Martin Chuzzlewit - Part II

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Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

PART II

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE. SOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION. ALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST ASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS

The knocking at Mr Pecksniff’s door, though loud enough, bore no resemblance whatever to the noise of an American railway train at full speed. It may be well to begin the present chapter with this frank admission, lest the reader should imagine that the sounds now deafening this history’s ears have any connection with the knocker on Mr Pecksniff’s door, or with the great amount of agitation pretty equally divided between that worthy man and Mr Pinch, of which its strong performance was the cause.

Mr Pecksniff’s house is more than a thousand leagues away; and again this happy chronicle has Liberty and Moral Sensibility for its high companions. Again it breathes the blessed air of Independence; again it contemplates with pious awe that moral sense which renders unto Ceasar nothing that is his; again inhales that sacred atmosphere which was the life of him—oh noble patriot, with many followers!—who dreamed of Freedom in a slave’s embrace, and waking sold her offspring and his own in public markets.

How the wheels clank and rattle, and the tram-road shakes, as the train rushes on! And now the engine yells, as it were lashed and tortured like a living labourer, and writhed in agony. A poor fancy; for steel and iron are of infinitely greater account, in this commonwealth, than flesh and blood. If the cunning work of man be urged beyond its power of endurance, it has within it the elements of its own revenge; whereas the wretched mechanism of the Divine Hand is dangerous with no such property, but may be tampered with, and crushed, and broken, at the driver’s pleasure. Look at that engine! It shall cost a man more dollars in the way of penalty and fine, and satisfaction of the outraged law, to deface in wantonness that senseless mass of metal, than to take the lives of twenty human creatures! Thus the stars wink upon the bloody stripes; and Liberty pulls down her cap upon her eyes, and owns Oppression in its vilest aspect, for her sister.

The engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present chapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is it very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all. He leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the carriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as his pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of his colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs of wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he preserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete, that if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been more perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil state of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was proceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid, the jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor few.

There were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies’ car, the gentlemen’s car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as an appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were in the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full, received other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society of ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged in earnest conversation.

‘And so, Mark,’ said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression, ‘and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I am. Precious glad.’

‘Were you not “jolly” there?’ asked Martin.

‘On the contrairy, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘The jolliest week as ever I spent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins’s.’

‘What do you think of our prospects?’ inquired Martin, with an air that plainly said he had avoided the question for some time.

‘Uncommon bright, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Impossible for a place to have a better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn’t think of settling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I’m told,’ added Mark, after a pause, ‘as there’s lots of serpents there, so we shall come out, quite complete and reg’lar.’

So far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the least dismay, Mark’s face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very radiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been yearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the approaching consummation of his fondest wishes.

‘Who told you that?’ asked Martin, sternly.

‘A military officer,’ said Mark.

‘Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!’ cried Martin, laughing heartily in spite of himself. ‘What military officer? You know they spring up in every field.’

‘As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,’ interposed Mark, ‘which is a sort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick inside. Ha, ha!—Don’t mind me, sir; it’s my way sometimes. I can’t help being jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins’s, as told me. “Am I rightly informed,” he says—not exactly through his nose, but as if he’d got a stoppage in it, very high up—“that you’re a-going to the Walley of Eden?” “I heard some talk on it,” I told him. “Oh!” says he, “if you should ever happen to go to bed there—you may, you know,” he says, “in course of time as civilisation progresses—don’t forget to take a axe with you.” I looks at him tolerable hard. “Fleas?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Wampires?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Musquitoes, perhaps?” says I. “And more,” says he. “What more?” says I. “Snakes more,” says he; “rattle-snakes. You’re right to a certain extent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way too, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don’t mind them—they’re company. It’s snakes,” he says, “as you’ll object to; and whenever you wake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,” he says, “like a corkscrew with the handle off a-sittin’ on its bottom ring, cut him down, for he means wenom.”’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before!’ cried Martin, with an expression of face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark’s visage to great advantage.

‘I never thought on it, sir,’ said Mark. ‘It come in at one ear, and went out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company, I dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and not the opposition one.’

‘There’s some probability in that,’ observed Martin. ‘I can honestly say that I hope so, with all my heart.’

‘I’ve not a doubt about it, sir,’ returned Mark, who, full of the inspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment forgotten its probable effect upon his master; ‘anyhow, we must live, you know, sir.’

‘Live!’ cried Martin. ‘Yes, it’s easy to say live; but if we should happen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves upon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.’

‘And that’s a fact,’ said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled him. ‘That’s dreadful true.’

Martin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had thrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting on the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their conversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the gentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be always sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red or brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half closed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance that seemed to say, ‘Now you won’t overreach me; you want to, but you won’t.’ His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward; in the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of cheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck into the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially called in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour them with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the possibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or interference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a buffalo.

‘That,’ he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer barbarian and foreigner, ‘is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.’

Martin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to insinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously ‘darned’ himself. But remembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the pleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.

Their new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in cutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to himself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his old plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark and Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek, where it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it quite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug, and holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man who had not lived in vain, that it was ‘used up considerable.’ Then he tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into another; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the pattern on Martin’s waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture of that garment.

‘What do you call this now?’ he asked.

‘Upon my word’ said Martin, ‘I don’t know what it’s called.’

‘It’ll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘In my country,’ said the gentleman, ‘we know the cost of our own pro-duce.’

Martin not discussing the question, there was a pause.

‘Well!’ resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during the whole interval of silence; ‘how’s the unnat’ral old parent by this time?’

Mr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the impertinent English question, ‘How’s your mother?’ would have resented it instantly, but for Martin’s prompt interposition.

‘You mean the old country?’ he said.

‘Ah!’ was the reply. ‘How’s she? Progressing back’ards, I expect, as usual? Well! How’s Queen Victoria?’

‘In good health, I believe,’ said Martin.

‘Queen Victoria won’t shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named,’ observed the stranger, ‘No.’

‘Not that I am aware of. Why should she?’

‘She won’t be taken with a cold chill, when she realises what is being done in these diggings,’ said the stranger. ‘No.’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I think I could take my oath of that.’

The strange gentleman looked at him as if in pity for his ignorance or prejudice, and said:

‘Well, sir, I tell you this—there ain’t a engine with its biler bust, in God A’mighty’s free U-nited States, so fixed, and nipped, and frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash, as that young critter, in her luxurious location in the Tower of London will be, when she reads the next double-extra Watertoast Gazette.’

Several other gentlemen had left their seats and gathered round during the foregoing dialogue. They were highly delighted with this speech. One very lank gentleman, in a loose limp white cravat, long white waistcoat, and a black great-coat, who seemed to be in authority among them, felt called upon to acknowledge it.

‘Hem! Mr La Fayette Kettle,’ he said, taking off his hat.

There was a grave murmur of ‘Hush!’

‘Mr La Fayette Kettle! Sir!’

Mr Kettle bowed.

‘In the name of this company, sir, and in the name of our common country, and in the name of that righteous cause of holy sympathy in which we are engaged, I thank you. I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Sympathisers; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Gazette; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the star-spangled banner of the Great United States, for your eloquent and categorical exposition. And if, sir,’ said the speaker, poking Martin with the handle of his umbrella to bespeak his attention, for he was listening to a whisper from Mark; ‘if, sir, in such a place, and at such a time, I might venture to con-clude with a sentiment, glancing—however slantin’dicularly—at the subject in hand, I would say, sir, may the British Lion have his talons eradicated by the noble bill of the American Eagle, and be taught to play upon the Irish Harp and the Scotch Fiddle that music which is breathed in every empty shell that lies upon the shores of green Co-lumbia!’

Here the lank gentleman sat down again, amidst a great sensation; and every one looked very grave.

‘General Choke,’ said Mr La Fayette Kettle, ‘you warm my heart; sir, you warm my heart. But the British Lion is not unrepresented here, sir; and I should be glad to hear his answer to those remarks.’

‘Upon my word,’ cried Martin, laughing, ‘since you do me the honour to consider me his representative, I have only to say that I never heard of Queen Victoria reading the What’s-his-name Gazette and that I should scarcely think it probable.’

