In which Martin bids adieu to the lady of his love: and honours
an obscure individual whose fortune he intends to make, by commending her to his
protection
THE LETTER BEING DULY SIGNED, sealed, and delivered, was handed to Mark
Tapley for immediate conveyance if possible. And he succeeded so well in his
embassy as to be enabled to return that same night, just as the house was
closing, with the welcome intelligence that he had sent it up-stairs to the
young lady, enclosed in a small manuscript of his own, purporting to contain his
further petition to be engaged in Mr. Chuzzlewit's service; and that she had
herself come down and told him, in great haste and agitation, that she would
meet the gentleman at eight o'clock to-morrow morning in St. James's Park. It
was then agreed between the new master and the new man, that Mark should be in
waiting near the hotel in good time, to escort the young lady to the place of
appointment; and when they had parted for the night with this understanding,
Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to bed wrote another letter,
whereof more will be seen presently.
He was up before day-break, and came upon the Park with the morning, which
was clad in the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in
the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp dark, and dismal; the clouds were as
muddy as the ground; and the short perspective of every street and avenue was
closed up by the mist as by a filthy curtain.
`Fine weather indeed,' Martin bitterly soliloquised, `to be wandering up and
down here in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting of lovers in the
open air, and in a public walk! I need be departing, with all speed, for another
country; for I have come to a pretty pass in this!'
He might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all mornings in the year, it
was not the best calculated for a young lady's coming forth on such an errand,
either. But he was stopped on the road to this reflection, if his thoughts
tended that way, by her appearance at a short distance, on which he hurried
forward to meet her. Her squire, Mr. Tapley, at the same time fell discreetly
back, and surveyed the fog above him with an appearance of attentive interest.
`My dear Martin,' said Mary.
`My dear Mary,' said Martin; and lovers are such a singular kind of people
that this is all they did say just then, though Martin took her arm, and her
hand too, and they paced up and down a short walk that was least exposed to
observation, half-a-dozen times.
`If you have changed at all, my love, since we parted,' said Martin at
length, as he looked upon her with a proud delight, `it is only to be more
beautiful than ever!'
Had she been of the common metal of love-worn young ladies, she would have
denied this in her most interesting manner: and would have told him that she
knew she had become a perfect fright; or that she had wasted away with weeping
and anxiety; or that she was dwindling gently into an early grave; or that her
mental sufferings were unspeakable; or would, either by tears or words, or a
mixture of both, have furnished him with some other information to that effect,
and made him as miserable as possible. But she had been reared up in a sterner
school than the minds of most young girls are formed in; she had had her nature
strengthened by the hands of hard endurance and necessity; had come out from her
young trials constant, self-denying, earnest, and devoted: had acquired in her
maidenhood -- whether happily in the end, for herself or him, is foreign to our
present purpose to inquire -- something of that nobler quality of gentle hearts
which is developed often by the sorrows and struggles of matronly years, but
often by their lessons only. Unspoiled, unpampered in her joys or griefs; with
frank and full, and deep affection for the object of her early love; she saw in
him one who for her sake was an outcast from his home and fortune, and she had
no more idea of bestowing that love upon him in other than cheerful and
sustaining words, full of high hope and grateful trustfulness, than she had of
being unworthy of it, in her lightest thought or deed, for any base temptation
that the world could offer.
`What change is there in you, Martin,' she replied; `for that concerns me
nearest? You look more anxious and more thoughtful than you used.'
`Why, as to that, my love,' said Ma rtin as he drew her waist within his arm,
first looking round to see that there were no observers near, and beholding Mr.
Tapley more intent than ever on the fog; `it would be strange if I did not; for
my life, especially of late, has been a hard one.'
`I know it must have been,' she answered. `When have I forgotten to think of
it and you?'
`Not often, I hope,' said Martin. `Not often, I am sure. Not often, I have
some right to expect, Mary; for I have undergone a great deal of vexation and
privation, and I naturally look for that return, you know.'
`A very, very poor return,' she answered with a fainter smile. `But you have
it, and will have it always. You have paid a dear price for a poor heart,
Martin; but it is at least your own, and a true one.'
`Of course I feel quite certain of that,' said Martin, `or I shouldn't have
put myself in my present position. And don't say a poor heart, Mary, for I say a
rich one. Now, I am about to break a design to you dearest, which will startle
you at first, but which is undertaken for your sake. I am going,' he added
slowly, looking far into the deep wonder of her bright dark eyes, `abroad.'
