to
me to contemplate my dream which I always knew was a dream, even when
it first presented itself; but the realities about me are not to blame.
They are the same as they were. My sister, my sweet companion, who makes
this place so dear, is she less devoted to me, Ruth, than she would
have been, if this vision had never troubled me? My old friend John, who
might so easily have treated me with coldness and neglect, is he less
cordial to me? The world about me, is there less good in that? Are my
words to be harsh and my looks to be sour, and is my heart to grow cold,
because there has fallen in my way a good and beautiful creature, who
but for the selfish regret that I cannot call her my own, would, like
all other good and beautiful creatures, make me happier and better!
No, my dear sister. No,’ said Tom stoutly. ‘Remembering all my means of
happiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a sorrow; but
whatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me more
sensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty ways. Not
less happy. Not less happy, Ruth!’
She could not speak to him, but she loved him, as he well deserved. Even
as he deserved, she loved him.
‘She will open Martin’s eyes,’ said Tom, with a glow of pride, ‘and that
(which is indeed wrong) will be set right. Nothing will persuade her, I
know, that I have betrayed him. It will be set right through her, and he
will be very sorry for it. Our secret, Ruth, is our own, and lives and
dies with us. I don’t believe I ever could have told it you,’ said Tom,
with a smile, ‘but how glad I am to think you have found it out!’
They had never taken such a pleasant walk as they took that night. Tom
told her all so freely and so simply, and was so desirous to return
her tenderness with his fullest confidence, that they prolonged it far
beyond their usual hour, and sat up late when they came home. And
when they parted for the night there was such a tranquil, beautiful
expression in Tom’s face, that she could not bear to shut it out, but
going back on tiptoe to his chamber-door, looked in and stood there till
he saw her, and then embracing him again, withdrew. And in her prayers
and in her sleep--good times to be remembered with such fervour,
Tom!--his name was uppermost.
When he was left alone, Tom pondered very much on this discovery of
hers, and greatly wondered what had led her to it. ‘Because,’ thought
Tom, ‘I have been so very careful. It was foolish and unnecessary in
me, as I clearly see now, when I am so relieved by her knowing it; but I
have been so very careful to conceal it from her. Of course I knew that
she was intelligent and quick, and for that reason was more upon my
guard; but I was not in the least prepared for this. I am sure her
discovery has been sudden too. Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘It’s a most singular
instance of penetration!’
Tom could not get it out of his head. There it was, when his head was on
his pillow.
‘How she trembled when she began to tell me she knew it!’ thought Tom,
recalling all the little incidents and circumstances; ‘and how her
face flushed! But that was natural! Oh, quite natural! That needs no
accounting for.’
Tom little thought how natural it was. Tom little knew that there was
that in Ruth’s own heart, but newly set there, which had helped her to
the reading of his mystery. Ah, Tom! He didn’t understand the whispers
of the Temple Fountain, though he passed it every day.
Who so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early tap at
Tom’s door, and her light foot outside, would have been music to him
though she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest morning
ever seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she would have
made it so to Tom.
She was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs, and had
her bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news, that Tom
was lost in wonder. She might have been up all night, collecting it for
his entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come home yet, and there was
bread down a penny a loaf, and there was twice as much strength in this
tea as in the last, and the milk-woman’s husband had come out of the
hospital cured, and the curly-headed child over the way had been lost
all yesterday, and she was going to make all sorts of preserves in a
desperate hurry, and there happened to be a saucepan in the house which
was the very saucepan for the purpose; and she knew all about the last
book Tom had brought home, all through, though it was a teaser to read;
and she had so much to tell him that she had finished breakfast first.
Then she had her little bonnet on, and the tea and sugar locked up, and
the keys in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom’s coat, and
was in all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew she
had begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence in
his own assertion which amounted to a defiance of the public in general,
there never was such a little woman.
She made Tom talkative. It was impossible to resist her. She put such
enticing questions to him; about books, and about dates of churches,
and about organs and about the Temple, and about all kinds of things.
Indeed, she lightened the way (and Tom’s heart with it) to that degree,
that the Temple looked quite blank and solitary when he parted from her
at the gate.
‘No Mr Fips’s friend to-day, I suppose,’ thought Tom, as he ascended the
stairs.
Not yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom opened
it with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now, and
had mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs, and
substituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked a
different place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride in
comtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one to
approve or disapprove of it.
He was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught of
the catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfully
concentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had ever
expended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff’s workroom. It was a very marvel
of a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really getting his
money too easily, and he had determined within himself that this
document should take a little of his superfluous leisure out of him.
So with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and pencil, and
black ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning. He thought a
good deal about Martin, and their interview of yesterday, and would have
been far easier in his mind if he could have resolved to confide it
to his friend John, and to have taken his opinion on the subject.
But besides that he knew what John’s boiling indignation would be, he
bethought himself that he was helping Martin now in a matter of great
moment, and that to deprive the latter of his assistance at such a
crisis of affairs, would be to inflict a serious injury upon him.
‘So I’ll keep it to myself,’ said Tom, with a sigh. ‘I’ll keep it to
myself.’
And to work he went again, more assiduously than ever, with the pens,
and the ruler, and the india-rubber, and the pencils, and the red ink,
that he might forget it.
He had laboured away another hour or more, when he heard a footstep in
the entry, down below.
‘Ah!’ said Tom, looking towards the door; ‘time was, not long ago
either, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But I have
left off now.’
The footstep came on, up the stairs.
‘Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,’ said Tom, counting. ‘Now
you’ll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth stair.’
The person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the footstep
came again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.
The door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked impatiently and
eagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the landing, and arriving
in the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he rose up from his chair, and
half believed he saw a spirit.
Old Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr Pecksniff’s, weak
and sinking!
The same? No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was strong,
and leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with the other
he signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the resolute face, the
watchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff, the triumphant purpose
in the figure, and such a light broke in on Tom as blinded him.
‘You have expected me,’ said Martin, ‘a long time.’
‘I was told that my employer would arrive soon,’ said Tom; ‘but--’
‘I know. You were ignorant who he was. It was my desire. I am glad it
has been so well observed. I intended to have been with you much sooner.
I thought the time had come. I thought I could know no more, and no
worse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you last. But I was
wrong.’
He had by this time come up to Tom, and now he grasped his hand.
‘I have lived in his house, Pinch, and had him fawning on me days and
weeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to treat me like
his tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me there. I have
undergone ten thousand times as much as I could have endured if I had
been the miserable weak old man he took me for. You know it. I have seen
him offer love to Mary. You know it; who better--who better, my true
heart! I have had his base soul bare before me, day by day, and have not
betrayed myself once. I never could have undergone such torture but for
looking forward to this time.’
He stopped, even in the passion of his speech--if that can be called
passion which was so resolute and steady--to press Tom’s hand again.
Then he said, in great excitement:
‘Close the door, close the door. He will not be long after me, but
may come too soon. The time now drawing on,’ said the old man,
hurriedly--his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke--‘will make
amends for all. I wouldn’t have him die or hang himself, for millions of
golden pieces! Close the door!’
Tom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a dream.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
SHEDS NEW AND BRIGHTER LIGHT UPON THE VERY DARK PLACE; AND CONTAINS THE
SEQUEL OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
The night had now come, when the old clerk was to be delivered over
to his keepers. In the midst of his guilty distractions, Jonas had not
forgotten it.
It was a part of his guilty state of mind to remember it; for on his
persistence in the scheme depended one of his precautions for his own
safety. A hint, a word, from the old man, uttered at such a moment in
attentive ears, might fire the train of suspicion, and destroy him. His
watchfulness of every avenue by which the discovery of his guilt might
be approached, sharpened with his sense of the danger by which he was
encompassed. With murder on his soul, and its innumerable alarms and
terrors dragging at him night and day, he would have repeated the crime,
if he had seen a path of safety stretching out beyond. It was in his
punishment; it was in his guilty condition. The very deed which his
fears rendered insupportable, his fears would have impelled him to
commit again.
But keeping the old man close, according to his design, would serve his
turn. His purpose was to escape, when the first alarm and wonder had
subsided; and when he could make the attempt without awakening instant
suspicion. In the meanwhile these women would keep him quiet; and if
the talking humour came upon him, would not be easily startled. He knew
their trade.
Nor had he spoken idly when he said the old man should be gagged. He had
resolved to ensure his silence; and he looked to the end, not the means.
He had been rough and rude and cruel to the old man all his life; and
violence was natural to his mind in connection with him. ‘He shall be
gagged if he speaks, and pinioned if he writes,’ said Jonas, looking at
him; for they sat alone together. ‘He is mad enough for that; I’ll go
through with it!’
Hush!
Still listening! To every sound. He had listened ever since, and it
had not come yet. The exposure of the Assurance office; the flight of
Crimple and Bullamy with the plunder, and among the rest, as he feared,
with his own bill, which he had not found in the pocket-book of the
murdered man, and which with Mr Pecksniff’s money had probably been
remitted to one or other of those trusty friends for safe deposit at the
banker’s; his immense losses, and peril of being still called to account
as a partner in the broken firm; all these things rose in his mind at
one time and always, but he could not contemplate them. He was aware of
their presence, and of the rage, discomfiture, and despair, they brought
along with them; but he thought--of his own controlling power and
direction he thought--of the one dread question only. When they would
find the body in the wood.
He tried--he had never left off trying--not to forget it was there, for
that was impossible, but to forget to weary himself by drawing vivid
pictures of it in his fancy; by going softly about it and about it
among the leaves, approaching it nearer and nearer through a gap in the
boughs, and startling the very flies that were thickly sprinkled all
over it, like heaps of dried currants. His mind was fixed and fastened
on the discovery, for intelligence of which he listened intently to
every cry and shout; listened when any one came in or went out; watched
from the window the people who passed up and down the street; mistrusted
his own looks and words. And the more his thoughts were set upon the
discovery, the stronger was the fascination which attracted them to
the thing itself; lying alone in the wood. He was for ever showing and
presenting it, as it were, to every creature whom he saw. ‘Look here!
Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?’ If he had been
condemned to bear the body in his arms, and lay it down for recognition
at the feet of every one he met, it could not have been more constantly
with him, or a cause of more monotonous and dismal occupation than it
was in this state of his mind.
Still he was not sorry. It was no contrition or remorse for what he had
done that moved him; it was nothing but alarm for his own security. The
vague consciousness he possessed of having wrecked his fortune in the
murderous venture, intensified his hatred and revenge, and made him set
the greater store by what he had gained The man was dead; nothing could
undo that. He felt a triumph yet, in the reflection.
He had kept a jealous watch on Chuffey ever since the deed; seldom
leaving him but on compulsion, and then for as short intervals as
possible. They were alone together now. It was twilight, and the
appointed time drew near at hand. Jonas walked up and down the room. The
old man sat in his accustomed corner.
The slightest circumstance was matter of disquiet to the murderer, and
he was made uneasy at this time by the absence of his wife, who had left
home early in the afternoon, and had not returned yet. No tenderness
for her was at the bottom of this; but he had a misgiving that she
might have been waylaid, and tempted into saying something that would
criminate him when the news came. For anything he knew, she might have
knocked at the door of his room, while he was away, and discovered his
plot. Confound her, it was like her pale face to be wandering up and
down the house! Where was she now?
‘She went to her good friend, Mrs Todgers,’ said the old man, when he
asked the question with an angry oath.
Aye! To be sure! Always stealing away into the company of that woman.
She was no friend of his. Who could tell what devil’s mischief they
might hatch together! Let her be fetched home directly.
The old man, muttering some words softly, rose as if he would have gone
himself, but Jonas thrust him back into his chair with an impatient
imprecation, and sent a servant-girl to fetch her. When he had charged
her with her errand he walked to and fro again, and never stopped till
she came back, which she did pretty soon; the way being short, and the
woman having made good haste.
Well! Where was she? Had she come?
No. She had left there, full three hours.
‘Left there! Alone?’
The messenger had not asked; taking that for granted.
‘Curse you for a fool. Bring candles!’
She had scarcely left the room when the old clerk, who had been
unusually observant of him ever since he had asked about his wife, came
suddenly upon him.
‘Give her up!’ cried the old man. ‘Come! Give her up to me! Tell me what
you have done with her. Quick! I have made no promises on that score.
Tell me what you have done with her.’
He laid his hands upon his collar as he spoke, and grasped it; tightly
too.
‘You shall not leave me!’ cried the old man. ‘I am strong enough to cry
out to the neighbours, and I will, unless you give her up. Give her up
to me!’
Jonas was so dismayed and conscience-stricken, that he had not even
hardihood enough to unclench the old man’s hands with his own; but stood
looking at him as well as he could in the darkness, without moving a
finger. It was as much as he could do to ask him what he meant.
‘I will know what you have done with her!’ retorted Chuffey. ‘If you
hurt a hair of her head, you shall answer it. Poor thing! Poor thing!
Where is she?’
‘Why, you old madman!’ said Jonas, in a low voice, and with trembling
lips. ‘What Bedlam fit has come upon you now?’
‘It is enough to make me mad, seeing what I have seen in this house!’
cried Chuffey. ‘Where is my dear old master! Where is his only son that
I have nursed upon my knee, a child! Where is she, she who was the last;
she that I’ve seen pining day by day, and heard weeping in the dead of
night! She was the last, the last of all my friends! Heaven help me, she
was the very last!’
Seeing that the tears were stealing down his face, Jonas mustered
courage to unclench his hands, and push him off before he answered:
‘Did you hear me ask for her? Did you hear me send for her? How can I
give you up what I haven’t got, idiot! Ecod, I’d give her up to you and
welcome, if I could; and a precious pair you’d be!’
‘If she has come to any harm,’ cried Chuffey, ‘mind! I’m old and silly;
but I have my memory sometimes; and if she has come to any harm--’
‘Devil take you,’ interrupted Jonas, but in a suppressed voice still;
‘what harm do you suppose she has come to? I know no more where she is
than you do; I wish I did. Wait till she comes home, and see; she can’t
be long. Will that content you?’
‘Mind!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Not a hair of her head! not a hair of
her head ill-used! I won’t bear it. I--I--have borne it too long Jonas.
I am silent, but I--I--I can speak. I--I--I can speak--’ he stammered,
as he crept back to his chair, and turned a threatening, though a
feeble, look upon him.
‘You can speak, can you!’ thought Jonas. ‘So, so, we’ll stop your
speaking. It’s well I knew of this in good time. Prevention is better
than cure.’
He had made a poor show of playing the bully and evincing a desire to
conciliate at the same time, but was so afraid of the old man that
great drops had started out upon his brow; and they stood there yet. His
unusual tone of voice and agitated manner had sufficiently expressed his
fear; but his face would have done so now, without that aid, as he again
walked to and fro, glancing at him by the candelight.
He stopped at the window to think. An opposite shop was lighted up; and
the tradesman and a customer were reading some printed bill together
across the counter. The sight brought him back, instantly, to the
occupation he had forgotten. ‘Look here! Do you know of this? Is it
found? Do you suspect ME?’
A hand upon the door. ‘What’s that!’
‘A pleasant evenin’,’ said the voice of Mrs Gamp, ‘though warm, which,
bless you, Mr Chuzzlewit, we must expect when cowcumbers is three for
twopence. How does Mr Chuffey find his self to-night, sir?’
Mrs Gamp kept particularly close to the door in saying this, and
curtseyed more than usual. She did not appear to be quite so much at her
ease as she generally was.
‘Get him to his room,’ said Jonas, walking up to her, and speaking in
her ear. ‘He has been raving to-night--stark mad. Don’t talk while he’s
here, but come down again.’
‘Poor sweet dear!’ cried Mrs Gamp, with uncommon tenderness. ‘He’s all
of a tremble.’
‘Well he may be,’ said Jonas, ‘after the mad fit he has had. Get him
upstairs.’
She was by this time assisting him to rise.
‘There’s my blessed old chick!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a tone that was at
once soothing and encouraging. ‘There’s my darlin’ Mr Chuffey! Now come
up to your own room, sir, and lay down on your bed a bit; for you’re
a-shakin’ all over, as if your precious jints was hung upon wires.
That’s a good creetur! Come with Sairey!’
‘Is she come home?’ inquired the old man.
‘She’ll be here directly minit,’ returned Mrs Gamp. ‘Come with Sairey,
Mr Chuffey. Come with your own Sairey!’
The good woman had no reference to any female in the world in promising
this speedy advent of the person for whom Mr Chuffey inquired, but
merely threw it out as a means of pacifying the old man. It had its
effect, for he permitted her to lead him away; and they quitted the room
together.