General Choke smiled upon the rest, and said, in patient and benignant explanation:

‘It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her. Her mail.’

‘But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to hand, I fear,’ returned Martin; ‘for she don’t live there.’

‘The Queen of England, gentlemen,’ observed Mr Tapley, affecting the greatest politeness, and regarding them with an immovable face, ‘usually lives in the Mint to take care of the money. She has lodgings, in virtue of her office, with the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House; but don’t often occupy them, in consequence of the parlour chimney smoking.’

‘Mark,’ said Martin, ‘I shall be very much obliged to you if you’ll have the goodness not to interfere with preposterous statements, however jocose they may appear to you. I was merely remarking gentlemen—though it’s a point of very little import—that the Queen of England does not happen to live in the Tower of London.’

‘General!’ cried Mr La Fayette Kettle. ‘You hear?’

‘General!’ echoed several others. ‘General!’

‘Hush! Pray, silence!’ said General Choke, holding up his hand, and speaking with a patient and complacent benevolence that was quite touching. ‘I have always remarked it as a very extraordinary circumstance, which I impute to the natur’ of British Institutions and their tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which air so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of this vast Continent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers themselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed by our intelligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and confirms my observation. When you say, sir,’ he continued, addressing Martin, ‘that your Queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you fall into an error, not uncommon to your countrymen, even when their abilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But, sir, you air wrong. She does live there—’

‘When she is at the Court of Saint James’s,’ interposed Kettle.

‘When she is at the Court of Saint James’s, of course,’ returned the General, in the same benignant way; ‘for if her location was in Windsor Pavilion it couldn’t be in London at the same time. Your Tower of London, sir,’ pursued the General, smiling with a mild consciousness of his knowledge, ‘is nat’rally your royal residence. Being located in the immediate neighbourhood of your Parks, your Drives, your Triumphant Arches, your Opera, and your Royal Almacks, it nat’rally suggests itself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court. And, consequently,’ said the General, ‘consequently, the court is held there.’

‘Have you been in England?’ asked Martin.

‘In print I have, sir,’ said the General, ‘not otherwise. We air a reading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us that will surprise you, sir.’

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ returned Martin. But here he was interrupted by Mr La Fayette Kettle, who whispered in his ear:

‘You know General Choke?’

‘No,’ returned Martin, in the same tone.

‘You know what he is considered?’

‘One of the most remarkable men in the country?’ said Martin, at a venture.

‘That’s a fact,’ rejoined Kettle. ‘I was sure you must have heard of him!’

‘I think,’ said Martin, addressing himself to the General again, ‘that I have the pleasure of being the bearer of a letter of introduction to you, sir. From Mr Bevan, of Massachusetts,’ he added, giving it to him.

The General took it and read it attentively; now and then stopping to glance at the two strangers. When he had finished the note, he came over to Martin, sat down by him, and shook hands.

‘Well!’ he said, ‘and you think of settling in Eden?’

‘Subject to your opinion, and the agent’s advice,’ replied Martin. ‘I am told there is nothing to be done in the old towns.’

‘I can introduce you to the agent, sir,’ said the General. ‘I know him. In fact, I am a member of the Eden Land Corporation myself.’

This was serious news to Martin, for his friend had laid great stress upon the General’s having no connection, as he thought, with any land company, and therefore being likely to give him disinterested advice. The General explained that he had joined the Corporation only a few weeks ago, and that no communication had passed between himself and Mr Bevan since.

‘We have very little to venture,’ said Martin anxiously—‘only a few pounds—but it is our all. Now, do you think that for one of my profession, this would be a speculation with any hope or chance in it?’

‘Well,’ observed the General, gravely, ‘if there wasn’t any hope or chance in the speculation, it wouldn’t have engaged my dollars, I opinionate.’

‘I don’t mean for the sellers,’ said Martin. ‘For the buyers—for the buyers!’

‘For the buyers, sir?’ observed the General, in a most impressive manner. ‘Well! you come from an old country; from a country, sir, that has piled up golden calves as high as Babel, and worshipped ‘em for ages. We are a new country, sir; man is in a more primeval state here, sir; we have not the excuse of having lapsed in the slow course of time into degenerate practices; we have no false gods; man, sir, here, is man in all his dignity. We fought for that or nothing. Here am I, sir,’ said the General, setting up his umbrella to represent himself, and a villanous-looking umbrella it was; a very bad counter to stand for the sterling coin of his benevolence, ‘here am I with grey hairs sir, and a moral sense. Would I, with my principles, invest capital in this speculation if I didn’t think it full of hopes and chances for my brother man?’

Martin tried to look convinced, but he thought of New York, and found it difficult.

‘What are the Great United States for, sir,’ pursued the General ‘if not for the regeneration of man? But it is nat’ral in you to make such an enquerry, for you come from England, and you do not know my country.’

‘Then you think,’ said Martin, ‘that allowing for the hardships we are prepared to undergo, there is a reasonable—Heaven knows we don’t expect much—a reasonable opening in this place?’

‘A reasonable opening in Eden, sir! But see the agent, see the agent; see the maps and plans, sir; and conclude to go or stay, according to the natur’ of the settlement. Eden hadn’t need to go a-begging yet, sir,’ remarked the General.

‘It is an awful lovely place, sure-ly. And frightful wholesome, likewise!’ said Mr Kettle, who had made himself a party to this conversation as a matter of course.

Martin felt that to dispute such testimony, for no better reason than because he had his secret misgivings on the subject, would be ungentlemanly and indecent. So he thanked the General for his promise to put him in personal communication with the agent; and ‘concluded’ to see that officer next morning. He then begged the General to inform him who the Watertoast Sympathisers were, of whom he had spoken in addressing Mr La Fayette Kettle, and on what grievances they bestowed their Sympathy. To which the General, looking very serious, made answer, that he might fully enlighten himself on those points to-morrow by attending a Great Meeting of the Body, which would then be held at the town to which they were travelling; ‘over which, sir,’ said the General, ‘my fellow-citizens have called on me to preside.’

They came to their journey’s end late in the evening. Close to the railway was an immense white edifice, like an ugly hospital, on which was painted ‘National Hotel.’ There was a wooden gallery or verandah in front, in which it was rather startling, when the train stopped, to behold a great many pairs of boots and shoes, and the smoke of a great many cigars, but no other evidences of human habitation. By slow degrees, however, some heads and shoulders appeared, and connecting themselves with the boots and shoes, led to the discovery that certain gentlemen boarders, who had a fancy for putting their heels where the gentlemen boarders in other countries usually put their heads, were enjoying themselves after their own manner in the cool of the evening.

There was a great bar-room in this hotel, and a great public room in which the general table was being set out for supper. There were interminable whitewashed staircases, long whitewashed galleries upstairs and downstairs, scores of little whitewashed bedrooms, and a four-sided verandah to every story in the house, which formed a large brick square with an uncomfortable courtyard in the centre, where some clothes were drying. Here and there, some yawning gentlemen lounged up and down with their hands in their pockets; but within the house and without, wherever half a dozen people were collected together, there, in their looks, dress, morals, manners, habits, intellect, and conversation, were Mr Jefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Major Pawkins, General Choke, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, over, and over, and over again. They did the same things; said the same things; judged all subjects by, and reduced all subjects to, the same standard. Observing how they lived, and how they were always in the enchanting company of each other, Martin even began to comprehend their being the social, cheerful, winning, airy men they were.

At the sounding of a dismal gong, this pleasant company went trooping down from all parts of the house to the public room; while from the neighbouring stores other guests came flocking in, in shoals; for half the town, married folks as well as single, resided at the National Hotel. Tea, coffee, dried meats, tongue, ham, pickles, cake, toast, preserves, and bread and butter, were swallowed with the usual ravaging speed; and then, as before, the company dropped off by degrees, and lounged away to the desk, the counter, or the bar-room. The ladies had a smaller ordinary of their own, to which their husbands and brothers were admitted if they chose; and in all other respects they enjoyed themselves as at Pawkins’s.

