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.