Jonas looked out of the window again. They were still reading the
printed paper in the shop opposite, and a third man had joined in the
perusal. What could it be, to interest them so?’
A dispute or discussion seemed to arise among them, for they all looked
up from their reading together, and one of the three, who had been
glancing over the shoulder of another, stepped back to explain or
illustrate some action by his gestures.
Horror! How like the blow he had struck in the wood!
It beat him from the window as if it had lighted on himself. As he
staggered into a chair, he thought of the change in Mrs Gamp exhibited
in her new-born tenderness to her charge. Was that because it was
found?--because she knew of it?--because she suspected him?
‘Mr Chuffey is a-lyin’ down,’ said Mrs Gamp, returning, ‘and much good
may it do him, Mr Chuzzlewit, which harm it can’t and good it may; be
joyful!’
‘Sit down,’ said Jonas, hoarsely, ‘and let us get this business done.
Where is the other woman?’
‘The other person’s with him now,’ she answered.
‘That’s right,’ said Jonas. ‘He is not fit to be left to himself. Why,
he fastened on me to-night; here, upon my coat; like a savage dog. Old
as he is, and feeble as he is usually, I had some trouble to shake him
off. You--Hush!--It’s nothing. You told me the other woman’s name. I
forget it.’
‘I mentioned Betsey Prig,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘She is to be trusted, is she?’
‘That she ain’t!’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘nor have I brought her, Mr Chuzzlewit.
I’ve brought another, which engages to give every satigefaction.’
‘What is her name?’ asked Jonas.
Mrs Gamp looked at him in an odd way without returning any answer, but
appeared to understand the question too.
‘What is her name?’ repeated Jonas.
‘Her name,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is Harris.’
It was extraordinary how much effort it cost Mrs Gamp to pronounce the
name she was commonly so ready with. She made some three or four gasps
before she could get it out; and, when she had uttered it, pressed her
hand upon her side, and turned up her eyes, as if she were going to
faint away. But, knowing her to labour under a complication of internal
disorders, which rendered a few drops of spirits indispensable at
certain times to her existence, and which came on very strong when that
remedy was not at hand, Jonas merely supposed her to be the victim of
one of these attacks.
‘Well!’ he said, hastily, for he felt how incapable he was of confining
his wandering attention to the subject. ‘You and she have arranged to
take care of him, have you?’
Mrs Gamp replied in the affirmative, and softly discharged herself of
her familiar phrase, ‘Turn and turn about; one off, one on.’ But
she spoke so tremulously that she felt called upon to add, ‘which
fiddle-strings is weakness to expredge my nerves this night!’
Jonas stopped to listen. Then said, hurriedly:
‘We shall not quarrel about terms. Let them be the same as they were
before. Keep him close, and keep him quiet. He must be restrained.
He has got it in his head to-night that my wife’s dead, and has been
attacking me as if I had killed her. It’s--it’s common with mad people
to take the worst fancies of those they like best. Isn’t it?’
Mrs Gamp assented with a short groan.
‘Keep him close, then, or in one of his fits he’ll be doing me a
mischief. And don’t trust him at any time; for when he seems most
rational, he’s wildest in his talk. But that you know already. Let me
see the other.’
‘The t’other person, sir?’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Aye! Go you to him and send the other. Quick! I’m busy.’
Mrs Gamp took two or three backward steps towards the door, and stopped
there.
‘It is your wishes, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ she said, in a sort of quavering
croak, ‘to see the t’other person. Is it?’
But the ghastly change in Jonas told her that the other person was
already seen. Before she could look round towards the door, she was put
aside by old Martin’s hand; and Chuffey and John Westlock entered with
him.
‘Let no one leave the house,’ said Martin. ‘This man is my brother’s
son. Ill-met, ill-trained, ill-begotten. If he moves from the spot on
which he stands, or speaks a word above his breath to any person here,
open the window, and call for help!’
‘What right have you to give such directions in this house?’ asked Jonas
faintly.
‘The right of your wrong-doing. Come in there!’
An irrepressible exclamation burst from the lips of Jonas, as Lewsome
entered at the door. It was not a groan, or a shriek, or a word, but was
wholly unlike any sound that had ever fallen on the ears of those who
heard it, while at the same time it was the most sharp and terrible
expression of what was working in his guilty breast, that nature could
have invented.
He had done murder for this! He had girdled himself about with perils,
agonies of mind, innumerable fears, for this! He had hidden his secret
in the wood; pressed and stamped it down into the bloody ground; and
here it started up when least expected, miles upon miles away; known to
many; proclaiming itself from the lips of an old man who had renewed his
strength and vigour as by a miracle, to give it voice against him!
He leaned his hand on the back of a chair, and looked at them. It was
in vain to try to do so scornfully, or with his usual insolence. He
required the chair for his support. But he made a struggle for it.
‘I know that fellow,’ he said, fetching his breath at every word, and
pointing his trembling finger towards Lewsome. ‘He’s the greatest liar
alive. What’s his last tale? Ha, ha! You’re rare fellows, too! Why, that
uncle of mine is childish; he’s even a greater child than his brother,
my father, was, in his old age; or than Chuffey is. What the devil do
you mean,’ he added, looking fiercely at John Westlock and Mark Tapley
(the latter had entered with Lewsome), ‘by coming here, and bringing
two idiots and a knave with you to take my house by storm? Hallo, there!
Open the door! Turn these strangers out!’
‘I tell you what,’ cried Mr Tapley, coming forward, ‘if it wasn’t
for your name, I’d drag you through the streets of my own accord, and
single-handed I would! Ah, I would! Don’t try and look bold at me.
You can’t do it! Now go on, sir,’ this was to old Martin. ‘Bring the
murderin’ wagabond upon his knees! If he wants noise, he shall have
enough of it; for as sure as he’s a shiverin’ from head to foot I’ll
raise a uproar at this winder that shall bring half London in. Go on,
sir! Let him try me once, and see whether I’m a man of my word or not.’
With that, Mark folded his arms, and took his seat upon the
window-ledge, with an air of general preparation for anything, which
seemed to imply that he was equally ready to jump out himself, or to
throw Jonas out, upon receiving the slightest hint that it would be
agreeable to the company.
Old Martin turned to Lewsome:
‘This is the man,’ he said, extending his hand towards Jonas. ‘Is it?’
‘You need do no more than look at him to be sure of that, or of the
truth of what I have said,’ was the reply. ‘He is my witness.’
‘Oh, brother!’ cried old Martin, clasping his hands and lifting up his
eyes. ‘Oh, brother, brother! Were we strangers half our lives that you
might breed a wretch like this, and I make life a desert by withering
every flower that grew about me! Is it the natural end of your precepts
and mine, that this should be the creature of your rearing, training,
teaching, hoarding, striving for; and I the means of bringing him to
punishment, when nothing can repair the wasted past!’
He sat down upon a chair as he spoke, and turning away his face, was
silent for a few moments. Then with recovered energy he proceeded:
‘But the accursed harvest of our mistaken lives shall be trodden down.
It is not too late for that. You are confronted with this man, you
monster there; not to be spared, but to be dealt with justly. Hear what
he says! Reply, be silent, contradict, repeat, defy, do what you please.
My course will be the same. Go on! And you,’ he said to Chuffey, ‘for
the love of your old friend, speak out, good fellow!’
‘I have been silent for his love!’ cried the old man. ‘He urged me to
it. He made me promise it upon his dying bed. I never would have spoken,
but for your finding out so much. I have thought about it ever since;
I couldn’t help that; and sometimes I have had it all before me in
a dream; but in the day-time, not in sleep. Is there such a kind of
dream?’ said Chuffey, looking anxiously in old Martin’s face.
As Martin made him an encouraging reply, he listened attentively to his
voice, and smiled.
‘Ah, aye!’ he cried. ‘He often spoke to me like that. We were at school
together, he and I. I couldn’t turn against his son, you know--his only
son, Mr Chuzzlewit!’
‘I would to Heaven you had been his son!’ said Martin.
‘You speak so like my dear old master,’ cried the old man with a
childish delight, ‘that I almost think I hear him. I can hear you quite
as well as I used to hear him. It makes me young again. He never spoke
unkindly to me, and I always understood him. I could always see him too,
though my sight was dim. Well, well! He’s dead, he’s dead. He was very
good to me, my dear old master!’
He shook his head mournfully over the brother’s hand. At this moment
Mark, who had been glancing out of the window, left the room.
‘I couldn’t turn against his only son, you know,’ said Chuffey. ‘He has
nearly driven me to do it sometimes; he very nearly did tonight. Ah!’
cried the old man, with a sudden recollection of the cause. ‘Where is
she? She’s not come home!’
‘Do you mean his wife?’ said Mr Chuzzlewit.
‘Yes.’
‘I have removed her. She is in my care, and will be spared the present
knowledge of what is passing here. She has known misery enough, without
that addition.’
Jonas heard this with a sinking heart. He knew that they were on his
heels, and felt that they were resolute to run him to destruction. Inch
by inch the ground beneath him was sliding from his feet; faster and
faster the encircling ruin contracted and contracted towards himself,
its wicked centre, until it should close in and crush him.
And now he heard the voice of his accomplice stating to his face,
with every circumstance of time and place and incident; and openly
proclaiming, with no reserve, suppression, passion, or concealment; all
the truth. The truth, which nothing would keep down; which blood
would not smother, and earth would not hide; the truth, whose terrible
inspiration seemed to change dotards into strong men; and on whose
avenging wings, one whom he had supposed to be at the extremest corner
of the earth came swooping down upon him.
He tried to deny it, but his tongue would not move. He conceived some
desperate thought of rushing away, and tearing through the streets; but
his limbs would as little answer to his will as his stark, stiff staring
face. All this time the voice went slowly on, denouncing him. It was as
if every drop of blood in the wood had found a voice to jeer him with.
When it ceased, another voice took up the tale, but strangely; for the
old clerk, who had watched, and listened to the whole, and had wrung his
hands from time to time, as if he knew its truth and could confirm it,
broke in with these words:
‘No, no, no! you’re wrong; you’re wrong--all wrong together! Have
patience, for the truth is only known to me!’
‘How can that be,’ said his old master’s brother, ‘after what you have
heard? Besides, you said just now, above-stairs, when I told you of the
accusation against him, that you knew he was his father’s murderer.’
‘Aye, yes! and so he was!’ cried Chuffey, wildly. ‘But not as you
suppose--not as you suppose. Stay! Give me a moment’s time. I have
it all here--all here! It was foul, foul, cruel, bad; but not as you
suppose. Stay, stay!’
He put his hands up to his head, as if it throbbed or pained him. After
looking about him in a wandering and vacant manner for some moments, his
eyes rested upon Jonas, when they kindled up with sudden recollection
and intelligence.
‘Yes!’ cried old Chuffey, ‘yes! That’s how it was. It’s all upon me now.
He--he got up from his bed before he died, to be sure, to say that he
forgave him; and he came down with me into this room; and when he saw
him--his only son, the son he loved--his speech forsook him; he had
no speech for what he knew--and no one understood him except me. But I
did--I did!’
Old Martin regarded him in amazement; so did his companions. Mrs Gamp,
who had said nothing yet; but had kept two-thirds of herself behind the
door, ready for escape, and one-third in the room, ready for siding with
the strongest party; came a little further in and remarked, with a sob,
that Mr Chuffey was ‘the sweetest old creetur goin’.’
‘He bought the stuff,’ said Chuffey, stretching out his arm towards
Jonas while an unwonted fire shone in his eye, and lightened up his
face; ‘he bought the stuff, no doubt, as you have heard, and brought it
home. He mixed the stuff--look at him!--with some sweetmeat in a jar,
exactly as the medicine for his father’s cough was mixed, and put it
in a drawer; in that drawer yonder in the desk; he knows which drawer
I mean! He kept it there locked up. But his courage failed him or his
heart was touched--my God! I hope it was his heart! He was his only
son!--and he did not put it in the usual place, where my old master
would have taken it twenty times a day.’
The trembling figure of the old man shook with the strong emotions that
possessed him. But, with the same light in his eye, and with his arm
outstretched, and with his grey hair stirring on his head, he seemed to
grow in size, and was like a man inspired. Jonas shrunk from looking at
him, and cowered down into the chair by which he had held. It seemed as
if this tremendous Truth could make the dumb speak.
‘I know it every word now!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Every word! He put it in
that drawer, as I have said. He went so often there, and was so secret,
that his father took notice of it; and when he was out, had it opened.
We were there together, and we found the mixture--Mr Chuzzlewit and I.
He took it into his possession, and made light of it at the time; but in
the night he came to my bedside, weeping, and told me that his own son
had it in his mind to poison him. “Oh, Chuff,” he said, “oh, dear old
Chuff! a voice came into my room to-night, and told me that this crime
began with me. It began when I taught him to be too covetous of what I
have to leave, and made the expectation of it his great business!” Those
were his words; aye, they are his very words! If he was a hard man now
and then, it was for his only son. He loved his only son, and he was
always good to me!’
Jonas listened with increased attention. Hope was breaking in upon him.
‘“He shall not weary for my death, Chuff;” that was what he said next,’
pursued the old clerk, as he wiped his eyes; ‘that was what he said
next, crying like a little child: “He shall not weary for my death,
Chuff. He shall have it now; he shall marry where he has a fancy, Chuff,
although it don’t please me; and you and I will go away and live upon a
little. I always loved him; perhaps he’ll love me then. It’s a dreadful
thing to have my own child thirsting for my death. But I might have
known it. I have sown, and I must reap. He shall believe that I am
taking this; and when I see that he is sorry, and has all he wants, I’ll
tell him that I found it out, and I’ll forgive him. He’ll make a better
man of his own son, and be a better man himself, perhaps, Chuff!”’
Poor Chuffey paused to dry his eyes again. Old Martin’s face was hidden
in his hands. Jonas listened still more keenly, and his breast heaved
like a swollen water, but with hope. With growing hope.
‘My dear old master made believe next day,’ said Chuffey, ‘that he had
opened the drawer by mistake with a key from the bunch, which happened
to fit it (we had one made and hung upon it); and that he had been
surprised to find his fresh supply of cough medicine in such a place,
but supposed it had been put there in a hurry when the drawer stood
open. We burnt it; but his son believed that he was taking it--he knows
he did. Once Mr Chuzzlewit, to try him, took heart to say it had a
strange taste; and he got up directly, and went out.’
Jonas gave a short, dry cough; and, changing his position for an easier
one, folded his arms without looking at them, though they could now see
his face.
‘Mr Chuzzlewit wrote to her father; I mean the father of the poor thing
who’s his wife,’ said Chuffey; ‘and got him to come up, intending to
hasten on the marriage. But his mind, like mine, went a little wrong
through grief, and then his heart broke. He sank and altered from the
time when he came to me in the night; and never held up his head again.
It was only a few days, but he had never changed so much in twice the
years. “Spare him, Chuff!” he said, before he died. They were the only
words he could speak. “Spare him, Chuff!” I promised him I would. I’ve
tried to do it. He’s his only son.’
On his recollection of the last scene in his old friend’s life, poor
Chuffey’s voice, which had grown weaker and weaker, quite deserted him.
Making a motion with his hand, as if he would have said that Anthony had
taken it, and had died with it in his, he retreated to the corner where
he usually concealed his sorrows; and was silent.
Jonas could look at his company now, and vauntingly too. ‘Well!’ he
said, after a pause. ‘Are you satisfied? or have you any more of your
plots to broach? Why that fellow, Lewsome, can invent ‘em for you by the
score. Is this all? Have you nothing else?’
Old Martin looked at him steadily.
‘Whether you are what you seemed to be at Pecksniff’s, or are something
else and a mountebank, I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Jonas,
looking downward with a smile, ‘but I don’t want you here. You were here
so often when your brother was alive, and were always so fond of him
(your dear, dear brother, and you would have been cuffing one another
before this, ecod!), that I am not surprised at your being attached to
the place; but the place is not attached to you, and you can’t leave it
too soon, though you may leave it too late. And for my wife, old man,
send her home straight, or it will be the worse for her. Ha, ha! You
carry it with a high hand, too! But it isn’t hanging yet for a man to
keep a penn’orth of poison for his own purposes, and have it taken from
him by two old crazy jolter-heads who go and act a play about it. Ha,
ha! Do you see the door?’
His base triumph, struggling with his cowardice, and shame, and guilt,
was so detestable, that they turned away from him, as if he were some
obscene and filthy animal, repugnant to the sight. And here that last
black crime was busy with him too; working within him to his perdition.