‘Now, Mark, my good fellow, said Martin, closing the door of his little chamber, ‘we must hold a solemn council, for our fate is decided to-morrow morning. You are determined to invest these savings of yours in the common stock, are you?’

‘If I hadn’t been determined to make that wentur, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley, ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘How much is there here, did you say’ asked Martin, holding up a little bag.

‘Thirty-seven pound ten and sixpence. The Savings’ Bank said so at least. I never counted it. But they know, bless you!’ said Mark, with a shake of the head expressive of his unbounded confidence in the wisdom and arithmetic of those Institutions.

‘The money we brought with us,’ said Martin, ‘is reduced to a few shillings less than eight pounds.’

Mr Tapley smiled, and looked all manner of ways, that he might not be supposed to attach any importance to this fact.

‘Upon the ring—her ring, Mark,’ said Martin, looking ruefully at his empty finger—

‘Ah!’ sighed Mr Tapley. ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’

‘—We raised, in English money, fourteen pounds. So, even with that, your share of the stock is still very much the larger of the two you see. Now, Mark,’ said Martin, in his old way, just as he might have spoken to Tom Pinch, ‘I have thought of a means of making this up to you—more than making it up to you, I hope—and very materially elevating your prospects in life.’

‘Oh! don’t talk of that, you know, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I don’t want no elevating, sir. I’m all right enough, sir, I am.’

‘No, but hear me,’ said Martin, ‘because this is very important to you, and a great satisfaction to me. Mark, you shall be a partner in the business; an equal partner with myself. I will put in, as my additional capital, my professional knowledge and ability; and half the annual profits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.’

Poor Martin! For ever building castles in the air. For ever, in his very selfishness, forgetful of all but his own teeming hopes and sanguine plans. Swelling, at that instant, with the consciousness of patronizing and most munificently rewarding Mark!

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mark rejoined, much more sadly than his custom was, though from a very different cause than Martin supposed, ‘what I can say to this, in the way of thanking you. I’ll stand by you, sir, to the best of my ability, and to the last. That’s all.’

‘We quite understand each other, my good fellow,’ said Martin rising in self-approval and condescension. ‘We are no longer master and servant, but friends and partners; and are mutually gratified. If we determine on Eden, the business shall be commenced as soon as we get there. Under the name,’ said Martin, who never hammered upon an idea that wasn’t red hot, ‘under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley.’

‘Lord love you, sir,’ cried Mark, ‘don’t have my name in it. I ain’t acquainted with the business, sir. I must be Co., I must. I’ve often thought,’ he added, in a low voice, ‘as I should like to know a Co.; but I little thought as ever I should live to be one.’

‘You shall have your own way, Mark.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. If any country gentleman thereabouts, in the public way, or otherwise, wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take that part of the bis’ness, sir.’

‘Against any architect in the States,’ said Martin. ‘Get a couple of sherry-cobblers, Mark, and we’ll drink success to the firm.’

Either he forgot already (and often afterwards), that they were no longer master and servant, or considered this kind of duty to be among the legitimate functions of the Co. But Mark obeyed with his usual alacrity; and before they parted for the night, it was agreed between them that they should go together to the agent’s in the morning, but that Martin should decide the Eden question, on his own sound judgment. And Mark made no merit, even to himself in his jollity, of this concession; perfectly well knowing that the matter would come to that in the end, any way.

The General was one of the party at the public table next day, and after breakfast suggested that they should wait upon the agent without loss of time. They, desiring nothing more, agreed; so off they all four started for the office of the Eden Settlement, which was almost within rifle-shot of the National Hotel.

It was a small place—something like a turnpike. But a great deal of land may be got into a dice-box, and why may not a whole territory be bargained for in a shed? It was but a temporary office too; for the Edeners were ‘going’ to build a superb establishment for the transaction of their business, and had already got so far as to mark out the site. Which is a great way in America. The office-door was wide open, and in the doorway was the agent; no doubt a tremendous fellow to get through his work, for he seemed to have no arrears, but was swinging backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, with one of his legs planted high up against the door-post, and the other doubled up under him, as if he were hatching his foot.

He was a gaunt man in a huge straw hat, and a coat of green stuff. The weather being hot, he had no cravat, and wore his shirt collar wide open; so that every time he spoke something was seen to twitch and jerk up in his throat, like the little hammers in a harpsichord when the notes are struck. Perhaps it was the Truth feebly endeavouring to leap to his lips. If so, it never reached them.

Two grey eyes lurked deep within this agent’s head, but one of them had no sight in it, and stood stock still. With that side of his face he seemed to listen to what the other side was doing. Thus each profile had a distinct expression; and when the movable side was most in action, the rigid one was in its coldest state of watchfulness. It was like turning the man inside out, to pass to that view of his features in his liveliest mood, and see how calculating and intent they were.

Each long black hair upon his head hung down as straight as any plummet line; but rumpled tufts were on the arches of his eyes, as if the crow whose foot was deeply printed in the corners had pecked and torn them in a savage recognition of his kindred nature as a bird of prey.

Such was the man whom they now approached, and whom the General saluted by the name of Scadder.

‘Well, Gen’ral,’ he returned, ‘and how are you?’

‘Ac-tive and spry, sir, in my country’s service and the sympathetic cause. Two gentlemen on business, Mr Scadder.’

He shook hands with each of them—nothing is done in America without shaking hands—then went on rocking.

‘I think I know what bis’ness you have brought these strangers here upon, then, Gen’ral?’

‘Well, sir. I expect you may.’

‘You air a tongue-y person, Gen’ral. For you talk too much, and that’s fact,’ said Scadder. ‘You speak a-larming well in public, but you didn’t ought to go ahead so fast in private. Now!’

‘If I can realise your meaning, ride me on a rail!’ returned the General, after pausing for consideration.

‘You know we didn’t wish to sell the lots off right away to any loafer as might bid,’ said Scadder; ‘but had con-cluded to reserve ‘em for Aristocrats of Natur’. Yes!’

‘And they are here, sir!’ cried the General with warmth. ‘They are here, sir!’

‘If they air here,’ returned the agent, in reproachful accents, ‘that’s enough. But you didn’t ought to have your dander ris with me, Gen’ral.’

The General whispered Martin that Scadder was the honestest fellow in the world, and that he wouldn’t have given him offence designedly, for ten thousand dollars.

‘I do my duty; and I raise the dander of my feller critters, as I wish to serve,’ said Scadder in a low voice, looking down the road and rocking still. ‘They rile up rough, along of my objecting to their selling Eden off too cheap. That’s human natur’! Well!’

‘Mr Scadder,’ said the General, assuming his oratorical deportment. ‘Sir! Here is my hand, and here my heart. I esteem you, sir, and ask your pardon. These gentlemen air friends of mine, or I would not have brought ‘em here, sir, being well aware, sir, that the lots at present go entirely too cheap. But these air friends, sir; these air partick’ler friends.’

Mr Scadder was so satisfied by this explanation, that he shook the General warmly by the hand, and got out of the rocking-chair to do it. He then invited the General’s particular friends to accompany him into the office. As to the General, he observed, with his usual benevolence, that being one of the company, he wouldn’t interfere in the transaction on any account; so he appropriated the rocking-chair to himself, and looked at the prospect, like a good Samaritan waiting for a traveller.

‘Heyday!’ cried Martin, as his eye rested on a great plan which occupied one whole side of the office. Indeed, the office had little else in it, but some geological and botanical specimens, one or two rusty ledgers, a homely desk, and a stool. ‘Heyday! what’s that?’

‘That’s Eden,’ said Scadder, picking his teeth with a sort of young bayonet that flew out of his knife when he touched a spring.

‘Why, I had no idea it was a city.’

‘Hadn’t you? Oh, it’s a city.’

A flourishing city, too! An architectural city! There were banks, churches, cathedrals, market-places, factories, hotels, stores, mansions, wharves; an exchange, a theatre; public buildings of all kinds, down to the office of the Eden Stinger, a daily journal; all faithfully depicted in the view before them.