`Abroad, Martin!'
`Only to America. See now. How you droop directly!'
`If I do, or, I hope I may say, if I did,' she answered, raising her head
after a short silence, and looking once more into his face, `it was for grief to
think of what you are resolved to undergo for me. I would not venture to
dissuade you, Martin; but it is a long, long distance; there is a wide ocean to
be crossed; illness and want are sad calamities in any place, but in a foreign
country dreadful to endure. Have you thought of all this?'
`Thought of it!' cried Martin, abating, in his fondness -- and he was very
fond of her -- hardly an iota of his usual impetuosity. `What am I to do? It's
very well to say, Have I thought of it? my love; but you should ask me in the
same breath, have I thought of starving at home; have I thought of doing
porter's work for a living; have I thought of holding horses in the streets to
earn my roll of bread from day to day? Come, come,' he added, in a gentler tone,
`do not hang down your head, my dear, for I need the encouragement that your
sweet face alone can give me. Why, that's well! Now you are brave again.'
`I am endeavouring to be,' she answered, smiling through her tears.
`Endeavouring to be anything that's good, and being it, is, with you, all
one. Don't I know that of old?' cried Martin, gaily. `So! That's famous! Now I
can tell you all my plans as cheerfully as if you were my little wife already,
Mary.'
She hung more closely on his arm, and looking upwards in his face, bade him
speak on.
`You see,' said Martin, playing with the little hand upon his wrist, `that my
attempts to advance myself at home have been baffled and rendered abortive. I
will not say by whom, Mary, for that would give pain to us both. But so it is.
Have you heard him speak of late of any relative of mine or his, called
Pecksniff? Only tell me what I ask you, no more.'
`I have heard, to my surprise, that he is a better man than was supposed.'
`I thought so,' interrupted Martin.
`And that it is likely we may come to know him, if not to visit and reside
with him and -- I think -- his daughters. He has daughters, has he, love?'
`A pair of them,' Martin answered. `A precious pair! Gems of the first
water!'
`Ah! You are jesting!'
`There is a sort of jesting which is very much in earnest, and includes some
pretty serious disgust,' said Martin. `I jest in reference to Mr. Pecksniff (at
whose house I have been living as his assistant, and at whose hands I have
received insult and injury), in that vein. Whatever betides, or however closely
you may be brought into communication with this family, never forget that, Mary;
and never for an instant, whatever appearances may seem to contradict me, lose
sight of this assurance: Pecksniff is a scoundrel.'
`Indeed!'
`In thought, and in deed, and in everything else. A scoundrel from the
topmost hair of his head, to the nethermost atom of his heel. Of his daughters I
will only say that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they are dutiful
young ladies, and take after their father closely. This is a digression from the
main point, and yet it brings me to what I was going to say.'
He stopped to look into her eyes again, and seeing, in a hasty glance over
his shoulder, that there was no one near, and that Mark was still intent upon
the fog, not only looked at her lips too, but kissed them into the bargain.
`Now I am going to America, with great prospects of doing well, and of
returning home myself very soon; it may be to take you there for a few years,
but, at all events, to claim you for my wife: which, after such trials, I should
do with no fear of your still thinking it a duty to cleave to him who will not
suffer me to live (for this is true), if he can help it, in my own land. How
long I may be absent is, of course, uncertain; but it shall not be very long.
Trust me for that.'
`In the meantime, dear Martin --'
`That's the very thing I am coming to. In the meantime you shall hear,
constantly, of all my goings-on. Thus.'
He paused to take from his pocket the letter he had written overnight, and
then resumed:
`In this fellow's employment, and living in this fellow's house (by fellow, I
mean Mr. Pecksniff, of course), there is a certain person of the name of Pinch.
Don't forget; a poor, strange, simple oddity, Mary; but thoroughly honest and
sincere; full of zeal; and with a cordial regard for me. Which I mean to return
one of these days, by setting him up in life in some way or other.'
`Your old kind nature, Martin!'
`Oh!' said Martini `that's not worth speaking of, my love. He's very grateful
and desirous to serve me; and I am more than repaid. Now one night I told this
Pinch my history, and all about myself and you; in which he was not a little
interested, I can tell you, for he knows you! Aye, you may look surprised and
the longer the better for it becomes you -- but you have, heard him play the
organ in the church of that village before now; and he has seen you listening to
his music; and has caught his inspiration from you, too!'