But for that, the old clerk’s story might have touched him, though never
so lightly; but for that, the sudden removal of so great a load might
have brought about some wholesome change even in him. With that deed
done, however; with that unnecessary wasteful danger haunting him;
despair was in his very triumph and relief; wild, ungovernable, raging
despair, for the uselessness of the peril into which he had plunged;
despair that hardened him and maddened him, and set his teeth a-grinding
in a moment of his exultation.
‘My good friend!’ said old Martin, laying his hand on Chuffey’s sleeve.
‘This is no place for you to remain in. Come with me.’
‘Just his old way!’ cried Chuffey, looking up into his face. ‘I almost
believe it’s Mr Chuzzlewit alive again. Yes! Take me with you! Stay,
though, stay.’
‘For what?’ asked old Martin.
‘I can’t leave her, poor thing!’ said Chuffey. ‘She has been very good
to me. I can’t leave her, Mr Chuzzlewit. Thank you kindly. I’ll remain
here. I haven’t long to remain; it’s no great matter.’
As he meekly shook his poor, grey head, and thanked old Martin in these
words, Mrs Gamp, now entirely in the room, was affected to tears.
‘The mercy as it is!’ she said, ‘as sech a dear, good, reverend creetur
never got into the clutches of Betsey Prig, which but for me he would
have done, undoubted; facts bein’ stubborn and not easy drove!’
‘You heard me speak to you just now, old man,’ said Jonas to his uncle.
‘I’ll have no more tampering with my people, man or woman. Do you see
the door?’
‘Do YOU see the door?’ returned the voice of Mark, coming from that
direction. ‘Look at it!’
He looked, and his gaze was nailed there. Fatal, ill-omened blighted
threshold, cursed by his father’s footsteps in his dying hour, cursed by
his young wife’s sorrowing tread, cursed by the daily shadow of the old
clerk’s figure, cursed by the crossing of his murderer’s feet--what men
were standing in the door way!
Nadgett foremost.
Hark! It came on, roaring like a sea! Hawkers burst into the street,
crying it up and down; windows were thrown open that the inhabitants
might hear it; people stopped to listen in the road and on the pavement;
the bells, the same bells, began to ring; tumbling over one another in a
dance of boisterous joy at the discovery (that was the sound they had in
his distempered thoughts), and making their airy play-ground rock.
‘That is the man,’ said Nadgett. ‘By the window!’
Three others came in, laid hands upon him, and secured him. It was so
quickly done, that he had not lost sight of the informer’s face for an
instant when his wrists were manacled together.
‘Murder,’ said Nadgett, looking round on the astonished group. ‘Let no
one interfere.’
The sounding street repeated Murder; barbarous and dreadful Murder.
Murder, Murder, Murder. Rolling on from house to house, and echoing from
stone to stone, until the voices died away into the distant hum, which
seemed to mutter the same word!
They all stood silent: listening, and gazing in each other’s faces, as
the noise passed on.
Old Martin was the first to speak. ‘What terrible history is this?’ he
demanded.
‘Ask HIM,’ said Nadgett. ‘You’re his friend, sir. He can tell you, if he
will. He knows more of it than I do, though I know much.’
‘How do you know much?’
‘I have not been watching him so long for nothing,’ returned Nadgett. ‘I
never watched a man so close as I have watched him.’
Another of the phantom forms of this terrific Truth! Another of the many
shapes in which it started up about him, out of vacancy. This man, of
all men in the world, a spy upon him; this man, changing his identity;
casting off his shrinking, purblind, unobservant character, and
springing up into a watchful enemy! The dead man might have come out of
his grave, and not confounded and appalled him more.
The game was up. The race was at an end; the rope was woven for his
neck. If, by a miracle, he could escape from this strait, he had but to
turn his face another way, no matter where, and there would rise some
new avenger front to front with him; some infant in an hour grown old,
or old man in an hour grown young, or blind man with his sight restored,
or deaf man with his hearing given him. There was no chance. He sank
down in a heap against the wall, and never hoped again from that moment.
‘I am not his friend, although I have the honour to be his relative,’
said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘You may speak to me. Where have you watched, and
what have you seen?’
‘I have watched in many places,’ returned Nadgett, ‘night and day. I
have watched him lately, almost without rest or relief;’ his anxious
face and bloodshot eyes confirmed it. ‘I little thought to what my
watching was to lead. As little as he did when he slipped out in the
night, dressed in those clothes which he afterwards sunk in a bundle at
London Bridge!’
Jonas moved upon the ground like a man in bodily torture. He uttered a
suppressed groan, as if he had been wounded by some cruel weapon; and
plucked at the iron band upon his wrists, as though (his hands being
free) he would have torn himself.
‘Steady, kinsman!’ said the chief officer of the party. ‘Don’t be
violent.’
‘Whom do you call kinsman?’ asked old Martin sternly.
‘You,’ said the man, ‘among others.’
Martin turned his scrutinizing gaze upon him. He was sitting lazily
across a chair with his arms resting on the back; eating nuts, and
throwing the shells out of window as he cracked them, which he still
continued to do while speaking.
‘Aye,’ he said, with a sulky nod. ‘You may deny your nephews till you
die; but Chevy Slyme is Chevy Slyme still, all the world over. Perhaps
even you may feel it some disgrace to your own blood to be employed in
this way. I’m to be bought off.’
‘At every turn!’ cried Martin. ‘Self, self, self. Every one among them
for himself!’
‘You had better save one or two among them the trouble then and be for
them as well as YOURself,’ replied his nephew. ‘Look here at me! Can you
see the man of your family who has more talent in his little finger than
all the rest in their united brains, dressed as a police officer without
being ashamed? I took up with this trade on purpose to shame you. I
didn’t think I should have to make a capture in the family, though.’
‘If your debauchery, and that of your chosen friends, has really brought
you to this level,’ returned the old man, ‘keep it. You are living
honestly, I hope, and that’s something.’
‘Don’t be hard upon my chosen friends,’ returned Slyme, ‘for they were
sometimes your chosen friends too. Don’t say you never employed my
friend Tigg, for I know better. We quarrelled upon it.’
‘I hired the fellow,’ retorted Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘and I paid him.’
‘It’s well you paid him,’ said his nephew, ‘for it would be too late to
do so now. He has given his receipt in full; or had it forced from him
rather.’
The old man looked at him as if he were curious to know what he meant,
but scorned to prolong the conversation.
‘I have always expected that he and I would be brought together again in
the course of business,’ said Slyme, taking a fresh handful of nuts from
his pocket; ‘but I thought he would be wanted for some swindling job; it
never entered my head that I should hold a warrant for the apprehension
of his murderer.’
‘HIS murderer!’ cried Mr Chuzzlewit, looking from one to another.
‘His or Mr Montague’s,’ said Nadgett. ‘They are the same, I am told.
I accuse him yonder of the murder of Mr Montague, who was found last
night, killed, in a wood. You will ask me why I accuse him as you have
already asked me how I know so much. I’ll tell you. It can’t remain a
secret long.’
The ruling passion of the man expressed itself even then, in the tone of
regret in which he deplored the approaching publicity of what he knew.
‘I told you I had watched him,’ he proceeded. ‘I was instructed to do
so by Mr Montague, in whose employment I have been for some time. We had
our suspicions of him; and you know what they pointed at, for you have
been discussing it since we have been waiting here, outside the room. If
you care to hear, now it’s all over, in what our suspicions began, I’ll
tell you plainly: in a quarrel (it first came to our ears through a hint
of his own) between him and another office in which his father’s life
was insured, and which had so much doubt and distrust upon the subject,
that he compounded with them, and took half the money; and was glad to
do it. Bit by bit, I ferreted out more circumstances against him, and
not a few. It required a little patience, but it’s my calling. I found
the nurse--here she is to confirm me; I found the doctor, I found
the undertaker, I found the undertaker’s man. I found out how the old
gentleman there, Mr Chuffey, had behaved at the funeral; and I found out
what this man,’ touching Lewsome on the arm, ‘had talked about in his
fever. I found out how he conducted himself before his father’s death,
and how since and how at the time; and writing it all down, and putting
it carefully together, made case enough for Mr Montague to tax him
with the crime, which (as he himself believed until to-night) he had
committed. I was by when this was done. You see him now. He is only
worse than he was then.’
Oh, miserable, miserable fool! oh, insupportable, excruciating torture!
To find alive and active--a party to it all--the brain and right-hand
of the secret he had thought to crush! In whom, though he had walled the
murdered man up, by enchantment in a rock, the story would have lived
and walked abroad! He tried to stop his ears with his fettered arms,
that he might shut out the rest.
As he crouched upon the floor, they drew away from him as if a
pestilence were in his breath. They fell off, one by one, from that part
of the room, leaving him alone upon the ground. Even those who had him
in their keeping shunned him, and (with the exception of Slyme, who was
still occupied with his nuts) kept apart.
‘From that garret-window opposite,’ said Nadgett, pointing across the
narrow street, ‘I have watched this house and him for days and nights.
From that garret-window opposite I saw him return home, alone, from a
journey on which he had set out with Mr Montague. That was my token that
Mr Montague’s end was gained; and I might rest easy on my watch, though
I was not to leave it until he dismissed me. But, standing at the door
opposite, after dark that same night, I saw a countryman steal out of
this house, by a side-door in the court, who had never entered it.
I knew his walk, and that it was himself, disguised. I followed him
immediately. I lost him on the western road, still travelling westward.’
Jonas looked up at him for an instant, and muttered an oath.
‘I could not comprehend what this meant,’ said Nadgett; ‘but, having
seen so much, I resolved to see it out, and through. And I did.
Learning, on inquiry at his house from his wife, that he was supposed
to be sleeping in the room from which I had seen him go out, and that he
had given strict orders not to be disturbed, I knew that he was
coming back; and for his coming back I watched. I kept my watch in
the street--in doorways, and such places--all that night; at the same
window, all next day; and when night came on again, in the street once
more. For I knew he would come back, as he had gone out, when this part
of the town was empty. He did. Early in the morning, the same countryman
came creeping, creeping, creeping home.’
‘Look sharp!’ interposed Slyme, who had now finished his nuts. ‘This is
quite irregular, Mr Nadgett.’
‘I kept at the window all day,’ said Nadgett, without heeding him.
‘I think I never closed my eyes. At night, I saw him come out with a
bundle. I followed him again. He went down the steps at London Bridge,
and sunk it in the river. I now began to entertain some serious fears,
and made a communication to the Police, which caused that bundle to
be--’
‘To be fished up,’ interrupted Slyme. ‘Be alive, Mr Nadgett.’
‘It contained the dress I had seen him wear,’ said Nadgett; ‘stained
with clay, and spotted with blood. Information of the murder was
received in town last night. The wearer of that dress is already
known to have been seen near the place; to have been lurking in that
neighbourhood; and to have alighted from a coach coming from that part
of the country, at a time exactly tallying with the very minute when
I saw him returning home. The warrant has been out, and these officers
have been with me, some hours. We chose our time; and seeing you come
in, and seeing this person at the window--’
‘Beckoned to him,’ said Mark, taking up the thread of the narrative, on
hearing this allusion to himself, ‘to open the door; which he did with a
deal of pleasure.’
‘That’s all at present,’ said Nadgett, putting up his great pocketbook,
which from mere habit he had produced when he began his revelation, and
had kept in his hand all the time; ‘but there is plenty more to come.
You asked me for the facts, so far I have related them, and need not
detain these gentlemen any longer. Are you ready, Mr Slyme?’
‘And something more,’ replied that worthy, rising. ‘If you walk round to
the office, we shall be there as soon as you. Tom! Get a coach!’
The officer to whom he spoke departed for that purpose. Old Martin
lingered for a few moments, as if he would have addressed some words
to Jonas; but looking round, and seeing him still seated on the floor,
rocking himself in a savage manner to and fro, took Chuffey’s arm, and
slowly followed Nadgett out. John Westlock and Mark Tapley accompanied
them. Mrs Gamp had tottered out first, for the better display of her
feelings, in a kind of walking swoon; for Mrs Gamp performed swoons of
different sorts, upon a moderate notice, as Mr Mould did Funerals.
‘Ha!’ muttered Slyme, looking after them. ‘Upon my soul! As insensible
of being disgraced by having such a nephew as myself, in such a
situation, as he was of my being an honour and a credit to the family!
That’s the return I get for having humbled my spirit--such a spirit as
mine--to earn a livelihood, is it?’
He got up from his chair, and kicked it away indignantly.
‘And such a livelihood too! When there are hundreds of men, not fit to
hold a candle to me, rolling in carriages and living on their fortunes.
Upon my soul it’s a nice world!’
His eyes encountered Jonas, who looked earnestly towards him, and moved
his lips as if he were whispering.
‘Eh?’ said Slyme.
Jonas glanced at the attendant whose back was towards him, and made a
clumsy motion with his bound hands towards the door.
‘Humph!’ said Slyme, thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t hope to disgrace him into
anything when you have shot so far ahead of me though. I forgot that.’
Jonas repeated the same look and gesture.
‘Jack!’ said Slyme.
‘Hallo!’ returned his man.
‘Go down to the door, ready for the coach. Call out when it comes. I’d
rather have you there. Now then,’ he added, turning hastily to Jonas,
when the man was gone. ‘What’s the matter?’
Jonas essayed to rise.
‘Stop a bit,’ said Slyme. ‘It’s not so easy when your wrists are tight
together. Now then! Up! What is it?’
‘Put your hand in my pocket. Here! The breast pocket, on the left!’ said
Jonas.
He did so; and drew out a purse.
‘There’s a hundred pound in it,’ said Jonas, whose words were almost
unintelligible; as his face, in its pallor and agony, was scarcely
human.
Slyme looked at him; gave it into his hands; and shook his head.
‘I can’t. I daren’t. I couldn’t if I dared. Those fellows below--’
‘Escape’s impossible,’ said Jonas. ‘I know it. One hundred pound for
only five minutes in the next room!’
‘What to do?’ he asked.
The face of his prisoner as he advanced to whisper in his ear, made him
recoil involuntarily. But he stopped and listened to him. The words were
few, but his own face changed as he heard them.
‘I have it about me,’ said Jonas, putting his hands to his throat, as
though whatever he referred to were hidden in his neckerchief. ‘How
should you know of it? How could you know? A hundred pound for only five
minutes in the next room! The time’s passing. Speak!’
‘It would be more--more creditable to the family,’ observed Slyme, with
trembling lips. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me half so much. Less would have
served your purpose. You might have kept it to yourself.’
‘A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! Speak!’ cried
Jonas, desperately.
He took the purse. Jonas, with a wild unsteady step, retreated to the
door in the glass partition.
‘Stop!’ cried Slyme, catching at his skirts. ‘I don’t know about this.
Yet it must end so at last. Are you guilty?’
‘Yes!’ said Jonas.
‘Are the proofs as they were told just now?’
‘Yes!’ said Jonas.
‘Will you--will you engage to say a--a Prayer, now, or something of that
sort?’ faltered Slyme.
Jonas broke from him without replying, and closed the door between them.
Slyme listened at the keyhole. After that, he crept away on tiptoe, as
far off as he could; and looked awfully towards the place. He was roused
by the arrival of the coach, and their letting down the steps.
‘He’s getting a few things together,’ he said, leaning out of window,
and speaking to the two men below, who stood in the full light of a
street-lamp. ‘Keep your eye upon the back, one of you, for form’s sake.’
One of the men withdrew into the court. The other, seating himself self
on the steps of the coach, remained in conversation with Slyme at the
window who perhaps had risen to be his superior, in virtue of his old
propensity (one so much lauded by the murdered man) of being always
round the corner. A useful habit in his present calling.
‘Where is he?’ asked the man.
Slyme looked into the room for an instant and gave his head a jerk as
much as to say, ‘Close at hand. I see him.’
‘He’s booked,’ observed the man.
‘Through,’ said Slyme.
They looked at each other, and up and down the street. The man on
the coach-steps took his hat off, and put it on again, and whistled a
little.
‘I say! He’s taking his time!’ he remonstrated.
‘I allowed him five minutes,’ said Slyme. ‘Time’s more than up, though.
I’ll bring him down.’
He withdrew from the window accordingly, and walked on tiptoe to the
door in the partition. He listened. There was not a sound within. He set
the candles near it, that they might shine through the glass.
It was not easy, he found, to make up his mind to the opening of
the door. But he flung it wide open suddenly, and with a noise; then
retreated. After peeping in and listening again, he entered.
He started back as his eyes met those of Jonas, standing in an angle of
the wall, and staring at him. His neckerchief was off; his face was ashy
pale.
‘You’re too soon,’ said Jonas, with an abject whimper. ‘I’ve not had
time. I have not been able to do it. I--five minutes more--two minutes
more!--only one!’
Slyme gave him no reply, but thrusting the purse upon him and forcing it
back into his pocket, called up his men.