‘Dear me! It’s really a most important place!’ cried Martin turning round.

‘Oh! it’s very important,’ observed the agent.

‘But, I am afraid,’ said Martin, glancing again at the Public Buildings, ‘that there’s nothing left for me to do.’

‘Well! it ain’t all built,’ replied the agent. ‘Not quite.’

This was a great relief.

‘The market-place, now,’ said Martin. ‘Is that built?’

‘That?’ said the agent, sticking his toothpick into the weathercock on the top. ‘Let me see. No; that ain’t built.’

‘Rather a good job to begin with—eh, Mark?’ whispered Martin nudging him with his elbow.

Mark, who, with a very stolid countenance had been eyeing the plan and the agent by turns, merely rejoined ‘Uncommon!’

A dead silence ensued, Mr Scadder in some short recesses or vacations of his toothpick, whistled a few bars of Yankee Doodle, and blew the dust off the roof of the Theatre.

‘I suppose,’ said Martin, feigning to look more narrowly at the plan, but showing by his tremulous voice how much depended, in his mind, upon the answer; ‘I suppose there are—several architects there?’

‘There ain’t a single one,’ said Scadder.

‘Mark,’ whispered Martin, pulling him by the sleeve, ‘do you hear that? But whose work is all this before us, then?’ he asked aloud.

‘The soil being very fruitful, public buildings grows spontaneous, perhaps,’ said Mark.

He was on the agent’s dark side as he said it; but Scadder instantly changed his place, and brought his active eye to bear upon him.

‘Feel of my hands, young man,’ he said.

‘What for?’ asked Mark, declining.

‘Air they dirty, or air they clean, sir?’ said Scadder, holding them out.

In a physical point of view they were decidedly dirty. But it being obvious that Mr Scadder offered them for examination in a figurative sense, as emblems of his moral character, Martin hastened to pronounce them pure as the driven snow.

‘I entreat, Mark,’ he said, with some irritation, ‘that you will not obtrude remarks of that nature, which, however harmless and well-intentioned, are quite out of place, and cannot be expected to be very agreeable to strangers. I am quite surprised.’

‘The Co.‘s a-putting his foot in it already,’ thought Mark. ‘He must be a sleeping partner—fast asleep and snoring—Co. must; I see.’

Mr Scadder said nothing, but he set his back against the plan, and thrust his toothpick into the desk some twenty times; looking at Mark all the while as if he were stabbing him in effigy.

‘You haven’t said whose work it is,’ Martin ventured to observe at length, in a tone of mild propitiation.

‘Well, never mind whose work it is, or isn’t,’ said the agent sulkily. ‘No matter how it did eventuate. P’raps he cleared off, handsome, with a heap of dollars; p’raps he wasn’t worth a cent. P’raps he was a loafin’ rowdy; p’raps a ring-tailed roarer. Now!’

‘All your doing, Mark!’ said Martin.

‘P’raps,’ pursued the agent, ‘them ain’t plants of Eden’s raising. No! P’raps that desk and stool ain’t made from Eden lumber. No! P’raps no end of squatters ain’t gone out there. No! P’raps there ain’t no such location in the territoary of the Great U-nited States. Oh, no!’

‘I hope you’re satisfied with the success of your joke, Mark,’ said Martin.

But here, at a most opportune and happy time, the General interposed, and called out to Scadder from the doorway to give his friends the particulars of that little lot of fifty acres with the house upon it; which, having belonged to the company formerly, had lately lapsed again into their hands.

‘You air a deal too open-handed, Gen’ral,’ was the answer. ‘It is a lot as should be rose in price. It is.’

He grumblingly opened his books notwithstanding, and always keeping his bright side towards Mark, no matter at what amount of inconvenience to himself, displayed a certain leaf for their perusal. Martin read it greedily, and then inquired:

‘Now where upon the plan may this place be?’

‘Upon the plan?’ said Scadder.

‘Yes.’

He turned towards it, and reflected for a short time, as if, having been put upon his mettle, he was resolved to be particular to the very minutest hair’s breadth of a shade. At length, after wheeling his toothpick slowly round and round in the air, as if it were a carrier pigeon just thrown up, he suddenly made a dart at the drawing, and pierced the very centre of the main wharf, through and through.

‘There!’ he said, leaving his knife quivering in the wall; ‘that’s where it is!’

Martin glanced with sparkling eyes upon his Co., and his Co. saw that the thing was done.

The bargain was not concluded as easily as might have been expected though, for Scadder was caustic and ill-humoured, and cast much unnecessary opposition in the way; at one time requesting them to think of it, and call again in a week or a fortnight; at another, predicting that they wouldn’t like it; at another, offering to retract and let them off, and muttering strong imprecations upon the folly of the General. But the whole of the astoundingly small sum total of purchase-money—it was only one hundred and fifty dollars, or something more than thirty pounds of the capital brought by Co. into the architectural concern—was ultimately paid down; and Martin’s head was two inches nearer the roof of the little wooden office, with the consciousness of being a landed proprietor in the thriving city of Eden.

‘If it shouldn’t happen to fit,’ said Scadder, as he gave Martin the necessary credentials on recepit of his money, ‘don’t blame me.’

‘No, no,’ he replied merrily. ‘We’ll not blame you. General, are you going?’

‘I am at your service, sir; and I wish you,’ said the General, giving him his hand with grave cordiality, ‘joy of your po-ssession. You air now, sir, a denizen of the most powerful and highly-civilised dominion that has ever graced the world; a do-minion, sir, where man is bound to man in one vast bond of equal love and truth. May you, sir, be worthy of your a-dopted country!’

Martin thanked him, and took leave of Mr Scadder; who had resumed his post in the rocking-chair, immediately on the General’s rising from it, and was once more swinging away as if he had never been disturbed. Mark looked back several times as they went down the road towards the National Hotel, but now his blighted profile was towards them, and nothing but attentive thoughtfulness was written on it. Strangely different to the other side! He was not a man much given to laughing, and never laughed outright; but every line in the print of the crow’s foot, and every little wiry vein in that division of his head, was wrinkled up into a grin! The compound figure of Death and the Lady at the top of the old ballad was not divided with a greater nicety, and hadn’t halves more monstrously unlike each other, than the two profiles of Zephaniah Scadder.

The General posted along at a great rate, for the clock was on the stroke of twelve; and at that hour precisely, the Great Meeting of the Watertoast Sympathisers was to be holden in the public room of the National Hotel. Being very curious to witness the demonstration, and know what it was all about, Martin kept close to the General; and, keeping closer than ever when they entered the Hall, got by that means upon a little platform of tables at the upper end; where an armchair was set for the General, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, as secretary, was making a great display of some foolscap documents. Screamers, no doubt.

‘Well, sir!’ he said, as he shook hands with Martin, ‘here is a spectacle calc’lated to make the British Lion put his tail between his legs, and howl with anguish, I expect!’

Martin certainly thought it possible that the British Lion might have been rather out of his element in that Ark; but he kept the idea to himself. The General was then voted to the chair, on the motion of a pallid lad of the Jefferson Brick school; who forthwith set in for a high-spiced speech, with a good deal about hearths and homes in it, and unriveting the chains of Tyranny.

Oh but it was a clincher for the British Lion, it was! The indignation of the glowing young Columbian knew no bounds. If he could only have been one of his own forefathers, he said, wouldn’t he have peppered that same Lion, and been to him as another Brute Tamer with a wire whip, teaching him lessons not easily forgotten. ‘Lion! (cried that young Columbian) where is he? Who is he? What is he? Show him to me. Let me have him here. Here!’ said the young Columbian, in a wrestling attitude, ‘upon this sacred altar. Here!’ cried the young Columbian, idealising the dining-table, ‘upon ancestral ashes, cemented with the glorious blood poured out like water on our native plains of Chickabiddy Lick! Bring forth that Lion!’ said the young Columbian. ‘Alone, I dare him! I taunt that Lion. I tell that Lion, that Freedom’s hand once twisted in his mane, he rolls a corse before me, and the Eagles of the Great Republic laugh ha, ha!’

