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 light 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 teazer 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.
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