He whined, and cried, and cursed, and entreated them, and struggled, and
submitted, in the same breath, and had no power to stand. They got him
away and into the coach, where they put him on a seat; but he soon fell
moaning down among the straw at the bottom, and lay there.
The two men were with him. Slyme being on the box with the driver; and
they let him lie. Happening to pass a fruiterer’s on their way; the door
of which was open, though the shop was by this time shut; one of them
remarked how faint the peaches smelled.
The other assented at the moment, but presently stooped down in quick
alarm, and looked at the prisoner.
‘Stop the coach! He has poisoned himself! The smell comes from this
bottle in his hand!’
The hand had shut upon it tight. With that rigidity of grasp with which
no living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a
prize he has won.
They dragged him out into the dark street; but jury, judge, and hangman,
could have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
IN WHICH THE TABLES ARE TURNED, COMPLETELY UPSIDE DOWN
Old Martin’s cherished projects, so long hidden in his own breast, so
frequently in danger of abrupt disclosure through the bursting forth
of the indignation he had hoarded up during his residence with Mr
Pecksniff, were retarded, but not beyond a few hours, by the occurrences
just now related. Stunned, as he had been at first by the intelligence
conveyed to him through Tom Pinch and John Westlock, of the supposed
manner of his brother’s death; overwhelmed as he was by the subsequent
narratives of Chuffey and Nadgett, and the forging of that chain of
circumstances ending in the death of Jonas, of which catastrophe he was
immediately informed; scattered as his purposes and hopes were for the
moment, by the crowding in of all these incidents between him and his
end; still their very intensity and the tumult of their assemblage
nerved him to the rapid and unyielding execution of his scheme. In every
single circumstance, whether it were cruel, cowardly, or false, he
saw the flowering of the same pregnant seed. Self; grasping, eager,
narrow-ranging, overreaching self; with its long train of suspicions,
lusts, deceits, and all their growing consequences; was the root of the
vile tree. Mr Pecksniff had so presented his character before the old
man’s eyes, that he--the good, the tolerant, enduring Pecksniff--had
become the incarnation of all selfishness and treachery; and the more
odious the shapes in which those vices ranged themselves before him now,
the sterner consolation he had in his design of setting Mr Pecksniff
right and Mr Pecksniff’s victims too.
To this work he brought, not only the energy and determination natural
to his character (which, as the reader may have observed in the
beginning of his or her acquaintance with this gentleman, was remarkable
for the strong development of those qualities), but all the forced and
unnaturally nurtured energy consequent upon their long suppression. And
these two tides of resolution setting into one and sweeping on, became
so strong and vigorous, that, to prevent themselves from being carried
away before it, Heaven knows where, was as much as John Westlock and
Mark Tapley together (though they were tolerably energetic too) could
manage to effect.
He had sent for John Westlock immediately on his arrival; and John,
under the conduct of Tom Pinch, had waited on him. Having a lively
recollection of Mr Tapley, he had caused that gentleman’s attendance to
be secured, through John’s means, without delay; and thus, as we have
seen, they had all repaired together to the City. But his grandson he
had refused to see until to-morrow, when Mr Tapley was instructed to
summon him to the Temple at ten o’clock in the forenoon. Tom he would
not allow to be employed in anything, lest he should be wrongfully
suspected; but he was a party to all their proceedings, and was with
them until late at night--until after they knew of the death of Jonas;
when he went home to tell all these wonders to little Ruth, and to
prepare her for accompanying him to the Temple in the morning, agreeably
to Mr Chuzzlewit’s particular injunction.
It was characteristic of old Martin, and his looking on to something
which he had distinctly before him, that he communicated to them nothing
of his intentions, beyond such hints of reprisal on Mr Pecksniff as they
gathered from the game he had played in that gentleman’s house, and the
brightening of his eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Even to John
Westlock, in whom he was evidently disposed to place great confidence
(which may indeed be said of every one of them), he gave no explanation
whatever. He merely requested him to return in the morning; and with
this for their utmost satisfaction, they left him, when the night was
far advanced, alone.
The events of such a day might have worn out the body and spirit of
a much younger man than he, but he sat in deep and painful meditation
until the morning was bright. Nor did he even then seek any prolonged
repose, but merely slumbered in his chair, until seven o’clock, when Mr
Tapley had appointed to come to him by his desire; and came--as fresh
and clean and cheerful as the morning itself.
‘You are punctual,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, opening the door to him in reply
to his light knock, which had roused him instantly.
‘My wishes, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley, whose mind would appear from the
context to have been running on the matrimonial service, ‘is to love,
honour, and obey. The clock’s a-striking now, sir.’
‘Come in!’
‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Mr Tapley, ‘what could I do for you first,
sir?’
‘You gave my message to Martin?’ said the old man, bending his eyes upon
him.
‘I did, sir,’ returned Mark; ‘and you never see a gentleman more
surprised in all your born days than he was.’
‘What more did you tell him?’ Mr Chuzzlewit inquired.
‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, smiling, ‘I should have liked to tell him a
deal more, but not being able, sir, I didn’t tell it him.’
‘You told him all you knew?’
‘But it was precious little, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘There was very
little respectin’ you that I was able to tell him, sir. I only mentioned
my opinion that Mr Pecksniff would find himself deceived, sir, and
that you would find yourself deceived, and that he would find himself
deceived, sir.’
‘In what?’ asked Mr Chuzzlewit.
‘Meaning him, sir?’
‘Meaning both him and me.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘In your old opinions of each other. As
to him, sir, and his opinions, I know he’s a altered man. I know it.
I know’d it long afore he spoke to you t’other day, and I must say it.
Nobody don’t know half as much of him as I do. Nobody can’t. There
was always a deal of good in him, but a little of it got crusted over,
somehow. I can’t say who rolled the paste of that ‘ere crust myself,
but--’
‘Go on,’ said Martin. ‘Why do you stop?’
‘But it--well! I beg your pardon, but I think it may have been you, sir.
Unintentional I think it may have been you. I don’t believe that neither
of you gave the other quite a fair chance. There! Now I’ve got rid on
it,’ said Mr Tapley in a fit of desperation: ‘I can’t go a-carryin’ it
about in my own mind, bustin’ myself with it; yesterday was quite long
enough. It’s out now. I can’t help it. I’m sorry for it. Don’t wisit on
him, sir, that’s all.’
It was clear that Mark expected to be ordered out immediately, and was
quite prepared to go.
‘So you think,’ said Martin, ‘that his old faults are, in some degree,
of my creation, do you?’
‘Well, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, ‘I’m werry sorry, but I can’t unsay it.
It’s hardly fair of you, sir, to make a ignorant man conwict himself in
this way, but I DO think so. I am as respectful disposed to you, sir, as
a man can be; but I DO think so.’
The light of a faint smile seemed to break through the dull steadiness
of Martin’s face, as he looked attentively at him, without replying.
‘Yet you are an ignorant man, you say,’ he observed after a long pause.
‘Werry much so,’ Mr Tapley replied.
‘And I a learned, well-instructed man, you think?’
‘Likewise wery much so,’ Mr Tapley answered.
The old man, with his chin resting on his hand, paced the room twice or
thrice before he added:
‘You have left him this morning?’
‘Come straight from him now, sir.’
‘For what does he suppose?’
‘He don’t know what to suppose, sir, no more than myself. I told him
jest wot passed yesterday, sir, and that you had said to me, “Can you be
here by seven in the morning?” and that you had said to him, through me,
“Can you be here by ten in the morning?” and that I had said “Yes” to
both. That’s all, sir.’
His frankness was so genuine that it plainly WAS all.
‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, ‘he may think you are going to desert him, and
to serve me?’
‘I have served him in that sort of way, sir,’ replied Mark, without the
loss of any atom of his self-possession; ‘and we have been that sort of
companions in misfortune, that my opinion is, he don’t believe a word on
it. No more than you do, sir.’
‘Will you help me to dress, and get me some breakfast from the hotel?’
asked Martin.
‘With pleasure, sir,’ said Mark.
‘And by-and-bye,’ said Martin, ‘remaining in the room, as I wish you to
do, will you attend to the door yonder--give admission to visitors, I
mean, when they knock?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.
‘You will not find it necessary to express surprise at their
appearance,’ Martin suggested.
‘Oh dear no, sir!’ said Mr Tapley, ‘not at all.’
Although he pledged himself to this with perfect confidence, he was in a
state of unbounded astonishment even now. Martin appeared to observe it,
and to have some sense of the ludicrous bearing of Mr Tapley under these
perplexing circumstances; for, in spite of the composure of his voice
and the gravity of his face, the same indistinct light flickered on the
latter several times. Mark bestirred himself, however, to execute the
offices with which he was entrusted; and soon lost all tendency to any
outward expression of his surprise, in the occupation of being brisk and
busy.
But when he had put Mr Chuzzlewit’s clothes in good order for dressing,
and when that gentleman was dressed and sitting at his breakfast,
Mr Tapley’s feelings of wonder began to return upon him with great
violence; and, standing beside the old man with a napkin under his
arm (it was as natural and easy to joke to Mark to be a butler in the
Temple, as it had been to volunteer as cook on board the Screw), he
found it difficult to resist the temptation of casting sidelong glances
at him very often. Nay, he found it impossible; and accordingly yielded
to this impulse so often, that Martin caught him in the fact some fifty
times. The extraordinary things Mr Tapley did with his own face when
any of these detections occurred; the sudden occasions he had to rub
his eyes or his nose or his chin; the look of wisdom with which he
immediately plunged into the deepest thought, or became intensely
interested in the habits and customs of the flies upon the ceiling, or
the sparrows out of doors; or the overwhelming politeness with which
he endeavoured to hide his confusion by handing the muffin; may not
unreasonably be assumed to have exercised the utmost power of feature
that even Martin Chuzzlewit the elder possessed.
But he sat perfectly quiet and took his breakfast at his leisure, or
made a show of doing so, for he scarcely ate or drank, and frequently
lapsed into long intervals of musing. When he had finished, Mark sat
down to his breakfast at the same table; and Mr Chuzzlewit, quite silent
still, walked up and down the room.
Mark cleared away in due course, and set a chair out for him, in which,
as the time drew on towards ten o’clock, he took his seat, leaning his
hands upon his stick, and clenching them upon the handle, and resting
his chin on them again. All his impatience and abstraction of manner had
vanished now; and as he sat there, looking, with his keen eyes, steadily
towards the door, Mark could not help thinking what a firm, square,
powerful face it was; or exulting in the thought that Mr Pecksniff,
after playing a pretty long game of bowls with its owner, seemed to be
at last in a very fair way of coming in for a rubber or two.
Mark’s uncertainty in respect of what was going to be done or said, and
by whom to whom, would have excited him in itself. But knowing for
a certainty besides, that young Martin was coming, and in a very few
minutes must arrive, he found it by no means easy to remain quiet and
silent. But, excepting that he occasionally coughed in a hollow and
unnatural manner to relieve himself, he behaved with great decorum
through the longest ten minutes he had ever known.
A knock at the door. Mr Westlock. Mr Tapley, in admitting him, raised
his eyebrows to the highest possible pitch, implying thereby that he
considered himself in an unsatisfactory position. Mr Chuzzlewit received
him very courteously.
Mark waited at the door for Tom Pinch and his sister, who were coming up
the stairs. The old man went to meet them; took their hands in his;
and kissed her on the cheek. As this looked promising, Mr Tapley smiled
benignantly.
Mr Chuzzlewit had resumed his chair before young Martin, who was close
behind them, entered. The old man, scarcely looking at him, pointed to
a distant seat. This was less encouraging; and Mr Tapley’s spirits fell
again.
He was quickly summoned to the door by another knock. He did not start,
or cry, or tumble down, at sight of Miss Graham and Mrs Lupin, but he
drew a very long breath, and came back perfectly resigned, looking on
them and on the rest with an expression which seemed to say that nothing
could surprise him any more; and that he was rather glad to have done
with that sensation for ever.
The old man received Mary no less tenderly than he had received Tom
Pinch’s sister. A look of friendly recognition passed between himself
and Mrs Lupin, which implied the existence of a perfect understanding
between them. It engendered no astonishment in Mr Tapley; for, as he
afterwards observed, he had retired from the business, and sold off the
stock.
Not the least curious feature in this assemblage was, that everybody
present was so much surprised and embarrassed by the sight of everybody
else, that nobody ventured to speak. Mr Chuzzlewit alone broke silence.
‘Set the door open, Mark!’ he said; ‘and come here.’
Mark obeyed.
The last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knew
it. It was Mr Pecksniff’s; and Mr Pecksniff was in a hurry too, for he
came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled twice or
thrice.
‘Where is my venerable friend?’ he cried upon the upper landing; and
then with open arms came darting in.
Old Martin merely looked at him; but Mr Pecksniff started back as if he
had received the charge from an electric battery.
‘My venerable friend is well?’ cried Mr Pecksniff.
‘Quite well.’
It seemed to reassure the anxious inquirer. He clasped his hands and,
looking upwards with a pious joy, silently expressed his gratitude.
He then looked round on the assembled group, and shook his head
reproachfully. For such a man severely, quite severely.
‘Oh, vermin!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Oh, bloodsuckers! Is it not enough
that you have embittered the existence of an individual wholly
unparalleled in the biographical records of amiable persons, but must
you now, even now, when he has made his election, and reposed his trust
in a Numble, but at least sincere and disinterested relative; must
you now, vermin and swarmers (I regret to make use of these strong
expressions, my dear sir, but there are times when honest indignation
will not be controlled), must you now, vermin and swarmers (for I WILL
repeat it), take advantage of his unprotected state, assemble round
him from all quarters, as wolves and vultures, and other animals of
the feathered tribe assemble round--I will not say round carrion or a
carcass, for Mr Chuzzlewit is quite the contrary--but round their prey;
their prey; to rifle and despoil; gorging their voracious maws, and
staining their offensive beaks, with every description of carnivorous
enjoyment!’
As he stopped to fetch his breath, he waved them off, in a solemn
manner, with his hand.
‘Horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers!’ he continued; ‘leave him!
leave him, I say! Begone! Abscond! You had better be off! Wander over
the face of the earth, young sirs, like vagabonds as you are, and do not
presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey hairs of the
patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have the honour to act
as an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff. And you, my
tender sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, addressing himself in a tone of gentle
remonstrance to the old man, ‘how could you ever leave me, though even
for this short period! You have absented yourself, I do not doubt, upon
some act of kindness to me; bless you for it; but you must not do it;
you must not be so venturesome. I should really be angry with you if I
could, my friend!’
He advanced with outstretched arms to take the old man’s hand. But he
had not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its
grasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin, with
his burning indignation crowded into one vehement burst, and flashing
out of every line and wrinkle in his face, rose up, and struck him down
upon the ground.
With such a well-directed nervous blow, that down he went, as heavily
and true as if the charge of a Life-Guardsman had tumbled him out of a
saddle. And whether he was stunned by the shock, or only confused by the
wonder and novelty of this warm reception, he did not offer to get up
again; but lay there, looking about him with a disconcerted meekness
in his face so enormously ridiculous, that neither Mark Tapley nor John
Westlock could repress a smile, though both were actively interposing to
prevent a repetition of the blow; which the old man’s gleaming eyes and
vigorous attitude seemed to render one of the most probable events in
the world.
‘Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!’ said Martin; ‘or I can’t help
it. The strong restraint I have put upon my hands has been enough to
palsy them. I am not master of myself while he is within their range.
Drag him away!’
Seeing that he still did not rise, Mr Tapley, without any compromise
about it, actually did drag him away, and stick him up on the floor,
with his back against the opposite wall.
‘Hear me, rascal!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘I have summoned you here to
witness your own work. I have summoned you here to witness it, because
I know it will be gall and wormwood to you! I have summoned you here to
witness it, because I know the sight of everybody here must be a dagger
in your mean, false heart! What! do you know me as I am, at last!’
Mr Pecksniff had cause to stare at him, for the triumph in his face and
speech and figure was a sight to stare at.
‘Look there!’ said the old man, pointing at him, and appealing to the
rest. ‘Look there! And then--come hither, my dear Martin--look here!
here! here!’ At every repetition of the word he pressed his grandson
closer to his breast.
‘The passion I felt, Martin, when I dared not do this,’ he said, ‘was
in the blow I struck just now. Why did we ever part! How could we ever
part! How could you ever fly from me to him!’
Martin was about to answer, but he stopped him, and went on.
‘The fault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so today, and
I have known it long; though not so long as I might have done. Mary, my
love, come here.’
As she trembled and was very pale, he sat her in his own chair, and
stood beside it with her hand in his; and Martin standing by him.