When it was found that the Lion didn’t come, but kept out of the way; that the young Columbian stood there, with folded arms, alone in his glory; and consequently that the Eagles were no doubt laughing wildly on the mountain tops; such cheers arose as might have shaken the hands upon the Horse-Guards’ clock, and changed the very mean time of the day in England’s capital.

‘Who is this?’ Martin telegraphed to La Fayette.

The Secretary wrote something, very gravely, on a piece of paper, twisted it up, and had it passed to him from hand to hand. It was an improvement on the old sentiment: ‘Perhaps as remarkable a man as any in our country.’

This young Columbian was succeeded by another, to the full as eloquent as he, who drew down storms of cheers. But both remarkable youths, in their great excitement (for your true poetry can never stoop to details), forgot to say with whom or what the Watertoasters sympathized, and likewise why or wherefore they were sympathetic. Thus Martin remained for a long time as completely in the dark as ever; until at length a ray of light broke in upon him through the medium of the Secretary, who, by reading the minutes of their past proceedings, made the matter somewhat clearer. He then learned that the Watertoast Association sympathized with a certain Public Man in Ireland, who held a contest upon certain points with England; and that they did so, because they didn’t love England at all—not by any means because they loved Ireland much; being indeed horribly jealous and distrustful of its people always, and only tolerating them because of their working hard, which made them very useful; labour being held in greater indignity in the simple republic than in any other country upon earth. This rendered Martin curious to see what grounds of sympathy the Watertoast Association put forth; nor was he long in suspense, for the General rose to read a letter to the Public Man, which with his own hands he had written.

‘Thus,’ said the General, ‘thus, my friends and fellow-citizens, it runs:

‘“Sir—I address you on behalf of the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers. It is founded, sir, in the great republic of America! and now holds its breath, and swells the blue veins in its forehead nigh to bursting, as it watches, sir, with feverish intensity and sympathetic ardour, your noble efforts in the cause of Freedom.”’

At the name of Freedom, and at every repetition of that name, all the Sympathisers roared aloud; cheering with nine times nine, and nine times over.

‘“In Freedom’s name, sir—holy Freedom—I address you. In Freedom’s name, I send herewith a contribution to the funds of your society. In Freedom’s name, sir, I advert with indignation and disgust to that accursed animal, with gore-stained whiskers, whose rampant cruelty and fiery lust have ever been a scourge, a torment to the world. The naked visitors to Crusoe’s Island, sir; the flying wives of Peter Wilkins; the fruit-smeared children of the tangled bush; nay, even the men of large stature, anciently bred in the mining districts of Cornwall; alike bear witness to its savage nature. Where, sir, are the Cormorans, the Blunderbores, the Great Feefofums, named in History? All, all, exterminated by its destroying hand.

‘“I allude, sir, to the British Lion.

‘“Devoted, mind and body, heart and soul, to Freedom, sir—to Freedom, blessed solace to the snail upon the cellar-door, the oyster in his pearly bed, the still mite in his home of cheese, the very winkle of your country in his shelly lair—in her unsullied name, we offer you our sympathy. Oh, sir, in this our cherished and our happy land, her fires burn bright and clear and smokeless; once lighted up in yours, the lion shall be roasted whole.

‘“I am, sir, in Freedom’s name,

‘“Your affectionate friend and faithful

It happened that just as the General began to read this letter, the railroad train arrived, bringing a new mail from England; and a packet had been handed in to the Secretary, which during its perusal and the frequent cheerings in homage to freedom, he had opened. Now, its contents disturbed him very much, and the moment the General sat down, he hurried to his side, and placed in his hand a letter and several printed extracts from English newspapers; to which, in a state of infinite excitement, he called his immediate attention.

The General, being greatly heated by his own composition, was in a fit state to receive any inflammable influence; but he had no sooner possessed himself of the contents of these documents, than a change came over his face, involving such a huge amount of choler and passion, that the noisy concourse were silent in a moment, in very wonder at the sight of him.

‘My friends!’ cried the General, rising; ‘my friends and fellow citizens, we have been mistaken in this man.’

‘In what man?’ was the cry.

‘In this,’ panted the General, holding up the letter he had read aloud a few minutes before. ‘I find that he has been, and is, the advocate—consistent in it always too—of Nigger emancipation!’

If anything beneath the sky be real, those Sons of Freedom would have pistolled, stabbed—in some way slain—that man by coward hands and murderous violence, if he had stood among them at that time. The most confiding of their own countrymen would not have wagered then—no, nor would they ever peril—one dunghill straw, upon the life of any man in such a strait. They tore the letter, cast the fragments in the air, trod down the pieces as they fell; and yelled, and groaned, and hissed, till they could cry no longer.

‘I shall move,’ said the General, when he could make himself heard, ‘that the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers be immediately dissolved!’

Down with it! Away with it! Don’t hear of it! Burn its records! Pull the room down! Blot it out of human memory!

‘But, my fellow-countrymen!’ said the General, ‘the contributions. We have funds. What is to be done with the funds?’

It was hastily resolved that a piece of plate should be presented to a certain constitutional Judge, who had laid down from the Bench the noble principle that it was lawful for any white mob to murder any black man; and that another piece of plate, of similar value should be presented to a certain Patriot, who had declared from his high place in the Legislature, that he and his friends would hang without trial, any Abolitionist who might pay them a visit. For the surplus, it was agreed that it should be devoted to aiding the enforcement of those free and equal laws, which render it incalculably more criminal and dangerous to teach a negro to read and write than to roast him alive in a public city. These points adjusted, the meeting broke up in great disorder, and there was an end of the Watertoast Sympathy.

As Martin ascended to his bedroom, his eye was attracted by the Republican banner, which had been hoisted from the house-top in honour of the occasion, and was fluttering before a window which he passed.

‘Tut!’ said Martin. ‘You’re a gay flag in the distance. But let a man be near enough to get the light upon the other side and see through you; and you are but sorry fustian!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FROM WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MARTIN BECAME A LION OF HIS OWN ACCOUNT. TOGETHER WITH THE REASON WHY

As soon as it was generally known in the National Hotel, that the young Englishman, Mr Chuzzlewit, had purchased a ‘lo-cation’ in the Valley of Eden, and intended to betake himself to that earthly Paradise by the next steamboat, he became a popular character. Why this should be, or how it had come to pass, Martin no more knew than Mrs Gamp, of Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, did; but that he was for the time being the lion, by popular election, of the Watertoast community, and that his society was in rather inconvenient request there could be no kind of doubt.

The first notification he received of this change in his position, was the following epistle, written in a thin running hand—with here and there a fat letter or two, to make the general effect more striking—on a sheet of paper, ruled with blue lines.

‘NATIONAL HOTEL, ‘MONDAY MORNING.

‘Dear Sir—‘When I had the privillidge of being your fellow-traveller in the cars, the day before yesterday, you offered some remarks upon the subject of the tower of London, which (in common with my fellow-citizens generally) I could wish to hear repeated to a public audience.

‘As secretary to the Young Men’s Watertoast Association of this town, I am requested to inform you that the Society will be proud to hear you deliver a lecture upon the Tower of London, at their Hall to-morrow evening, at seven o’clock; and as a large issue of quarter-dollar tickets may be expected, your answer and consent by bearer will be considered obliging.

‘Dear Sir,

‘Yours truly,

‘LA FAYETTE KETTLE.

‘The Honourable M. Chuzzlewit.

‘P.S.—The Society would not be particular in limiting you to the Tower of London. Permit me to suggest that any remarks upon the Elements of Geology, or (if more convenient) upon the Writings of your talented and witty countryman, the honourable Mr Miller, would be well received.’

Very much aghast at this invitation, Martin wrote back, civilly declining it; and had scarcely done so, when he received another letter.

‘No. 47, Bunker Hill Street,

‘Monday Morning.

‘(Private).

‘Sir—I was raised in those interminable solitudes where our mighty Mississippi (or Father of Waters) rolls his turbid flood.

