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 line; 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 m 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. For 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 athinking 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 connexion 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 connexion 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.
|