‘The curse of our house,’ said the old man, looking kindly down upon
her, ‘has been the love of self; has ever been the love of self. How
often have I said so, when I never knew that I had wrought it upon
others.’
He drew one hand through Martin’s arm, and standing so, between them,
proceeded thus:
‘You all know how I bred this orphan up, to tend me. None of you can
know by what degrees I have come to regard her as a daughter; for
she has won upon me, by her self-forgetfulness, her tenderness, her
patience, all the goodness of her nature, when Heaven is her witness
that I took but little pains to draw it forth. It blossomed without
cultivation, and it ripened without heat. I cannot find it in my heart
to say that I am sorry for it now, or yonder fellow might be holding up
his head.’
Mr Pecksniff put his hand into his waistcoat, and slightly shook that
part of him to which allusion had been made; as if to signify that it
was still uppermost.
‘There is a kind of selfishness,’ said Martin--‘I have learned it in my
own experience of my own breast--which is constantly upon the watch for
selfishness in others; and holding others at a distance, by suspicions
and distrusts, wonders why they don’t approach, and don’t confide, and
calls that selfishness in them. Thus I once doubted those about me--not
without reason in the beginning--and thus I once doubted you, Martin.’
‘Not without reason,’ Martin answered, ‘either.’
‘Listen, hypocrite! Listen, smooth-tongued, servile, crawling knave!’
said Martin. ‘Listen, you shallow dog. What! When I was seeking him, you
had already spread your nets; you were already fishing for him, were ye?
When I lay ill in this good woman’s house and your meek spirit pleaded
for my grandson, you had already caught him, had ye? Counting on the
restoration of the love you knew I bore him, you designed him for one
of your two daughters did ye? Or failing that, you traded in him as a
speculation which at any rate should blind me with the lustre of your
charity, and found a claim upon me! Why, even then I knew you, and I
told you so. Did I tell you that I knew you, even then?’
‘I am not angry, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, softly. ‘I can bear a great
deal from you. I will never contradict you, Mr Chuzzlewit.’
‘Observe!’ said Martin, looking round. ‘I put myself in that man’s
hands on terms as mean and base, and as degrading to himself, as I could
render them in words. I stated them at length to him, before his own
children, syllable by syllable, as coarsely as I could, and with as much
offence, and with as plain an exposition of my contempt, as words--not
looks and manner merely--could convey. If I had only called the angry
blood into his face, I would have wavered in my purpose. If I had only
stung him into being a man for a minute I would have abandoned it. If he
had offered me one word of remonstrance, in favour of the grandson whom
he supposed I had disinherited; if he had pleaded with me, though never
so faintly, against my appeal to him to abandon him to misery and
cast him from his house; I think I could have borne with him for ever
afterwards. But not a word, not a word. Pandering to the worst of human
passions was the office of his nature; and faithfully he did his work!’
‘I am not angry,’ observed Mr Pecksniff. ‘I am hurt, Mr Chuzzlewit;
wounded in my feelings; but I am not angry, my good sir.’
Mr Chuzzlewit resumed.
‘Once resolved to try him, I was resolute to pursue the trial to the
end; but while I was bent on fathoming the depth of his duplicity, I
made a sacred compact with myself that I would give him credit on the
other side for any latent spark of goodness, honour, forbearance--any
virtue--that might glimmer in him. For first to last there has been no
such thing. Not once. He cannot say I have not given him opportunity.
He cannot say I have ever led him on. He cannot say I have not left
him freely to himself in all things; or that I have not been a passive
instrument in his hands, which he might have used for good as easily as
evil. Or if he can, he Lies! And that’s his nature, too.’
‘Mr Chuzzlewit,’ interrupted Pecksniff, shedding tears. ‘I am not angry,
sir. I cannot be angry with you. But did you never, my dear sir,
express a desire that the unnatural young man who by his wicked arts has
estranged your good opinion from me, for the time being; only for the
time being; that your grandson, Mr Chuzzlewit, should be dismissed my
house? Recollect yourself, my Christian friend.’
‘I have said so, have I not?’ retorted the old man, sternly. ‘I could
not tell how far your specious hypocrisy had deceived him, knave; and
knew no better way of opening his eyes than by presenting you before him
in your own servile character. Yes. I did express that desire. And you
leaped to meet it; and you met it; and turning in an instant on the
hand you had licked and beslavered, as only such hounds can, you
strengthened, and confirmed, and justified me in my scheme.’
Mr Pecksniff made a bow; a submissive, not to say a grovelling and an
abject bow. If he had been complimented on his practice of the loftiest
virtues, he never could have bowed as he bowed then.
‘The wretched man who has been murdered,’ Mr Chuzzlewit went on to say;
‘then passing by the name of--’
‘Tigg,’ suggested Mark.
‘Of Tigg; brought begging messages to me on behalf of a friend of his,
and an unworthy relative of mine; and finding him a man well enough
suited to my purpose, I employed him to glean some news of you, Martin,
for me. It was from him I learned that you had taken up your abode with
yonder fellow. It was he, who meeting you here in town, one evening--you
remember where?’
‘At the pawnbroker’s shop,’ said Martin.
‘Yes; watched you to your lodging, and enabled me to send you a
bank-note.’
‘I little thought,’ said Martin, greatly moved, ‘that it had come from
you; I little thought that you were interested in my fate. If I had--’
‘If you had,’ returned the old man, sorrowfully, ‘you would have shown
less knowledge of me as I seemed to be, and as I really was. I hoped to
bring you back, Martin, penitent and humbled. I hoped to distress you
into coming back to me. Much as I loved you, I had that to acknowledge
which I could not reconcile it to myself to avow, then, unless you
made submission to me first. Thus it was I lost you. If I have had,
indirectly, any act or part in the fate of that unhappy man, by putting
means, however small, within his reach, Heaven forgive me! I might have
known, perhaps, that he would misuse money; that it was ill-bestowed
upon him; and that sown by his hands it could engender mischief only.
But I never thought of him at that time as having the disposition or
ability to be a serious impostor, or otherwise than as a thoughtless,
idle-humoured, dissipated spendthrift, sinning more against himself than
others, and frequenting low haunts and indulging vicious tastes, to his
own ruin only.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, who had Mrs Lupin on his
arm by this time, quite agreeably; ‘if I may make so bold as say so, my
opinion is, as you was quite correct, and that he turned out perfectly
nat’ral for all that. There’s surprisin’ number of men sir, who as long
as they’ve only got their own shoes and stockings to depend upon, will
walk down hill, along the gutters quiet enough and by themselves, and
not do much harm. But set any on ‘em up with a coach and horses, sir;
and it’s wonderful what a knowledge of drivin’ he’ll show, and how he’ll
fill his wehicle with passengers, and start off in the middle of the
road, neck or nothing, to the Devil! Bless your heart, sir, there’s ever
so many Tiggs a-passin’ this here Temple-gate any hour in the day, that
only want a chance to turn out full-blown Montagues every one!’
‘Your ignorance, as you call it, Mark,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘is wiser
than some men’s enlightenment, and mine among them. You are right; not
for the first time to-day. Now hear me out, my dears. And hear me, you,
who, if what I have been told be accurately stated, are Bankrupt in
pocket no less than in good name! And when you have heard me, leave this
place, and poison my sight no more!’
Mr Pecksniff laid his hand upon his breast, and bowed again.
‘The penance I have done in this house,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘has earned
this reflection with it constantly, above all others. That if it had
pleased Heaven to visit such infirmity on my old age as really had
reduced me to the state in which I feigned to be, I should have brought
its misery upon myself. Oh, you whose wealth, like mine, has been a
source of continual unhappiness, leading you to distrust the nearest and
dearest, and to dig yourself a living grave of suspicion and reserve;
take heed that, having cast off all whom you might have bound to you,
and tenderly, you do not become in your decay the instrument of such a
man as this, and waken in another world to the knowledge of such wrong
as would embitter Heaven itself, if wrong or you could ever reach it!’
And then he told them how he had sometimes thought, in the beginning,
that love might grow up between Mary and Martin; and how he had pleased
his fancy with the picture of observing it when it was new, and taking
them to task, apart, in counterfeited doubt, and then confessing to them
that it had been an object dear to his heart; and by his sympathy with
them, and generous provision for their young fortunes, establishing a
claim on their affection and regard which nothing should wither, and
which should surround his old age with means of happiness. How in the
first dawn of this design, and when the pleasure of such a scheme for
the happiness of others was new and indistinct within him, Martin had
come to tell him that he had already chosen for himself; knowing that
he, the old man, had some faint project on that head, but ignorant whom
it concerned. How it was little comfort to him to know that Martin
had chosen Her, because the grace of his design was lost, and because
finding that she had returned his love, he tortured himself with
the reflection that they, so young, to whom he had been so kind a
benefactor, were already like the world, and bent on their own selfish,
stealthy ends. How in the bitterness of this impression, and of his past
experience, he had reproached Martin so harshly (forgetting that he had
never invited his confidence on such a point, and confounding what
he had meant to do with what he had done), that high words sprung up
between them, and they separated in wrath. How he loved him still, and
hoped he would return. How on the night of his illness at the Dragon,
he had secretly written tenderly of him, and made him his heir, and
sanctioned his marriage with Mary; and how, after his interview with Mr
Pecksniff, he had distrusted him again, and burnt the paper to ashes,
and had lain down in his bed distracted by suspicions, doubts, and
regrets.
And then he told them how, resolved to probe this Pecksniff, and to
prove the constancy and truth of Mary (to himself no less than
Martin), he had conceived and entered on his plan; and how, beneath her
gentleness and patience, he had softened more and more; still more and
more beneath the goodness and simplicity, the honour and the manly faith
of Tom. And when he spoke of Tom, he said God bless him; and the tears
were in his eyes; for he said that Tom, mistrusted and disliked by him
at first, had come like summer rain upon his heart; and had disposed it
to believe in better things. And Martin took him by the hand, and Mary
too, and John, his old friend, stoutly too; and Mark, and Mrs Lupin,
and his sister, little Ruth. And peace of mind, deep, tranquil peace of
mind, was in Tom’s heart.
The old man then related how nobly Mr Pecksniff had performed the duty
in which he stood indebted to society, in the matter of Tom’s
dismissal; and how, having often heard disparagement of Mr Westlock from
Pecksniffian lips, and knowing him to be a friend to Tom, he had used,
through his confidential agent and solicitor, that little artifice which
had kept him in readiness to receive his unknown friend in London. And
he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Scoundrel) to remember that
there again he had not trapped him to do evil, but that he had done it
of his own free will and agency; nay, that he had cautioned him against
it. And once again he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Hang-dog)
to remember that when Martin coming home at last, an altered man, had
sued for the forgiveness which awaited him, he, Pecksniff, had rejected
him in language of his own, and had remorsely stepped in between him and
the least touch of natural tenderness. ‘For which,’ said the old man,
‘if the bending of my finger would remove a halter from your neck, I
wouldn’t bend it!’
‘Martin,’ he added, ‘your rival has not been a dangerous one, but Mrs
Lupin here has played duenna for some weeks; not so much to watch your
love as to watch her lover. For that Ghoul’--his fertility in finding
names for Mr Pecksniff was astonishing--‘would have crawled into her
daily walks otherwise, and polluted the fresh air. What’s this? Her hand
is trembling strangely. See if you can hold it.’
Hold it! If he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist. Well,
well!
But it was good in him that even then, in his high fortune and
happiness, with her lips nearly printed on his own, and her proud young
beauty in his close embrace, he had a hand still left to stretch out to
Tom Pinch.
‘Oh, Tom! Dear Tom! I saw you, accidentally, coming here. Forgive me!’
‘Forgive!’ cried Tom. ‘I’ll never forgive you as long as I live, Martin,
if you say another syllable about it. Joy to you both! Joy, my dear
fellow, fifty thousand times.’
Joy! There is not a blessing on earth that Tom did not wish them. There
is not a blessing on earth that Tom would not have bestowed upon them,
if he could.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, stepping forward, ‘but yow was
mentionin’, just now, a lady of the name of Lupin, sir.’
‘I was,’ returned old Martin
‘Yes, sir. It’s a pretty name, sir?’
‘A very good name,’ said Martin.
‘It seems a’most a pity to change such a name into Tapley. Don’t it,
sir?’ said Mark.
‘That depends upon the lady. What is HER opinion?’
‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, retiring, with a bow, towards the buxom
hostess, ‘her opinion is as the name ain’t a change for the better, but
the indiwidual may be, and, therefore, if nobody ain’t acquainted
with no jest cause or impediment, et cetrer, the Blue Dragon will be
con-werted into the Jolly Tapley. A sign of my own inwention, sir. Wery
new, conwivial, and expressive!’
The whole of these proceedings were so agreeable to Mr Pecksniff that
he stood with his eyes fixed upon the floor and his hands clasping one
another alternately, as if a host of penal sentences were being passed
upon him. Not only did his figure appear to have shrunk, but his
discomfiture seemed to have extended itself even to his dress. His
clothes seemed to have grown shabbier, his linen to have turned yellow,
his hair to have become lank and frowsy; his very boots looked villanous
and dim, as if their gloss had departed with his own.
Feeling, rather than seeing, that the old man now pointed to the door,
he raised his eyes, picked up his hat, and thus addressed him:
‘Mr Chuzzlewit, sir! you have partaken of my hospitality.’
‘And paid for it,’ he observed.
‘Thank you. That savours,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking out his
pocket-handkerchief, ‘of your old familiar frankness. You have paid for
it. I was about to make the remark. You have deceived me, sir. Thank you
again. I am glad of it. To see you in the possession of your health and
faculties on any terms, is, in itself, a sufficient recompense. To have
been deceived implies a trusting nature. Mine is a trusting nature. I
am thankful for it. I would rather have a trusting nature, do you know,
sir, than a doubting one!’
Here Mr Pecksniff, with a sad smile, bowed, and wiped his eyes.
‘There is hardly any person present, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff,
‘by whom I have not been deceived. I have forgiven those persons on the
spot. That was my duty; and, of course, I have done it. Whether it was
worthy of you to partake of my hospitality, and to act the part you
did act in my house, that, sir, is a question which I leave to your own
conscience. And your conscience does not acquit you. No, sir, no!’
Pronouncing these last words in a loud and solemn voice, Mr Pecksniff
was not so absolutely lost in his own fervour as to be unmindful of the
expediency of getting a little nearer to the door.
‘I have been struck this day,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘with a walking
stick (which I have every reason to believe has knobs upon it), on that
delicate and exquisite portion of the human anatomy--the brain. Several
blows have been inflicted, sir, without a walking-stick, upon that
tenderer portion of my frame--my heart. You have mentioned, sir,
my being bankrupt in my purse. Yes, sir, I am. By an unfortunate
speculation, combined with treachery, I find myself reduced to poverty;
at a time, sir, when the child of my bosom is widowed, and affliction
and disgrace are in my family.’
Here Mr Pecksniff wiped his eyes again, and gave himself two or three
little knocks upon the breast, as if he were answering two or three
other little knocks from within, given by the tinkling hammer of his
conscience, to express ‘Cheer up, my boy!’
‘I know the human mind, although I trust it. That is my weakness. Do I
not know, sir’--here he became exceedingly plaintive and was observed to
glance towards Tom Pinch--‘that my misfortunes bring this treatment on
me? Do I not know, sir, that but for them I never should have heard what
I have heard to-day? Do I not know that in the silence and the solitude
of night, a little voice will whisper in your ear, Mr Chuzzlewit, “This
was not well. This was not well, sir!” Think of this, sir (if you will
have the goodness), remote from the impulses of passion, and apart from
the specialities, if I may use that strong remark, of prejudice. And if
you ever contemplate the silent tomb, sir, which you will excuse me for
entertaining some doubt of your doing, after the conduct into which you
have allowed yourself to be betrayed this day; if you ever contemplate
the silent tomb sir, think of me. If you find yourself approaching to
the silent tomb, sir, think of me. If you should wish to have anything
inscribed upon your silent tomb, sir, let it be, that I--ah, my
remorseful sir! that I--the humble individual who has now the honour of
reproaching you, forgave you. That I forgave you when my injuries were
fresh, and when my bosom was newly wrung. It may be bitterness to you to
hear it now, sir, but you will live to seek a consolation in it. May you
find a consolation in it when you want it, sir! Good morning!’
With this sublime address, Mr Pecksniff departed. But the effect of
his departure was much impaired by his being immediately afterwards run
against, and nearly knocked down, by a monstrously excited little man in
velveteen shorts and a very tall hat; who came bursting up the stairs,
and straight into the chambers of Mr Chuzzlewit, as if he were deranged.