‘I am young, and ardent. For there is a poetry in wildness, and every alligator basking in the slime is in himself an Epic, self-contained. I aspirate for fame. It is my yearning and my thirst.

‘Are you, sir, aware of any member of Congress in England, who would undertake to pay my expenses to that country, and for six months after my arrival?

‘There is something within me which gives me the assurance that this enlightened patronage would not be thrown away. In literature or art; the bar, the pulpit, or the stage; in one or other, if not all, I feel that I am certain to succeed.

‘If too much engaged to write to any such yourself, please let me have a list of three or four of those most likely to respond, and I will address them through the Post Office. May I also ask you to favour me with any critical observations that have ever presented themselves to your reflective faculties, on “Cain, a Mystery,” by the Right Honourable Lord Byron?

‘I am, Sir,

‘Yours (forgive me if I add, soaringly),

‘PUTNAM SMIF

‘P.S.—Address your answer to America Junior, Messrs. Hancock & Floby, Dry Goods Store, as above.’

Both of which letters, together with Martin’s reply to each, were, according to a laudable custom, much tending to the promotion of gentlemanly feeling and social confidence, published in the next number of the Watertoast Gazette.

He had scarcely got through this correspondence when Captain Kedgick, the landlord, kindly came upstairs to see how he was getting on. The Captain sat down upon the bed before he spoke; and finding it rather hard, moved to the pillow.

‘Well, sir!’ said the Captain, putting his hat a little more on one side, for it was rather tight in the crown: ‘You’re quite a public man I calc’late.’

‘So it seems,’ retorted Martin, who was very tired.

‘Our citizens, sir,’ pursued the Captain, ‘intend to pay their respects to you. You will have to hold a sort of le-vee, sir, while you’re here.’

‘Powers above!’ cried Martin, ‘I couldn’t do that, my good fellow!’

‘I reckon you must then,’ said the Captain.

‘Must is not a pleasant word, Captain,’ urged Martin.

‘Well! I didn’t fix the mother language, and I can’t unfix it,’ said the Captain coolly; ‘else I’d make it pleasant. You must re-ceive. That’s all.’

‘But why should I receive people who care as much for me as I care for them?’ asked Martin.

‘Well! because I have had a muniment put up in the bar,’ returned the Captain.

‘A what?’ cried Martin.

‘A muniment,’ rejoined the Captain.

Martin looked despairingly at Mark, who informed him that the Captain meant a written notice that Mr Chuzzlewit would receive the Watertoasters that day, at and after two o’clock which was in effect then hanging in the bar, as Mark, from ocular inspection of the same, could testify.

‘You wouldn’t be unpop’lar, I know,’ said the Captain, paring his nails. ‘Our citizens an’t long of riling up, I tell you; and our Gazette could flay you like a wild cat.’

Martin was going to be very wroth, but he thought better of it, and said:

‘In Heaven’s name let them come, then.’

‘Oh, they’ll come,’ returned the Captain. ‘I have seen the big room fixed a’purpose, with my eyes.’

‘But will you,’ said Martin, seeing that the Captain was about to go; ‘will you at least tell me this? What do they want to see me for? what have I done? and how do they happen to have such a sudden interest in me?’

Captain Kedgick put a thumb and three fingers to each side of the brim of his hat; lifted it a little way off his head; put it on again carefully; passed one hand all down his face, beginning at the forehead and ending at the chin; looked at Martin; then at Mark; then at Martin again; winked, and walked out.

‘Upon my life, now!’ said Martin, bringing his hand heavily upon the table; ‘such a perfectly unaccountable fellow as that, I never saw. Mark, what do you say to this?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned his partner, ‘my opinion is that we must have got to the most remarkable man in the country at last. So I hope there’s an end to the breed, sir.’

Although this made Martin laugh, it couldn’t keep off two o’clock. Punctually, as the hour struck, Captain Kedgick returned to hand him to the room of state; and he had no sooner got him safe there, than he bawled down the staircase to his fellow-citizens below, that Mr Chuzzlewit was ‘receiving.’

Up they came with a rush. Up they came until the room was full, and, through the open door, a dismal perspective of more to come, was shown upon the stairs. One after another, one after another, dozen after dozen, score after score, more, more, more, up they came; all shaking hands with Martin. Such varieties of hands, the thick, the thin, the short, the long, the fat, the lean, the coarse, the fine; such differences of temperature, the hot, the cold, the dry, the moist, the flabby; such diversities of grasp, the tight, the loose, the short-lived, and the lingering! Still up, up, up, more, more, more; and ever and anon the Captain’s voice was heard above the crowd—‘There’s more below! there’s more below. Now, gentlemen you that have been introduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, will you clear gentlemen? Will you clear? Will you be so good as clear, gentlemen, and make a little room for more?’

Regardless of the Captain’s cries, they didn’t clear at all, but stood there, bolt upright and staring. Two gentlemen connected with the Watertoast Gazette had come express to get the matter for an article on Martin. They had agreed to divide the labour. One of them took him below the waistcoat. One above. Each stood directly in front of his subject with his head a little on one side, intent on his department. If Martin put one boot before the other, the lower gentleman was down upon him; he rubbed a pimple on his nose, and the upper gentleman booked it. He opened his mouth to speak, and the same gentleman was on one knee before him, looking in at his teeth, with the nice scrutiny of a dentist. Amateurs in the physiognomical and phrenological sciences roved about him with watchful eyes and itching fingers, and sometimes one, more daring than the rest, made a mad grasp at the back of his head, and vanished in the crowd. They had him in all points of view: in front, in profile, three-quarter face, and behind. Those who were not professional or scientific, audibly exchanged opinions on his looks. New lights shone in upon him, in respect of his nose. Contradictory rumours were abroad on the subject of his hair. And still the Captain’s voice was heard—so stifled by the concourse, that he seemed to speak from underneath a feather-bed—exclaiming—‘Gentlemen, you that have been introduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, will you clear?’

Even when they began to clear it was no better; for then a stream of gentlemen, every one with a lady on each arm (exactly like the chorus to the National Anthem when Royalty goes in state to the play), came gliding in—every new group fresher than the last, and bent on staying to the latest moment. If they spoke to him, which was not often, they invariably asked the same questions, in the same tone; with no more remorse, or delicacy, or consideration, than if he had been a figure of stone, purchased, and paid for, and set up there for their delight. Even when, in the slow course of time, these died off, it was as bad as ever, if not worse; for then the boys grew bold, and came in as a class of themselves, and did everything that the grown-up people had done. Uncouth stragglers, too, appeared; men of a ghostly kind, who being in, didn’t know how to get out again; insomuch that one silent gentleman with glazed and fishy eyes and only one button on his waistcoat (which was a very large metal one, and shone prodigiously), got behind the door, and stood there, like a clock, long after everybody else was gone.

Martin felt, from pure fatigue, and heat, and worry, as if he could have fallen on the ground and willingly remained there, if they would but have had the mercy to leave him alone. But as letters and messages, threatening his public denouncement if he didn’t see the senders, poured in like hail; and as more visitors came while he took his coffee by himself; and as Mark, with all his vigilance, was unable to keep them from the door; he resolved to go to bed—not that he felt at all sure of bed being any protection, but that he might not leave a forlorn hope untried.

He had communicated this design to Mark, and was on the eve of escaping, when the door was thrown open in a great hurry, and an elderly gentleman entered; bringing with him a lady who certainly could not be considered young—that was matter of fact; and probably could not be considered handsome—but that was matter of opinion. She was very straight, very tall, and not at all flexible in face or figure. On her head she wore a great straw bonnet, with trimmings of the same, in which she looked as if she had been thatched by an unskillful labourer; and in her hand she held a most enormous fan.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit, I believe?’ said the gentleman.

‘That is my name.’

‘Sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘I am pressed for time.’

‘Thank God!’ thought Martin.

‘I go back Toe my home, sir,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘by the return train, which starts immediate. Start is not a word you use in your country, sir.’

‘Oh yes, it is,’ said Martin.

‘You air mistaken, sir,’ returned the gentleman, with great decision: ‘but we will not pursue the subject, lest it should awake your preju—dice. Sir, Mrs Hominy.’