`Was he the organist?' cried Mary. `I thank him from my heart!'
`Yes, he was,' said Martin, `and is, and gets nothing for it either. There
never was such a simple fellow! Quite an infant! But a very good sort of
creature, I assure you.'
`I am sure of that,' she said with great earnestness. `He must be!'
`Oh, yes, no doubt at all about it,' rejoined Martin, in his usual careless
way. `He is. Well! It has occurred to me -- but stay. If I read you what I have
written and intend sending to him by post to-night it will explain itself. "My
dear Tom Pinch." That's rather familiar perhaps,' said Martin, suddenly
remembering that he was proud when they had last met, `but I call him my dear
Tom Pinch because he likes it, and it pleases him.'
`Very right, and very kind,' said Mary.
`Exactly so!' cried Martin. `It's as well to be kind whenever one can; and,
as I said before, he really is an excellent fellow. "My dear Tom Pinch. I
address this under cover to Mrs. Lupin, at the Blue Dragon, and have begged her
in a short note to deliver it to you without saying anything about it elsewhere;
and to do the same with all future letters she may receive from me. My reason
for so doing will be at once apparent to you." I don't know that it will be,
by-the-bye,' said Martin, breaking off, `for he's slow of comprehension, poor
fellow; but he'll find it out in time. My reason simply is, that I don't want my
letters to be read by other people; and particularly by the scoundrel whom he
thinks an angel.'
`Mr. Pecksniff again?' asked Mary.
`The same,' said Martin `-- will be at once apparent to you. I have completed
my arrangements for going to America; and you will be surprised to hear that I
am to be accompanied by Mark Tapley, upon whom I have stumbled strangely in
London, and who insists on putting himself under my protection: meaning, my
love,' said Martin, breaking off again, `our friend in the rear, of course.'
She was delighted to hear this, and bestowed a kind glance upon Mark, which
he brought his eyes down from the fog to encounter and received with immense
satisfaction. She said in his hearing, too that he was a good soul and a merry
creature, and would be faithful she was certain; commendations which Mr. Tapley
inwardly resolved to deserve, from such lips, if he died for it.
`"Now, my dear Pinch,"' resumed Martin, proceeding with his letter; `"I am
going to repose great trust in you, knowing that I may do so with perfect
reliance on your honour and secrecy, and having nobody else just now to trust
in."'
`I don't think I would say that, Martin.'
`Wouldn't you? Well! I'll take that out. It's perfectly true, though.'
`But it might seem ungracious, perhaps.'
`Oh, I don't mind Pinch,' said Martin. `There's no occasion to stand on any
ceremony with him. However, I'll take it out, as you wish it, and make the full
stop at "secrecy." Very well! "I shall not only" -- this is the letter again,
you know.'
`I understand.'
`"I shall not only enclose my letters to the young lady of whom I have told
you, to your charge, to be forwarded as she may request; but I most earnestly
commit her, the young lady herself, to your care and regard, in the event of
your meeting in my absence. I have reason to think that the probabilities of
your encountering each other -- perhaps very frequently -- are now neither
remote nor few; and although in our position you can do very little to lessen
the uneasiness of hers, I trust to you implicitly to do that much, and so
deserve the confidence I have reposed in you." You see, my dear Mary,' said
Martin, `it will be a great consolation to you to have anybody, no matter how
simple, with whom you can speak about ME; and the very first time you talk to
Pinch, you'll feel at once that there is no more occasion for any embarrassment
or hesitation in talking to him, than if he were an old woman.'
`However that may be,' she returned, smiling, `he is your friend, and that is
enough.'
`Oh, yes, he's my friend,' said Martin, `certainly. In fact, I have told him
in so many words that we'll always take notice of him, and protect him: and it's
a good trait in his character that he's grateful very grateful indeed. You'll
like him of all things, my love, I know. You'll observe very much that's comical
and old-fashioned about Pinch, but you needn't mind laughing at him; for he'll
not care about it. He'll rather like it indeed!'
`I don't think I shall put that to the test, Martin.'