‘Is there anybody here that knows him?’ cried the little man. ‘Is there
anybody here that knows him? Oh, my stars, is there anybody here that
knows him?’
They looked at each other for an explanation; but nobody knew anything
more than that here was an excited little man with a very tall hat on,
running in and out of the room as hard as he could go; making his single
pair of bright blue stockings appear at least a dozen; and constantly
repeating in a shrill voice, ‘IS there anybody here that knows him?’
‘If your brains is not turned topjy turjey, Mr Sweedlepipes!’ exclaimed
another voice, ‘hold that there nige of yourn, I beg you, sir.’
At the same time Mrs Gamp was seen in the doorway; out of breath from
coming up so many stairs, and panting fearfully; but dropping curtseys
to the last.
‘Excuge the weakness of the man,’ said Mrs Gamp, eyeing Mr Sweedlepipe
with great indignation; ‘and well I might expect it, as I should have
know’d, and wishin’ he was drownded in the Thames afore I had brought
him here, which not a blessed hour ago he nearly shaved the noge off
from the father of as lovely a family as ever, Mr Chuzzlewit, was born
three sets of twins, and would have done it, only he see it a-goin’ in
the glass, and dodged the rager. And never, Mr Sweedlepipes, I do assure
you, sir, did I so well know what a misfortun it was to be acquainted
with you, as now I do, which so I say, sir, and I don’t deceive you!’
‘I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all,’ cried the little barber,
taking off his hat, ‘and yours too, Mrs Gamp. But--but,’ he added this
half laughing and half crying, ‘IS there anybody here that knows him?’
As the barber said these words, a something in top-boots, with its head
bandaged up, staggered into the room, and began going round and round
and round, apparently under the impression that it was walking straight
forward.
‘Look at him!’ cried the excited little barber. ‘Here he is! That’ll
soon wear off, and then he’ll be all right again. He’s no more dead than
I am. He’s all alive and hearty. Aint you, Bailey?’
‘R--r--reether so, Poll!’ replied that gentleman.
‘Look here!’ cried the little barber, laughing and crying in the same
breath. ‘When I steady him he comes all right. There! He’s all right
now. Nothing’s the matter with him now, except that he’s a little shook
and rather giddy; is there, Bailey?’
‘R--r--reether shook, Poll--reether so!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘What, my
lovely Sairey! There you air!’
‘What a boy he is!’ cried the tender-hearted Poll, actually sobbing
over him. ‘I never see sech a boy! It’s all his fun. He’s full of it.
He shall go into the business along with me. I am determined he shall.
We’ll make it Sweedlepipe and Bailey. He shall have the sporting branch
(what a one he’ll be for the matches!) and me the shavin’. I’ll make
over the birds to him as soon as ever he’s well enough. He shall have
the little bullfinch in the shop, and all. He’s sech a boy! I ask your
pardon, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought there might be some one here
that know’d him!’
Mrs Gamp had observed, not without jealousy and scorn, that a favourable
impression appeared to exist in behalf of Mr Sweedlepipe and his
young friend; and that she had fallen rather into the background in
consequence. She now struggled to the front, therefore, and stated her
business.
‘Which, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ she said, ‘is well beknown to Mrs Harris as has
one sweet infant (though she DO not wish it known) in her own family by
the mother’s side, kep in spirits in a bottle; and that sweet babe she
see at Greenwich Fair, a-travelling in company with a pink-eyed lady,
Prooshan dwarf, and livin’ skelinton, which judge her feelings when the
barrel organ played, and she was showed her own dear sister’s child, the
same not bein’ expected from the outside picter, where it was painted
quite contrairy in a livin’ state, a many sizes larger, and performing
beautiful upon the Arp, which never did that dear child know or do;
since breathe it never did, to speak on in this wale! And Mrs Harris, Mr
Chuzzlewit, has knowed me many year, and can give you information that
the lady which is widdered can’t do better and may do worse, than let me
wait upon her, which I hope to do. Permittin’ the sweet faces as I see
afore me.’
‘Oh!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘Is that your business? Was this good person
paid for the trouble we gave her?’
‘I paid her, sir,’ returned Mark Tapley; ‘liberal.’
‘The young man’s words is true,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and thank you kindly.’
‘Then here we will close our acquaintance, Mrs Gamp,’ retorted Mr
Chuzzlewit. ‘And Mr Sweedlepipe--is that your name?’
‘That is my name, sir,’ replied Poll, accepting with a profusion of
gratitude, some chinking pieces which the old man slipped into his hand.
‘Mr Sweedlepipe, take as much care of your lady-lodger as you can, and
give her a word or two of good advice now and then. Such,’ said old
Martin, looking gravely at the astonished Mrs Gamp, ‘as hinting at the
expediency of a little less liquor, and a little more humanity, and
a little less regard for herself, and a little more regard for her
patients, and perhaps a trifle of additional honesty. Or when Mrs Gamp
gets into trouble, Mr Sweedlepipe, it had better not be at a time when I
am near enough to the Old Bailey to volunteer myself as a witness to her
character. Endeavour to impress that upon her at your leisure, if you
please.’
Mrs Gamp clasped her hands, turned up her eyes until they were quite
invisible, threw back her bonnet for the admission of fresh air to her
heated brow; and in the act of saying faintly--‘Less liquor!--Sairey
Gamp--Bottle on the chimney-piece, and let me put my lips to it, when I
am so dispoged!’--fell into one of the walking swoons; in which pitiable
state she was conducted forth by Mr Sweedlepipe, who, between his two
patients, the swooning Mrs Gamp and the revolving Bailey, had enough to
do, poor fellow.
The old man looked about him, with a smile, until his eyes rested on Tom
Pinch’s sister; when he smiled the more.
‘We will all dine here together,’ he said; ‘and as you and Mary have
enough to talk of, Martin, you shall keep house for us until the
afternoon, with Mr and Mrs Tapley. I must see your lodgings in the
meanwhile, Tom.’
Tom was quite delighted. So was Ruth. She would go with them.
‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘But I am afraid I must take
Tom a little out of the way, on business. Suppose you go on first, my
dear?’
Pretty little Ruth was equally delighted to do that.
‘But not alone,’ said Martin, ‘not alone. Mr Westlock, I dare say, will
escort you.’
Why, of course he would: what else had Mr Westlock in his mind? How dull
these old men are!
‘You are sure you have no engagement?’ he persisted.
Engagement! As if he could have any engagement!
So they went off arm-in-arm. When Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit went off
arm-in-arm a few minutes after them, the latter was still smiling; and
really, for a gentleman of his habits, in rather a knowing manner.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
WHAT JOHN WESTLOCK SAID TO TOM PINCH’S SISTER; WHAT TOM PINCH’S SISTER
SAID TO JOHN WESTLOCK; WHAT TOM PINCH SAID TO BOTH OF THEM; AND HOW THEY
ALL PASSED THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY
Brilliantly the Temple Fountain sparkled in the sun, and laughingly
its liquid music played, and merrily the idle drops of water danced and
danced, and peeping out in sport among the trees, plunged lightly down
to hide themselves, as little Ruth and her companion came toward it.
And why they came toward the Fountain at all is a mystery; for they had
no business there. It was not in their way. It was quite out of their
way. They had no more to do with the Fountain, bless you, than they had
with--with Love, or any out-of-the-way thing of that sort.
It was all very well for Tom and his sister to make appointments by the
Fountain, but that was quite another affair. Because, of course, when
she had to wait a minute or two, it would have been very awkward for her
to have had to wait in any but a tolerably quiet spot; but that was as
quiet a spot, everything considered, as they could choose. But when she
had John Westlock to take care of her, and was going home with her arm
in his (home being in a different direction altogether), their coming
anywhere near that Fountain was quite extraordinary.
However, there they found themselves. And another extraordinary part
of the matter was, that they seemed to have come there, by a silent
understanding. Yet when they got there, they were a little confused
by being there, which was the strangest part of all; because there is
nothing naturally confusing in a Fountain. We all know that.
‘What a good old place it was!’ John said. With quite an earnest affection
for it.
‘A pleasant place indeed,’ said little Ruth. ‘So shady!’
Oh wicked little Ruth!
They came to a stop when John began to praise it. The day was exquisite;
and stopping at all, it was quite natural--nothing could be more
so--that they should glance down Garden Court; because Garden Court ends
in the Garden, and the Garden ends in the River, and that glimpse is
very bright and fresh and shining on a summer’s day. Then, oh, little
Ruth, why not look boldly at it! Why fit that tiny, precious, blessed
little foot into the cracked corner of an insensible old flagstone in
the pavement; and be so very anxious to adjust it to a nicety!
If the Fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet could have seen them
as they walked away, how many years’ purchase might Fiery Face have been
disposed to take for her situation in Furnival’s Inn as laundress to Mr
Westlock!
They went away, but not through London’s streets! Through some enchanted
city, where the pavements were of air; where all the rough sounds of
a stirring town were softened into gentle music; where everything
was happy; where there was no distance, and no time. There were two
good-tempered burly draymen letting down big butts of beer into a
cellar, somewhere; and when John helped her--almost lifted her--the
lightest, easiest, neatest thing you ever saw--across the rope, they
said he owed them a good turn for giving him the chance. Celestial
draymen!
Green pastures in the summer tide, deep-littered straw yards in the
winter, no start of corn and clover, ever, to that noble horse who WOULD
dance on the pavement with a gig behind him, and who frightened her, and
made her clasp his arm with both hands (both hands meeting one upon the
another so endearingly!), and caused her to implore him to take
refuge in the pastry-cook’s, and afterwards to peep out at the door so
shrinkingly; and then, looking at him with those eyes, to ask him was
he sure--now was he sure--they might go safely on! Oh for a string of
rampant horses! For a lion, for a bear, for a mad bull, for anything to
bring the little hands together on his arm again!
They talked, of course. They talked of Tom, and all these changes and
the attachment Mr Chuzzlewit had conceived for him, and the bright
prospects he had in such a friend, and a great deal more to the same
purpose. The more they talked, the more afraid this fluttering little
Ruth became of any pause; and sooner than have a pause she would say the
same things over again; and if she hadn’t courage or presence of mind
enough for that (to say the truth she very seldom had), she was ten
thousand times more charming and irresistible than she had been before.
‘Martin will be married very soon now, I suppose?’ said John.
She supposed he would. Never did a bewitching little woman suppose
anything in such a faint voice as Ruth supposed that.
But seeing that another of those alarming pauses was approaching, she
remarked that he would have a beautiful wife. Didn’t Mr Westlock think
so?
‘Ye--yes,’ said John, ‘oh, yes.’
She feared he was rather hard to please, he spoke so coldly.
‘Rather say already pleased,’ said John. ‘I have scarcely seen her. I
had no care to see her. I had no eyes for HER, this morning.’
Oh, good gracious!
It was well they had reached their destination. She never could have
gone any further. It would have been impossible to walk in such a
tremble.
Tom had not come in. They entered the triangular parlour together, and
alone. Fiery Face, Fiery Face, how many years’ purchase NOW!
She sat down on the little sofa, and untied her bonnet-strings. He sat
down by her side, and very near her; very, very near her. Oh rapid,
swelling, bursting little heart, you knew that it would come to this,
and hoped it would. Why beat so wildly, heart!
‘Dear Ruth! Sweet Ruth! If I had loved you less, I could have told you
that I loved you, long ago. I have loved you from the first. There never
was a creature in the world more truly loved than you, dear Ruth, by
me!’
She clasped her little hands before her face. The gushing tears of joy,
and pride, and hope, and innocent affection, would not be restrained.
Fresh from her full young heart they came to answer him.
‘My dear love! If this is--I almost dare to hope it is, now--not painful
or distressing to you, you make me happier than I can tell, or you
imagine. Darling Ruth! My own good, gentle, winning Ruth! I hope I know
the value of your heart, I hope I know the worth of your angel nature.
Let me try and show you that I do; and you will make me happier, Ruth--’
‘Not happier,’ she sobbed, ‘than you make me. No one can be happier,
John, than you make me!’
Fiery Face, provide yourself! The usual wages or the usual warning. It’s
all over, Fiery Face. We needn’t trouble you any further.
The little hands could meet each other now, without a rampant horse
to urge them. There was no occasion for lions, bears, or mad bulls. It
could all be done, and infinitely better, without their assistance.
No burly drayman or big butts of beer, were wanted for apologies. No
apology at all was wanted. The soft light touch fell coyly, but quite
naturally, upon the lover’s shoulder; the delicate waist, the drooping
head, the blushing cheek, the beautiful eyes, the exquisite mouth
itself, were all as natural as possible. If all the horses in Araby had
run away at once, they couldn’t have improved upon it.
They soon began to talk of Tom again.
‘I hope he will be glad to hear of it!’ said John, with sparkling eyes.
Ruth drew the little hands a little tighter when he said it, and looked
up seriously into his face.
‘I am never to leave him, AM I, dear? I could never leave Tom. I am sure
you know that.’
‘Do you think I would ask you?’ he returned, with a--well! Never mind
with what.
‘I am sure you never would,’ she answered, the bright tears standing in
her eyes.
‘And I will swear it, Ruth, my darling, if you please. Leave Tom! That
would be a strange beginning. Leave Tom, dear! If Tom and we be not
inseparable, and Tom (God bless him) have not all honour and all love
in our home, my little wife, may that home never be! And that’s a strong
oath, Ruth.’
Shall it be recorded how she thanked him? Yes, it shall. In all
simplicity and innocence and purity of heart, yet with a timid,
graceful, half-determined hesitation, she set a little rosy seal upon
the vow, whose colour was reflected in her face, and flashed up to the
braiding of her dark brown hair.
‘Tom will be so happy, and so proud, and glad,’ she said, clasping her
little hands. ‘But so surprised! I am sure he had never thought of such
a thing.’
Of course John asked her immediately--because you know they were in that
foolish state when great allowances must be made--when SHE had begun to
think of such a thing, and this made a little diversion in their talk; a
charming diversion to them, but not so interesting to us; at the end of
which, they came back to Tom again.
‘Ah! dear Tom!’ said Ruth. ‘I suppose I ought to tell you everything
now. I should have no secrets from you. Should I, John, love?’
It is of no use saying how that preposterous John answered her, because
he answered in a manner which is untranslatable on paper though highly
satisfactory in itself. But what he conveyed was, No no no, sweet Ruth;
or something to that effect.
Then she told him Tom’s great secret; not exactly saying how she had
found it out, but leaving him to understand it if he liked; and John was
sadly grieved to hear it, and was full of sympathy and sorrow. But they
would try, he said, only the more, on this account to make him happy,
and to beguile him with his favourite pursuits. And then, in all the
confidence of such a time, he told her how he had a capital opportunity
of establishing himself in his old profession in the country; and how he
had been thinking, in the event of that happiness coming upon him which
had actually come--there was another slight diversion here--how he had
been thinking that it would afford occupation to Tom, and enable them to
live together in the easiest manner, without any sense of dependence on
Tom’s part; and to be as happy as the day was long. And Ruth receiving
this with joy, they went on catering for Tom to that extent that they
had already purchased him a select library and built him an organ, on
which he was performing with the greatest satisfaction, when they heard
him knocking at the door.
Though she longed to tell him what had happened, poor little Ruth was
greatly agitated by his arrival; the more so because she knew that Mr
Chuzzlewit was with him. So she said, all in a tremble:
‘What shall I do, dear John! I can’t bear that he should hear it from
any one but me, and I could not tell him, unless we were alone.’
‘Do, my love,’ said John, ‘whatever is natural to you on the impulse of
the moment, and I am sure it will be right.’
He had hardly time to say thus much, and Ruth had hardly time to--just
to get a little farther off--upon the sofa, when Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit
came in. Mr Chuzzlewit came first, and Tom was a few seconds behind him.
Now Ruth had hastily resolved that she would beckon Tom upstairs after
a short time, and would tell him in his little bedroom. But when she saw
his dear old face come in, her heart was so touched that she ran into
his arms, and laid her head down on his breast and sobbed out, ‘Bless
me, Tom! My dearest brother!’
Tom looked up, in surprise, and saw John Westlock close beside him,
holding out his hand.
‘John!’ cried Tom. ‘John!’
‘Dear Tom,’ said his friend, ‘give me your hand. We are brothers, Tom.’
Tom wrung it with all his force, embraced his sister fervently, and put
her in John Westlock’s arms.
‘Don’t speak to me, John. Heaven is very good to us. I--’ Tom could find
no further utterance, but left the room; and Ruth went after him.
And when they came back, which they did by-and-bye, she looked more
beautiful, and Tom more good and true (if that were possible) than ever.