Martin bowed.

‘Mrs Hominy, sir, is the lady of Major Hominy, one of our chicest spirits; and belongs Toe one of our most aristocratic families. You air, p’raps, acquainted, sir, with Mrs Hominy’s writings.’

Martin couldn’t say he was.

‘You have much Toe learn, and Toe enjoy, sir,’ said the gentleman. ‘Mrs Hominy is going Toe stay until the end of the Fall, sir, with her married daughter at the settlement of New Thermopylae, three days this side of Eden. Any attention, sir, that you can show Toe Mrs Hominy upon the journey, will be very grateful Toe the Major and our fellow-citizens. Mrs Hominy, I wish you good night, ma’am, and a pleasant pro-gress on your route!’

Martin could scarcely believe it; but he had gone, and Mrs Hominy was drinking the milk.

‘A’most used-up I am, I do declare!’ she observed. ‘The jolting in the cars is pretty nigh as bad as if the rail was full of snags and sawyers.’

‘Snags and sawyers, ma’am?’ said Martin.

‘Well, then, I do suppose you’ll hardly realise my meaning, sir,’ said Mrs Hominy. ‘My! Only think! do tell!’

It did not appear that these expressions, although they seemed to conclude with an urgent entreaty, stood in need of any answer; for Mrs Hominy, untying her bonnet-strings, observed that she would withdraw to lay that article of dress aside, and would return immediately.

‘Mark!’ said Martin. ‘Touch me, will you. Am I awake?’

‘Hominy is, sir,’ returned his partner—‘Broad awake! Just the sort of woman, sir, as would be discovered with her eyes wide open, and her mind a-working for her country’s good, at any hour of the day or night.’

They had no opportunity of saying more, for Mrs Hominy stalked in again—very erect, in proof of her aristocratic blood; and holding in her clasped hands a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, perhaps a parting gift from that choice spirit, the Major. She had laid aside her bonnet, and now appeared in a highly aristocratic and classical cap, meeting beneath her chin: a style of headdress so admirably adapted to her countenance, that if the late Mr Grimaldi had appeared in the lappets of Mrs Siddons, a more complete effect could not have been produced.

Martin handed her to a chair. Her first words arrested him before he could get back to his own seat.

‘Pray, sir!’ said Mrs Hominy, ‘where do you hail from?’

‘I am afraid I am dull of comprehension,’ answered Martin, ‘being extremely tired; but upon my word I don’t understand you.’

Mrs Hominy shook her head with a melancholy smile that said, not inexpressively, ‘They corrupt even the language in that old country!’ and added then, as coming down a step or two to meet his low capacity, ‘Where was you rose?’

‘Oh!’ said Martin ‘I was born in Kent.’

‘And how do you like our country, sir?’ asked Mrs Hominy.

‘Very much indeed,’ said Martin, half asleep. ‘At least—that is—pretty well, ma’am.’

‘Most strangers—and partick’larly Britishers—are much surprised by what they see in the U-nited States,’ remarked Mrs Hominy.

‘They have excellent reason to be so, ma’am,’ said Martin. ‘I never was so much surprised in all my life.’

‘Our institutions make our people smart much, sir,’ Mrs Hominy remarked.

‘The most short-sighted man could see that at a glance, with his naked eye,’ said Martin.

Mrs Hominy was a philosopher and an authoress, and consequently had a pretty strong digestion; but this coarse, this indecorous phrase, was almost too much for her. For a gentleman sitting alone with a lady—although the door was open—to talk about a naked eye!

A long interval elapsed before even she—woman of masculine and towering intellect though she was—could call up fortitude enough to resume the conversation. But Mrs Hominy was a traveller. Mrs Hominy was a writer of reviews and analytical disquisitions. Mrs Hominy had had her letters from abroad, beginning ‘My ever dearest blank,’ and signed ‘The Mother of the Modern Gracchi’ (meaning the married Miss Hominy), regularly printed in a public journal, with all the indignation in capitals, and all the sarcasm in italics. Mrs Hominy had looked on foreign countries with the eye of a perfect republican hot from the model oven; and Mrs Hominy could talk (or write) about them by the hour together. So Mrs Hominy at last came down on Martin heavily, and as he was fast asleep, she had it all her own way, and bruised him to her heart’s content.

It is no great matter what Mrs Hominy said, save that she had learnt it from the cant of a class, and a large class, of her fellow countrymen, who in their every word, avow themselves to be as senseless to the high principles on which America sprang, a nation, into life, as any Orson in her legislative halls. Who are no more capable of feeling, or of caring if they did feel, that by reducing their own country to the ebb of honest men’s contempt, they put in hazard the rights of nations yet unborn, and very progress of the human race, than are the swine who wallow in their streets. Who think that crying out to other nations, old in their iniquity, ‘We are no worse than you!’ (No worse!) is high defence and ‘vantage-ground enough for that Republic, but yesterday let loose upon her noble course, and but to-day so maimed and lame, so full of sores and ulcers, foul to the eye and almost hopeless to the sense, that her best friends turn from the loathsome creature with disgust. Who, having by their ancestors declared and won their Independence, because they would not bend the knee to certain Public vices and corruptions, and would not abrogate the truth, run riot in the Bad, and turn their backs upon the Good; and lying down contented with the wretched boast that other Temples also are of glass, and stones which batter theirs may be flung back; show themselves, in that alone, as immeasurably behind the import of the trust they hold, and as unworthy to possess it as if the sordid hucksterings of all their little governments—each one a kingdom in its small depravity—were brought into a heap for evidence against them.

Martin by degrees became so far awake, that he had a sense of a terrible oppression on his mind; an imperfect dream that he had murdered a particular friend, and couldn’t get rid of the body. When his eyes opened it was staring him full in the face. There was the horrible Hominy talking deep truths in a melodious snuffle, and pouring forth her mental endowments to such an extent that the Major’s bitterest enemy, hearing her, would have forgiven him from the bottom of his heart. Martin might have done something desperate if the gong had not sounded for supper; but sound it did most opportunely; and having stationed Mrs Hominy at the upper end of the table he took refuge at the lower end himself; whence, after a hasty meal he stole away, while the lady was yet busied with dried beef and a saucer-full of pickled fixings.

It would be difficult to give an adequate idea of Mrs Hominy’s freshness next day, or of the avidity with which she went headlong into moral philosophy at breakfast. Some little additional degree of asperity, perhaps, was visible in her features, but not more than the pickles would have naturally produced. All that day she clung to Martin. She sat beside him while he received his friends (for there was another Reception, yet more numerous than the former), propounded theories, and answered imaginary objections, so that Martin really began to think he must be dreaming, and speaking for two; she quoted interminable passages from certain essays on government, written by herself; used the Major’s pocket-handkerchief as if the snuffle were a temporary malady, of which she was determined to rid herself by some means or other; and, in short, was such a remarkable companion, that Martin quite settled it between himself and his conscience, that in any new settlement it would be absolutely necessary to have such a person knocked on the head for the general peace of society.

In the meantime Mark was busy, from early in the morning until late at night, in getting on board the steamboat such provisions, tools and other necessaries, as they had been forewarned it would be wise to take. The purchase of these things, and the settlement of their bill at the National, reduced their finances to so low an ebb, that if the captain had delayed his departure any longer, they would have been in almost as bad a plight as the unfortunate poorer emigrants, who (seduced on board by solemn advertisement) had been living on the lower deck a whole week, and exhausting their miserable stock of provisions before the voyage commenced. There they were, all huddled together with the engine and the fires. Farmers who had never seen a plough; woodmen who had never used an axe; builders who couldn’t make a box; cast out of their own land, with not a hand to aid them: newly come into an unknown world, children in helplessness, but men in wants—with younger children at their backs, to live or die as it might happen!

The morning came, and they would start at noon. Noon came, and they would start at night. But nothing is eternal in this world; not even the procrastination of an American skipper; and at night all was ready.