`You won't if you can help it, of course,' he said, `but I think you'll find
him a little too much for your gravity. However, that's neither here nor there,
and it certainly is not the letter; which ends thus: "Knowing that I need not
impress the nature and extent of that confidence upon you at any greater length,
as it is already sufficiently established in your mind, I will only say, in
bidding you farewell and looking forward to our next meeting, that I shall
charge myself from this time, through all changes for the better, with your
advancement and happiness, as if they were my own. You may rely upon that. And
always believe me, my dear Tom Pinch, faithfully your friend, Martin Chuzzlewit.
P.S. I enclose the amount which you so kindly" -- Oh,' said Martin, checking
himself, and folding up the letter, `that's nothing!'
At this crisis Mark Tapley interposed, with an apology for remarking that the
clock at the Horse Guards was striking.
`Which I shouldn't have said nothing about, sir,' added Mark, `if the young
lady hadn't begged me to be particular in mentioning it.'
`I did,' said Mary. `Thank you. You are quite right. In another minute I
shall be ready to return. We have time for a very few words more, dear Martin,
and although I had much to say, it must remain unsaid until the happy time of
our next meeting. Heaven-send it may come speedily and prosperously! But I have
no fear of that.'
`Fear!' cried Martin. `Why, who has? What are a few months? What is a whole
year? When I come gaily back, with a road through life hewn out before me, then
indeed, looking back upon this parting, it may seem a dismal one. But now! I
swear I wouldn't have it happen under more favourable auspices, if I could: for
then I should be less inclined to go, and less impressed with the necessity.'
`Yes, yes. I feel that too. When do you go?'
`To-night. We leave for Liverpool to-night. A vessel sails from that port, as
I hear, in three days. In a month, or less, we shall be there. Why, what's a
month! How many months have flown by, since our last parting!'
`Long to look back upon,' said Mary, echoing his cheerful tone, `but nothing
in their course!'
`Nothing at all!' cried Martin. `I shall have change of scene and change of
place; change of people, change of manners, change of cares and hopes! Time will
wear wings indeed! I can bear anything, so that I have swift action, Mary.'
Was he thinking solely of her care for him, when he took so little heed of
her share in the separation. Of her quiet monotonous endurance, and her slow
anxiety from day to day? Was there nothing jarring and discordant even in his
tone of courage, with this one note `self' for ever audible, however high the
strain? Not in her ears. It had been better otherwise, perhaps, but so it was.
She heard the same bold spirit which had flung away as dross all gain and profit
for her sake, making light of peril and privation that she might be calm and
happy; and she heard no more. That heart where self has found no place and
raised no throne, is slow to recognise its ugly presence when it looks upon it.
As one possessed of an evil spirit was held in old time to be alone conscious of
the lurking demon in the breasts of other men, so kindred vices know each other
in their hiding-places every day, when Virtue is incredulous and blind.
`The quarter's gone!' cried Mr. Tapley, in a voice of admonition.
`I shall be ready to return immediately,' she said. `One thing, dear Martin,
I am bound to tell you. You entreated me a few minutes since only to answer what
you asked me in reference to one theme, but you should and must know (otherwise
I could not be at ease) that since that separation of which I was the unhappy
occasion, he has never once uttered your name; has never coupled it, or any
faint allusion to it, with passion or reproach; and has never abated in his
kindness to me.'
`I thank him for that last act,' said Martin, `and for nothing else. Though
on consideration I may thank him for his other forbearance also, inasmuch as I
neither expect nor desire that he will mention my name again. He may once,
perhaps -- to couple it with reproach -- in his will. Let him, if he please! By
the time it reaches me, he will be in his grave: a satire on his own anger, God
help him!'
`Martin! If you would but sometimes, in some quiet hour; beside the winter
fire; in the summer air; when you hear gentle music, or think of Death, or Home,
or Childhood; if you would at such a season resolve to think, but once a month,
or even once a year, of him, or any one who ever wronged you, you would forgive
him in your heart, I know!'
`If I believed that to be true, Mary,' he replied, `I would resolve at no
such time to bear him in my mind: wishing to spare myself the shame of such a
weakness. I was not born to be the toy and puppet of any man, far less his; to
whose pleasure and caprice, in return for any good he did me, my whole youth was
sacrificed. It became between us two a fair exchange, a barter, and no more: and
there is no such balance against me that I need throw in a mawkish forgiveness
to poise the scale. He has forbidden all mention of me to you, I know,' he added
hastily. `Come! Has he not?'