And though Tom could not speak upon the subject even now; being yet
too newly glad, he put both his hands in both of John’s with emphasis
sufficient for the best speech ever spoken.
‘I am glad you chose to-day,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit to John; with the same
knowing smile as when they had left him. ‘I thought you would. I hoped
Tom and I lingered behind a discreet time. It’s so long since I had
any practical knowledge of these subjects, that I have been anxious, I
assure you.’
‘Your knowledge is still pretty accurate, sir,’ returned John, laughing,
‘if it led you to foresee what would happen to-day.’
‘Why, I am not sure, Mr Westlock,’ said the old man, ‘that any great
spirit of prophecy was needed, after seeing you and Ruth together. Come
hither, pretty one. See what Tom and I purchased this morning, while you
were dealing in exchange with that young merchant there.’
The old man’s way of seating her beside him, and humouring his voice as
if she were a child, was whimsical enough, but full of tenderness, and
not ill adapted, somehow, to little Ruth.
‘See here!’ he said, taking a case from his pocket, ‘what a beautiful
necklace. Ah! How it glitters! Earrings, too, and bracelets, and a zone
for your waist. This set is yours, and Mary has another like it. Tom
couldn’t understand why I wanted two. What a short-sighted Tom! Earrings
and bracelets, and a zone for your waist! Ah! Beautiful! Let us see how
brave they look. Ask Mr Westlock to clasp them on.’
It was the prettiest thing to see her holding out her round, white arm;
and John (oh deep, deep John!) pretending that the bracelet was very
hard to fasten; it was the prettiest thing to see her girding on the
precious little zone, and yet obliged to have assistance because her
fingers were in such terrible perplexity; it was the prettiest thing
to see her so confused and bashful, with the smiles and blushes playing
brightly on her face, like the sparkling light upon the jewels; it was
the prettiest thing that you would see, in the common experiences of a
twelvemonth, rely upon it.
‘The set of jewels and the wearer are so well matched,’ said the old
man, ‘that I don’t know which becomes the other most. Mr Westlock could
tell me, I have no doubt, but I’ll not ask him, for he is bribed. Health
to wear them, my dear, and happiness to make you forgetful of them,
except as a remembrance from a loving friend!’
He patted her upon the cheek, and said to Tom:
‘I must play the part of a father here, Tom, also. There are not many
fathers who marry two such daughters on the same day; but we will
overlook the improbability for the gratification of an old man’s fancy.
I may claim that much indulgence,’ he added, ‘for I have gratified few
fancies enough in my life tending to the happiness of others, Heaven
knows!’
These various proceedings had occupied so much time, and they fell into
such a pleasant conversation now, that it was within a quarter of an
hour of the time appointed for dinner before any of them thought about
it. A hackney-coach soon carried them to the Temple, however; and there
they found everything prepared for their reception.
Mr Tapley having been furnished with unlimited credentials relative to
the ordering of dinner, had so exerted himself for the honour of the
party, that a prodigious banquet was served, under the joint direction
of himself and his Intended. Mr Chuzzlewit would have had them of the
party, and Martin urgently seconded his wish, but Mark could by no means
be persuaded to sit down at table; observing, that in having the honour
of attending to their comforts, he felt himself, indeed, the landlord of
the Jolly Tapley, and could almost delude himself into the belief that
the entertainment was actually being held under the Jolly Tapley’s roof.
For the better encouragement of himself in this fable, Mr Tapley took
it upon him to issue divers general directions to the waiters from the
hotel, relative to the disposal of the dishes and so forth; and as they
were usually in direct opposition to all precedent, and were always
issued in his most facetious form of thought and speech, they occasioned
great merriment among those attendants; in which Mr Tapley participated,
with an infinite enjoyment of his own humour. He likewise entertained
them with short anecdotes of his travels appropriate to the occasion;
and now and then with some comic passage or other between himself and
Mrs Lupin; so that explosive laughs were constantly issuing from the
side-board, and from the backs of chairs; and the head-waiter (who wore
powder, and knee-smalls, and was usually a grave man) got to be a bright
scarlet in the face, and broke his waistcoat-strings audibly.
Young Martin sat at the head of the table, and Tom Pinch at the foot;
and if there were a genial face at that board, it was Tom’s. They all
took their tone from Tom. Everybody drank to him, everybody looked to
him, everybody thought of him, everybody loved him. If he so much as
laid down his knife and fork, somebody put out a hand to shake with him.
Martin and Mary had taken him aside before dinner, and spoken to him so
heartily of the time to come, laying such fervent stress upon the trust
they had in his completion of their felicity, by his society and closest
friendship, that Tom was positively moved to tears. He couldn’t bear it.
His heart was full, he said, of happiness. And so it was. Tom spoke the
honest truth. It was. Large as thy heart was, dear Tom Pinch, it had no
room that day for anything but happiness and sympathy!
And there was Fips, old Fips of Austin Friars, present at the dinner,
and turning out to be the jolliest old dog that ever did violence to his
convivial sentiments by shutting himself up in a dark office. ‘Where is
he?’ said Fips, when he came in. And then he pounced on Tom, and told
him that he wanted to relieve himself of all his old constraint; and in
the first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him
by the other, and in the third place nudged him in the waistcoat, and in
the fourth place said, ‘How are you?’ and in a great many other places
did a great many other things to show his friendliness and joy. And he
sang songs, did Fips; and made speeches, did Fips; and knocked off his
wine pretty handsomely, did Fips; and in short, he showed himself a
perfect Trump, did Fips, in all respects.
But ah! the happiness of strolling home at night--obstinate little Ruth,
she wouldn’t hear of riding!--as they had done on that dear night, from
Furnival’s Inn! The happiness of being able to talk about it, and to
confide their happiness to each other! The happiness of stating all
their little plans to Tom, and seeing his bright face grow brighter as
they spoke!
When they reached home, Tom left John and his sister in the parlour, and
went upstairs into his own room, under pretence of seeking a book. And
Tom actually winked to himself when he got upstairs; he thought it such
a deep thing to have done.
‘They like to be by themselves, of course,’ said Tom; ‘and I came away
so naturally, that I have no doubt they are expecting me, every moment,
to return. That’s capital!’
But he had not sat reading very long, when he heard a tap at his door.
‘May I come in?’ said John.
‘Oh, surely!’ Tom replied.
‘Don’t leave us, Tom. Don’t sit by yourself. We want to make you merry;
not melancholy.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, with a cheerful smile.
‘Brother, Tom. Brother.’
‘My dear brother,’ said Tom; ‘there is no danger of my being melancholy,
how can I be melancholy, when I know that you and Ruth are so blest in
each other! I think I can find my tongue tonight, John,’ he added, after
a moment’s pause. ‘But I never can tell you what unutterable joy this
day has given me. It would be unjust to you to speak of your having
chosen a portionless girl, for I feel that you know her worth; I am sure
you know her worth. Nor will it diminish in your estimation, John, which
money might.’
‘Which money would, Tom,’ he returned. ‘Her worth! Oh, who could see her
here, and not love her! Who could know her, Tom, and not honour her! Who
could ever stand possessed of such a heart as hers, and grow indifferent
to the treasure! Who could feel the rapture that I feel to-day, and love
as I love her, Tom, without knowing something of her worth! Your joy
unutterable! No, no, Tom. It’s mine, it’s mine.
‘No, no, John,’ said Tom. ‘It’s mine, it’s mine.’
Their friendly contention was brought to a close by little Ruth herself,
who came peeping in at the door. And oh, the look, the glorious,
half-proud, half-timid look she gave Tom, when her lover drew her to his
side! As much as to say, ‘Yes, indeed, Tom, he will do it. But then he
has a right, you know. Because I AM fond of him, Tom.’
As to Tom, he was perfectly delighted. He could have sat and looked at
them, just as they were, for hours.
‘I have told Tom, love, as we agreed, that we are not going to permit
him to run away, and that we cannot possibly allow it. The loss of one
person, and such a person as Tom, too, out of our small household of
three, is not to be endured; and so I have told him. Whether he is
considerate, or whether he is only selfish, I don’t know. But he needn’t
be considerate, for he is not the least restraint upon us. Is he,
dearest Ruth?’
Well! He really did not seem to be any particular restraint upon them.
Judging from what ensued.
Was it folly in Tom to be so pleased by their remembrance of him at
such a time? Was their graceful love a folly, were their dear caresses
follies, was their lengthened parting folly? Was it folly in him to
watch her window from the street, and rate its scantiest gleam of light
above all diamonds; folly in her to breathe his name upon her knees, and
pour out her pure heart before that Being from whom such hearts and such
affections come?
If these be follies, then Fiery Face go on and prosper! If they be not,
then Fiery Face avaunt! But set the crunched bonnet at some other single
gentleman, in any case, for one is lost to thee for ever!
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
GIVES THE AUTHOR GREAT CONCERN. FOR IT IS THE LAST IN THE BOOK
Todger’s was in high feather, and mighty preparations for a late
breakfast were astir in its commercial bowers. The blissful morning
had arrived when Miss Pecksniff was to be united in holy matrimony, to
Augustus.
Miss Pecksniff was in a frame of mind equally becoming to herself and
the occasion. She was full of clemency and conciliation. She had laid
in several caldrons of live coals, and was prepared to heap them on the
heads of her enemies. She bore no spite nor malice in her heart. Not the
least.
Quarrels, Miss Pecksniff said, were dreadful things in families; and
though she never could forgive her dear papa, she was willing to receive
her other relations. They had been separated, she observed, too long.
It was enough to call down a judgment upon the family. She believed the
death of Jonas WAS a judgment on them for their internal dissensions.
And Miss Pecksniff was confirmed in this belief, by the lightness with
which the visitation had fallen on herself.
By way of doing sacrifice--not in triumph; not, of course, in triumph,
but in humiliation of spirit--this amiable young person wrote,
therefore, to her kinswoman of the strong mind, and informed her that
her nuptials would take place on such a day. That she had been much hurt
by the unnatural conduct of herself and daughters, and hoped they might
not have suffered in their consciences. That, being desirous to forgive
her enemies, and make her peace with the world before entering into the
most solemn of covenants with the most devoted of men, she now held out
the hand of friendship. That if the strong-minded women took that hand,
in the temper in which it was extended to her, she, Miss Pecksniff,
did invite her to be present at the ceremony of her marriage, and did
furthermore invite the three red-nosed spinsters, her daughters
(but Miss Pecksniff did not particularize their noses), to attend as
bridesmaids.
The strong-minded women returned for answer, that herself and daughters
were, as regarded their consciences, in the enjoyment of robust health,
which she knew Miss Pecksniff would be glad to hear. That she had
received Miss Pecksniff’s note with unalloyed delight, because she
never had attached the least importance to the paltry and insignificant
jealousies with which herself and circle had been assailed; otherwise
than as she had found them, in the contemplation, a harmless source of
innocent mirth. That she would joyfully attend Miss Pecksniff’s bridal;
and that her three dear daughters would be happy to assist, on so
interesting, and SO VERY UNEXPECTED--which the strong-minded woman
underlined--SO VERY UNEXPECTED an occasion.
On the receipt of this gracious reply, Miss Pecksniff extended her
forgiveness and her invitations to Mr and Mrs Spottletoe; to Mr George
Chuzzlewit the bachelor cousin; to the solitary female who usually had
the toothache; and to the hairy young gentleman with the outline of
a face; surviving remnants of the party that had once assembled in Mr
Pecksniff’s parlour. After which Miss Pecksniff remarked that there was
a sweetness in doing our duty, which neutralized the bitter in our cups.
The wedding guests had not yet assembled, and indeed it was so early
that Miss Pecksniff herself was in the act of dressing at her leisure,
when a carriage stopped near the Monument; and Mark, dismounting from
the rumble, assisted Mr Chuzzlewit to alight. The carriage remained in
waiting; so did Mr Tapley. Mr Chuzzlewit betook himself to Todger’s.
He was shown, by the degenerate successor of Mr Bailey, into the
dining-parlour; where--for his visit was expected--Mrs Todgers
immediately appeared.
‘You are dressed, I see, for the wedding,’ he said.
Mrs Todgers, who was greatly flurried by the preparations, replied in
the affirmative.
‘It goes against my wishes to have it in progress just now, I assure
you, sir,’ said Mrs Todgers; ‘but Miss Pecksniff’s mind was set upon it,
and it really is time that Miss Pecksniff was married. That cannot be
denied, sir.’
‘No,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘assuredly not. Her sister takes no part in
the proceedings?’
‘Oh, dear no, sir. Poor thing!’ said Mrs Todgers, shaking her head, and
dropping her voice. ‘Since she has known the worst, she has never left
my room; the next room.’
‘Is she prepared to see me?’ he inquired.
‘Quite prepared, sir.’
‘Then let us lose no time.’
Mrs Todgers conducted him into the little back chamber commanding the
prospect of the cistern; and there, sadly different from when it had
first been her lodging, sat poor Merry, in mourning weeds. The room
looked very dark and sorrowful; and so did she; but she had one friend
beside her, faithful to the last. Old Chuffey.
When Mr Chuzzlewit sat down at her side, she took his hand and put it
to her lips. She was in great grief. He too was agitated; for he had not
seen her since their parting in the churchyard.
‘I judged you hastily,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I fear I judged you
cruelly. Let me know that I have your forgiveness.’
She kissed his hand again; and retaining it in hers, thanked him in a
broken voice, for all his kindness to her since.
‘Tom Pinch,’ said Martin, ‘has faithfully related to me all that you
desired him to convey; at a time when he deemed it very improbable that
he would ever have an opportunity of delivering your message. Believe
me, that if I ever deal again with an ill-advised and unawakened
nature, hiding the strength it thinks its weakness, I will have long and
merciful consideration for it.’
‘You had for me; even for me,’ she answered. ‘I quite believe it. I said
the words you have repeated, when my distress was very sharp and hard to
bear; I say them now for others; but I cannot urge them for myself.
You spoke to me after you had seen and watched me day by day. There
was great consideration in that. You might have spoken, perhaps,
more kindly; you might have tried to invite my confidence by greater
gentleness; but the end would have been the same.’
He shook his head in doubt, and not without some inward self-reproach.
‘How can I hope,’ she said, ‘that your interposition would have
prevailed with me, when I know how obdurate I was! I never thought at
all; dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I never thought at all; I had no thought,
no heart, no care to find one; at that time. It has grown out of my
trouble. I have felt it in my trouble. I wouldn’t recall my trouble such
as it is and has been--and it is light in comparison with trials which
hundreds of good people suffer every day, I know--I wouldn’t recall
it to-morrow, if I could. It has been my friend, for without it no one
could have changed me; nothing could have changed me. Do not mistrust me
because of these tears; I cannot help them. I am grateful for it, in my
soul. Indeed I am!’
‘Indeed she is!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘I believe it, sir.’
‘And so do I!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘Now, attend to me, my dear. Your
late husband’s estate, if not wasted by the confession of a large debt
to the broken office (which document, being useless to the runaways,
has been sent over to England by them; not so much for the sake of the
creditors as for the gratification of their dislike to him, whom they
suppose to be still living), will be seized upon by law; for it is not
exempt, as I learn, from the claims of those who have suffered by the
fraud in which he was engaged. Your father’s property was all, or nearly
all, embarked in the same transaction. If there be any left, it will be
seized on, in like manner. There is no home THERE.’
‘I couldn’t return to him,’ she said, with an instinctive reference to
his having forced her marriage on. ‘I could not return to him.’
‘I know it,’ Mr Chuzzlewit resumed; ‘and I am here because I know
it. Come with me! From all who are about me, you are certain (I
have ascertained it) of a generous welcome. But until your health is
re-established, and you are sufficiently composed to bear that welcome,
you shall have your abode in any quiet retreat of your own choosing,
near London; not so far removed but that this kind-hearted lady may
still visit you as often as she pleases. You have suffered much; but you
are young, and have a brighter and a better future stretching out before
you. Come with me. Your sister is careless of you, I know. She hurries
on and publishes her marriage, in a spirit which (to say no more of it)
is barely decent, is unsisterly, and bad. Leave the house before her
guests arrive. She means to give you pain. Spare her the offence, and
come with me!’
Mrs Todgers, though most unwilling to part with her, added her
persuasions. Even poor old Chuffey (of course included in the project)
added his. She hurriedly attired herself, and was ready to depart, when
Miss Pecksniff dashed into the room.
Miss Pecksniff dashed in so suddenly, that she was placed in an
embarrassing position. For though she had completed her bridal toilette
as to her head, on which she wore a bridal bonnet with orange flowers,
she had not completed it as to her skirts, which displayed no choicer
decoration than a dimity bedgown. She had dashed in, in fact, about
half-way through, to console her sister, in her affliction, with a sight
of the aforesaid bonnet; and being quite unconscious of the presence of
a visitor, until she found Mr Chuzzlewit standing face to face with her,
her surprise was an uncomfortable one.
‘So, young lady!’ said the old man, eyeing her with strong disfavour.
‘You are to be married to-day!’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, modestly. ‘I am. I--my dress is
rather--really, Mrs Todgers!’
‘Your delicacy,’ said old Martin, ‘is troubled, I perceive. I am not
surprised to find it so. You have chosen the period of your marriage
unfortunately.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ retorted Cherry; very red and angry
in a moment; ‘but if you have anything to say on that subject, I must
beg to refer you to Augustus. You will scarcely think it manly, I hope,
to force an argument on me, when Augustus is at all times ready to
discuss it with you. I have nothing to do with any deceptions that may
have been practiced on my parent,’ said Miss Pecksniff, pointedly; ‘and
as I wish to be on good terms with everybody at such a time, I should
have been glad if you would have favoured us with your company at
breakfast. But I will not ask you as it is; seeing that you have been
prepossessed and set against me in another quarter. I hope I have my
natural affections for another quarter, and my natural pity for
another quarter; but I cannot always submit to be subservient to it, Mr
Chuzzlewit. That would be a little too much. I trust I have more respect
for myself, as well as for the man who claims me as his Bride.’
‘Your sister, meeting--as I think; not as she says, for she has said
nothing about it--with little consideration from you, is going away with
me,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit.
‘I am very happy to find that she has some good fortune at last,’
returned Miss Pecksniff, tossing her head. ‘I congratulate her, I
am sure. I am not surprised that this event should be painful to
her--painful to her--but I can’t help that, Mr Chuzzlewit. It’s not my
fault.’
‘Come, Miss Pecksniff!’ said the old man, quietly. ‘I should like to see
a better parting between you. I should like to see a better parting on
your side, in such circumstances. It would make me your friend. You may
want a friend one day or other.’
‘Every relation of life, Mr Chuzzlewit, begging your pardon; and every
friend in life,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with dignity, ‘is now bound up
and cemented in Augustus. So long as Augustus is my own, I cannot want
a friend. When you speak of friends, sir, I must beg, once for all, to
refer you to Augustus. That is my impression of the religious ceremony
in which I am so soon to take a part at that altar to which Augustus
will conduct me. I bear no malice at any time, much less in a moment of
triumph, towards any one; much less towards my sister. On the contrary,
I congratulate her. If you didn’t hear me say so, I am not to blame.
And as I owe it to Augustus, to be punctual on an occasion when he may
naturally be supposed to be--to be impatient--really, Mrs Todgers!--I
must beg your leave, sir, to retire.’
After these words the bridal bonnet disappeared; with as much state as
the dimity bedgown left in it.
Old Martin gave his arm to the younger sister without speaking; and led
her out. Mrs Todgers, with her holiday garments fluttering in the wind,
accompanied them to the carriage, clung round Merry’s neck at parting,
and ran back to her own dingy house, crying the whole way. She had
a lean, lank body, Mrs Todgers, but a well-conditioned soul within.
Perhaps the good Samaritan was lean and lank, and found it hard to live.
Who knows!
Mr Chuzzlewit followed her so closely with his eyes, that, until she had
shut her own door, they did not encounter Mr Tapley’s face.
‘Why, Mark!’ he said, as soon as he observed it, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘The wonderfulest ewent, sir!’ returned Mark, pumping at his voice in
a most laborious manner, and hardly able to articulate with all his
efforts. ‘A coincidence as never was equalled! I’m blessed if here ain’t
two old neighbours of ourn, sir!’
‘What neighbours?’ cried old Martin, looking out of window. ‘Where?’
‘I was a-walkin’ up and down not five yards from this spot,’ said Mr
Tapley, breathless, ‘and they come upon me like their own ghosts, as I
thought they was! It’s the wonderfulest ewent that ever happened. Bring
a feather, somebody, and knock me down with it!’
‘What do you mean!’ exclaimed old Martin, quite as much excited by
the spectacle of Mark’s excitement as that strange person was himself.
‘Neighbours, where?’
‘Here, sir!’ replied Mr Tapley. ‘Here in the city of London! Here upon
these very stones! Here they are, sir! Don’t I know ‘em? Lord love their
welcome faces, don’t I know ‘em!’
With which ejaculations Mr Tapley not only pointed to a decent-looking
man and woman standing by, but commenced embracing them alternately,
over and over again, in Monument Yard.
‘Neighbours, WHERE? old Martin shouted; almost maddened by his
ineffectual efforts to get out at the coach-door.
‘Neighbours in America! Neighbours in Eden!’ cried Mark. ‘Neighbours in
the swamp, neighbours in the bush, neighbours in the fever. Didn’t she
nurse us! Didn’t he help us! Shouldn’t we both have died without ‘em!
Haven’t they come a-strugglin’ back, without a single child for their
consolation! And talk to me of neighbours!’
Away he went again, in a perfectly wild state, hugging them, and
skipping round them, and cutting in between them, as if he were
performing some frantic and outlandish dance.
Mr Chuzzlewit no sooner gathered who these people were, than he burst
open the coach-door somehow or other, and came tumbling out among them;
and as if the lunacy of Mr Tapley were contagious, he immediately began
to shake hands too, and exhibit every demonstration of the liveliest
joy.
‘Get up, behind!’ he said. ‘Get up in the rumble. Come along with me! Go
you on the box, Mark. Home! Home!’
‘Home!’ cried Mr Tapley, seizing the old man’s hand in a burst of
enthusiasm. ‘Exactly my opinion, sir. Home for ever! Excuse the liberty,
sir, I can’t help it. Success to the Jolly Tapley! There’s nothin’ in
the house they shan’t have for the askin’ for, except a bill. Home to be
sure! Hurrah!’
Home they rolled accordingly, when he had got the old man in again, as
fast as they could go; Mark abating nothing of his fervour by the way,
by allowing it to vent itself as unrestrainedly as if he had been on
Salisbury Plain.
And now the wedding party began to assemble at Todgers’s. Mr Jinkins,
the only boarder invited, was on the ground first. He wore a white
favour in his button-hole, and a bran new extra super double-milled blue
saxony dress coat (that was its description in the bill), with a variety
of tortuous embellishments about the pockets, invented by the artist
to do honour to the day. The miserable Augustus no longer felt strongly
even on the subject of Jinkins. He hadn’t strength of mind enough to do
it. ‘Let him come!’ he had said, in answer to Miss Pecksniff, when she
urged the point. ‘Let him come! He has ever been my rock ahead through
life. ‘Tis meet he should be there. Ha, ha! Oh, yes! let Jinkins come!’
Jinkins had come with all the pleasure in life, and there he was. For
some few minutes he had no companion but the breakfast, which was set
forth in the drawing-room, with unusual taste and ceremony. But Mrs
Todgers soon joined him; and the bachelor cousin, the hairy young
gentleman, and Mr and Mrs Spottletoe, arrived in quick succession.
Mr Spottletoe honoured Jinkins with an encouraging bow. ‘Glad to know
you, sir,’ he said. ‘Give you joy!’ Under the impression that Jinkins
was the happy man.
Mr Jinkins explained. He was merely doing the honours for his friend
Moddle, who had ceased to reside in the house, and had not yet arrived.
‘Not arrived, sir!’ exclaimed Spottletoe, in a great heat.
‘Not yet,’ said Mr Jinkins.
‘Upon my soul!’ cried Spottletoe. ‘He begins well! Upon my life and
honour this young man begins well! But I should very much like to know
how it is that every one who comes into contact with this family is
guilty of some gross insult to it. Death! Not arrived yet. Not here to
receive us!’
The nephew with the outline of a countenance, suggested that perhaps he
had ordered a new pair of boots, and they hadn’t come home.
‘Don’t talk to me of Boots, sir!’ retorted Spottletoe, with immense
indignation. ‘He is bound to come here in his slippers then; he is bound
to come here barefoot. Don’t offer such a wretched and evasive plea to
me on behalf of your friend, as Boots, sir.’
‘He is not MY friend,’ said the nephew. ‘I never saw him.’
‘Very well, sir,’ returned the fiery Spottletoe. ‘Then don’t talk to
me!’
The door was thrown open at this juncture, and Miss Pecksniff entered,
tottering, and supported by her three bridesmaids. The strong-minded
woman brought up the rear; having waited outside until now, for the
purpose of spoiling the effect.
‘How do you do, ma’am!’ said Spottletoe to the strong-minded woman in a
tone of defiance. ‘I believe you see Mrs Spottletoe, ma’am?’
The strong-minded woman with an air of great interest in Mrs
Spottletoe’s health, regretted that she was not more easily seen. Nature
erring, in that lady’s case, upon the slim side.
‘Mrs Spottletoe is at least more easily seen than the bridegroom,
ma’am,’ returned that lady’s husband. ‘That is, unless he has confined
his attentions to any particular part or branch of this family, which
would be quite in keeping with its usual proceedings.’
‘If you allude to me, sir--’ the strong-minded woman began.
‘Pray,’ interposed Miss Pecksniff, ‘do not allow Augustus, at this awful
moment of his life and mine, to be the means of disturbing that harmony
which it is ever Augustus’s and my wish to maintain. Augustus has not
been introduced to any of my relations now present. He preferred not.’
‘Why, then, I venture to assert,’ cried Mr Spottletoe, ‘that the man who
aspires to join this family, and “prefers not” to be introduced to its
members, is an impertinent Puppy. That is my opinion of HIM!’
The strong-minded woman remarked with great suavity, that she was afraid
he must be. Her three daughters observed aloud that it was ‘Shameful!’
‘You do not know Augustus,’ said Miss Pecksniff, tearfully, ‘indeed you
do not know him. Augustus is all mildness and humility. Wait till you
see Augustus, and I am sure he will conciliate your affections.’
‘The question arises,’ said Spottletoe, folding his arms: ‘How long we
are to wait. I am not accustomed to wait; that’s the fact. And I want to
know how long we are expected to wait.’
‘Mrs Todgers!’ said Charity, ‘Mr Jinkins! I am afraid there must be some
mistake. I think Augustus must have gone straight to the Altar!’
As such a thing was possible, and the church was close at hand, Mr
Jinkins ran off to see, accompanied by Mr George Chuzzlewit the bachelor
cousin, who preferred anything to the aggravation of sitting near the
breakfast, without being able to eat it. But they came back with no
other tidings than a familiar message from the clerk, importing that if
they wanted to be married that morning they had better look sharp, as
the curate wasn’t going to wait there all day.
The bride was now alarmed; seriously alarmed. Good Heavens, what could
have happened! Augustus! Dear Augustus!
Mr Jinkins volunteered to take a cab, and seek him at the
newly-furnished house. The strong-minded woman administered comfort to
Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was a specimen of what she had to expect. It would
do her good. It would dispel the romance of the affair.’ The red-nosed
daughters also administered the kindest comfort. ‘Perhaps he’d come,’
they said. The sketchy nephew hinted that he might have fallen off a
bridge. The wrath of Mr Spottletoe resisted all the entreaties of his
wife. Everybody spoke at once, and Miss Pecksniff, with clasped hands,
sought consolation everywhere and found it nowhere, when Jinkins, having
met the postman at the door, came back with a letter, which he put into
her hand.
Miss Pecksniff opened it, uttered a piercing shriek, threw it down upon
the ground, and fainted away.
They picked it up; and crowding round, and looking over one another’s
shoulders, read, in the words and dashes following, this communication:
‘OFF GRAVESEND.
‘CLIPPER SCHOONER, CUPID
‘Wednesday night
‘EVER INJURED MISS PECKSNIFF--Ere this reaches you, the undersigned
will be--if not a corpse--on the way to Van Dieman’s Land. Send not in
pursuit. I never will be taken alive!
‘The burden--300 tons per register--forgive, if in my distraction,
I allude to the ship--on my mind--has been truly dreadful.
Frequently--when you have sought to soothe my brow with kisses--has
self-destruction flashed across me. Frequently--incredible as it may
seem--have I abandoned the idea.
‘I love another. She is Another’s. Everything appears to be somebody
else’s. Nothing in the world is mine--not even my Situation--which I
have forfeited--by my rash conduct--in running away.
‘If you ever loved me, hear my last appeal! The last appeal of a
miserable and blighted exile. Forward the inclosed--it is the key of my
desk--to the office--by hand. Please address to Bobbs and Cholberry--I
mean to Chobbs and Bolberry--but my mind is totally unhinged. I left a
penknife--with a buckhorn handle--in your work-box. It will repay the
messenger. May it make him happier than ever it did me!
‘Oh, Miss Pecksniff, why didn’t you leave me alone! Was it not cruel,
CRUEL! Oh, my goodness, have you not been a witness of my feelings--have
you not seen them flowing from my eyes--did you not, yourself, reproach
me with weeping more than usual on that dreadful night when last we
met--in that house--where I once was peaceful--though blighted--in the
society of Mrs Todgers!
‘But it was written--in the Talmud--that you should involve yourself in
the inscrutable and gloomy Fate which it is my mission to accomplish,
and which wreathes itself--e’en now--about in temples. I will not
reproach, for I have wronged you. May the Furniture make some amends!
‘Farewell! Be the proud bride of a ducal coronet, and forget me!
Long may it be before you know the anguish with which I now subscribe
myself--amid the tempestuous howlings of the--sailors,
‘Unalterably,
‘Never yours,
‘AUGUSTUS.’
They thought as little of Miss Pecksniff, while they greedily perused
this letter, as if she were the very last person on earth whom it
concerned. But Miss Pecksniff really had fainted away. The bitterness of
her mortification; the bitterness of having summoned witnesses, and
such witnesses, to behold it; the bitterness of knowing that the
strong-minded women and the red-nosed daughters towered triumphant in
this hour of their anticipated overthrow; was too much to be borne. Miss
Pecksniff had fainted away in earnest.
What sounds are these that fall so grandly on the ear! What darkening
room is this!
And that mild figure seated at an organ, who is he! Ah Tom, dear Tom,
old friend!
Thy head is prematurely grey, though Time has passed thee and our old
association, Tom. But, in those sounds with which it is thy wont to bear
the twilight company, the music of thy heart speaks out--the story of
thy life relates itself.
Thy life is tranquil, calm, and happy, Tom. In the soft strain which
ever and again comes stealing back upon the ear, the memory of thine
old love may find a voice perhaps; but it is a pleasant, softened,
whispering memory, like that in which we sometimes hold the dead, and
does not pain or grieve thee, God be thanked.
Touch the notes lightly, Tom, as lightly as thou wilt, but never will
thine hand fall half so lightly on that Instrument as on the head of
thine old tyrant brought down very, very low; and never will it make as
hollow a response to any touch of thine, as he does always.
For a drunken, begging, squalid, letter-writing man, called Pecksniff,
with a shrewish daughter, haunts thee, Tom; and when he makes appeals to
thee for cash, reminds thee that he built thy fortunes better than his
own; and when he spends it, entertains the alehouse company with tales
of thine ingratitude and his munificence towards thee once upon a time;
and then he shows his elbows worn in holes, and puts his soleless
shoes up on a bench, and begs his auditors look there, while thou art
comfortably housed and clothed. All known to thee, and yet all borne
with, Tom!
So, with a smile upon thy face, thou passest gently to another
measure--to a quicker and more joyful one--and little feet are used to
dance about thee at the sound, and bright young eyes to glance up
into thine. And there is one slight creature, Tom--her child; not
Ruth’s--whom thine eyes follow in the romp and dance; who, wondering
sometimes to see thee look so thoughtful, runs to climb up on thy knee,
and put her cheek to thine; who loves thee, Tom, above the rest, if that
can be; and falling sick once, chose thee for her nurse, and never knew
impatience, Tom, when thou wert by her side.
Thou glidest, now, into a graver air; an air devoted to old friends and
bygone times; and in thy lingering touch upon the keys, and the rich
swelling of the mellow harmony, they rise before thee. The spirit of
that old man dead, who delighted to anticipate thy wants, and never
ceased to honour thee, is there, among the rest; repeating, with a face
composed and calm, the words he said to thee upon his bed, and blessing
thee!
And coming from a garden, Tom, bestrewn with flowers by children’s
hands, thy sister, little Ruth, as light of foot and heart as in old
days, sits down beside thee. From the Present, and the Past, with which
she is so tenderly entwined in all thy thoughts, thy strain soars onward
to the Future. As it resounds within thee and without, the noble music,
rolling round ye both, shuts out the grosser prospect of an earthly
parting, and uplifts ye both to Heaven!