`That was long ago,' she returned; `immediately after your parting; before
you had left the house. He has never done so since.'
`He has never done so since because he has seen no occasion,' said Martin.
`but that is of little consequence, one way or other. Let all allusion to him
between you and me be interdicted from this time forth. And therefore, love:' he
drew her quickly to him, for the time of parting had now come: `in the first
letter that you write to me through the Post Office, addressed to New York; and
in all the others that you send through Pinch; remember he has no existence, but
has become to us as one who is dead. Now, God bless you! This is a strange place
for such a meeting and such a parting; but our next meeting shall be in a
better, and our next and last parting in a worse.'
`One other question, Martin, I must ask. Have you provided money for this
journey?'
`Have I?' cried Martin; it might have been in his pride; it might have been
in his desire to set her mind at ease: `Have I provided money? Why, there's a
question for an emigrant's wife! How could I move on land or sea without it,
love?'
`I mean, enough.'
`Enough! More than enough. Twenty times more than enough. A pocket-full. Mark
and I, for all essential ends, are quite as rich as if we had the purse of
Fortunatus in our baggage.'
`The half-hour's a-going!' cried Mr. Tapley.
`Good-bye a hundred times!' cried Mary, in a trembling voice.
But how cold the comfort in Good-bye! Mark Tapley knew it perfectly. Perhaps
he knew it from his reading, perhaps from his experience, perhaps from
intuition. It is impossible to say; but however he knew it, his knowledge
instinctively suggested to him the wisest course of proceeding that any man
could have adopted under the circumstances. He was taken with a violent fit of
sneezing, and was obliged to turn his head another way. In doing which, he, in a
manner fenced and screened the lovers into a corner by themselves.
There was a short pause, but Mark had an undefined sensation that it was a
satisfactory one in its way. Then Mary, with her veil lowered, passed him with a
quick step, and beckoned him to follow. She stopped once more before they lost
that corner; looked back; and waved her hand to Martin. He made a start towards
them at the moment as if he had some other farewell words to say; but she only
hurried off the faster, and Mr. Tapley followed as in duty bound.
When he rejoined Martin again in his own chamber, he found that gentleman
seated moodily before the dusty grate, with his two feet on the fender, his two
elbows on his knees, and his chin supported, in a not very ornamental manner, on
the palms of his hands.
`Well, Mark!'
`Well, sir,' said Mark, taking a long breath, `I see the young lady safe
home, and I feel pretty comfortable after it. She sent a lot of kind words, sir,
and this,' handing him a ring, `for a parting keepsake.'
`Diamonds!' said Martin, kissing it -- let us do him justice, it was for her
sake; not for theirs -- and putting it on his little finger.
`Splendid diamonds! My grandfather is a singular character, Mark. He must
have given her this now.'
Mark Tapley knew as well that she had bought it, to the end that that
unconscious speaker might carry some article of sterling value with him in his
necessity; as he knew that it was day, and not night. Though he had no more
acquaintance of his own knowledge with the history of the glittering trinket on
Martin's outspread finger, than Martin himself had, he was as certain that in
its purchase she had expended her whole stock of hoarded money, as if he had
seen it paid down coin by coin. Her lover's strange obtuseness in relation to
this little incident, promptly suggested to Mark's mind its real cause and root;
and from that moment he had a clear and perfect insight into the one absorbing
principle of Martin's character.
`She is worthy of the sacrifices I have made,' said Martin, folding his arms,
and looking at the ashes in the stove, as if in resumption of some former
thoughts. `Well worthy of them. No riches:' here he stroked his chin and mused:
`could have compensated for the loss of such a nature. Not to mention that in
gaining her affection I have followed the bent of my own wishes, and baulked the
selfish schemes of others who had no right to form them. She is quite worthy,
more than worthy, of the sacrifices I have made. Yes, she is. No doubt of it.'
These ruminations might or might not have reached Mark Tapley; for though
they were by no means addressed to him, yet they were softly uttered. In any
case, he stood there, watching Martin with an indescribable and most involved
expression on his visage, until that young man roused himself and looked towards
him; when he turned away, as being suddenly intent upon certain preparations for
the journey, and, without giving vent to any articulate sound, smiled with
surpassing ghastliness, and seemed by a twist of his features and a motion of
his lips, to release himself of this word:
`Jolly!'
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