Dispirited and weary to the last degree, but a greater lion than ever (he had done nothing all the afternoon but answer letters from strangers; half of them about nothing; half about borrowing money, and all requiring an instantaneous reply), Martin walked down to the wharf, through a concourse of people, with Mrs Hominy upon his arm; and went on board. But Mark was bent on solving the riddle of this lionship, if he could; and so, not without the risk of being left behind, ran back to the hotel.

Captain Kedgick was sitting in the colonnade, with a julep on his knee, and a cigar in his mouth. He caught Mark’s eye, and said:

‘Why, what the ‘Tarnal brings you here?’

‘I’ll tell you plainly what it is, Captain,’ said Mark. ‘I want to ask you a question.’

‘A man may ask a question, so he may,’ returned Kedgick; strongly implying that another man might not answer a question, so he mightn’t.

‘What have they been making so much of him for, now?’ said Mark, slyly. ‘Come!’

‘Our people like ex-citement,’ answered Kedgick, sucking his cigar.

‘But how has he excited ‘em?’ asked Mark.

The Captain looked at him as if he were half inclined to unburden his mind of a capital joke.

‘You air a-going?’ he said.

‘Going!’ cried Mark. ‘Ain’t every moment precious?’

‘Our people like ex-citement,’ said the Captain, whispering. ‘He ain’t like emigrants in gin’ral; and he excited ‘em along of this;’ he winked and burst into a smothered laugh; ‘along of this. Scadder is a smart man, and—and—nobody as goes to Eden ever comes back alive!’

The wharf was close at hand, and at that instant Mark could hear them shouting out his name; could even hear Martin calling to him to make haste, or they would be separated. It was too late to mend the matter, or put any face upon it but the best. He gave the Captain a parting benediction, and ran off like a race-horse.

‘Mark! Mark!’ cried Martin.

‘Here am I, sir!’ shouted Mark, suddenly replying from the edge of the quay, and leaping at a bound on board. ‘Never was half so jolly, sir. All right. Haul in! Go ahead!’

The sparks from the wood fire streamed upward from the two chimneys, as if the vessel were a great firework just lighted; and they roared away upon the dark water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MARTIN AND HIS PARTNER TAKE POSSESSION OF THEIR ESTATE. THE JOYFUL OCCASION INVOLVES SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF EDEN

There happened to be on board the steamboat several gentlemen passengers, of the same stamp as Martin’s New York friend Mr Bevan; and in their society he was cheerful and happy. They released him as well as they could from the intellectual entanglements of Mrs Hominy; and exhibited, in all they said and did, so much good sense and high feeling, that he could not like them too well. ‘If this were a republic of Intellect and Worth,’ he said, ‘instead of vapouring and jobbing, they would not want the levers to keep it in motion.’

‘Having good tools, and using bad ones,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘would look as if they was rather a poor sort of carpenters, sir, wouldn’t it?’

Martin nodded. ‘As if their work were infinitely above their powers and purpose, Mark; and they botched it in consequence.’

‘The best on it is,’ said Mark, ‘that when they do happen to make a decent stroke; such as better workmen, with no such opportunities, make every day of their lives and think nothing of—they begin to sing out so surprising loud. Take notice of my words, sir. If ever the defaulting part of this here country pays its debts—along of finding that not paying ‘em won’t do in a commercial point of view, you see, and is inconvenient in its consequences—they’ll take such a shine out of it, and make such bragging speeches, that a man might suppose no borrowed money had ever been paid afore, since the world was first begun. That’s the way they gammon each other, sir. Bless you, I know ‘em. Take notice of my words, now!’

‘You seem to be growing profoundly sagacious!’ cried Martin, laughing.

‘Whether that is,’ thought Mark, ‘because I’m a day’s journey nearer Eden, and am brightening up afore I die, I can’t say. P’rhaps by the time I get there I shall have growed into a prophet.’

He gave no utterance to these sentiments; but the excessive joviality they inspired within him, and the merriment they brought upon his shining face, were quite enough for Martin. Although he might sometimes profess to make light of his partner’s inexhaustible cheerfulness, and might sometimes, as in the case of Zephaniah Scadder, find him too jocose a commentator, he was always sensible of the effect of his example in rousing him to hopefulness and courage. Whether he were in the humour to profit by it, mattered not a jot. It was contagious, and he could not choose but be affected.

At first they parted with some of their passengers once or twice a day, and took in others to replace them. But by degrees, the towns upon their route became more thinly scattered; and for many hours together they would see no other habitations than the huts of the wood-cutters, where the vessel stopped for fuel. Sky, wood, and water all the livelong day; and heat that blistered everything it touched.

On they toiled through great solitudes, where the trees upon the banks grew thick and close; and floated in the stream; and held up shrivelled arms from out the river’s depths; and slid down from the margin of the land, half growing, half decaying, in the miry water. On through the weary day and melancholy night; beneath the burning sun, and in the mist and vapour of the evening; on, until return appeared impossible, and restoration to their home a miserable dream.

They had now but few people on board, and these few were as flat, as dull, and stagnant, as the vegetation that oppressed their eyes. No sound of cheerfulness or hope was heard; no pleasant talk beguiled the tardy time; no little group made common cause against the full depression of the scene. But that, at certain periods, they swallowed food together from a common trough, it might have been old Charon’s boat, conveying melancholy shades to judgment.

At length they drew near New Thermopylae; where, that same evening, Mrs Hominy would disembark. A gleam of comfort sunk into Martin’s bosom when she told him this. Mark needed none; but he was not displeased.

It was almost night when they came alongside the landing-place. A steep bank with an hotel like a barn on the top of it; a wooden store or two; and a few scattered sheds.

‘You sleep here to-night, and go on in the morning, I suppose, ma’am?’ said Martin.

‘Where should I go on to?’ cried the mother of the modern Gracchi.

‘To New Thermopylae.’

‘My! ain’t I there?’ said Mrs Hominy.

Martin looked for it all round the darkening panorama; but he couldn’t see it, and was obliged to say so.

‘Why that’s it!’ cried Mrs Hominy, pointing to the sheds just mentioned.

‘That!’ exclaimed Martin.

‘Ah! that; and work it which way you will, it whips Eden,’ said Mrs Hominy, nodding her head with great expression.

The married Miss Hominy, who had come on board with her husband, gave to this statement her most unqualified support, as did that gentleman also. Martin gratefully declined their invitation to regale himself at their house during the half hour of the vessel’s stay; and having escorted Mrs Hominy and the red pocket-handkerchief (which was still on active service) safely across the gangway, returned in a thoughtful mood to watch the emigrants as they removed their goods ashore.

Mark, as he stood beside him, glanced in his face from time to time; anxious to discover what effect this dialogue had had upon him, and not unwilling that his hopes should be dashed before they reached their destination, so that the blow he feared might be broken in its fall. But saving that he sometimes looked up quickly at the poor erections on the hill, he gave him no clue to what was passing in his mind, until they were again upon their way.

‘Mark,’ he said then, ‘are there really none but ourselves on board this boat who are bound for Eden?’

‘None at all, sir. Most of ‘em, as you know, have stopped short; and the few that are left are going further on. What matters that! More room there for us, sir.’

‘Oh, to be sure!’ said Martin. ‘But I was thinking—’ and there he paused.

‘Yes, sir?’ observed Mark.

‘How odd it was that the people should have arranged to try their fortune at a wretched hole like that, for instance, when there is such a much better, and such a very different kind of place, near at hand, as one may say.’

He spoke in a tone so very different from his usual confidence, and with such an obvious dread of Mark’s reply, that the good-natured fellow was full of pity.

‘Why, you know, sir,’ said Mark, as gently as he could by any means insinuate the observation, ‘we must guard against being too sanguine. There’s no occasion for it, either, because we’re determined to make the best of everything, after we know the worst of it. Ain’t we, sir?’

Martin looked at him, but answered not a word.

‘Even Eden, you know, ain’t all built,’ said Mark.

‘In the name of Heaven, man,’ cried Martin angrily, ‘don’t talk of Eden in the same breath with that place. Are you mad? There—God forgive me!—don’t think harshly of me for my temper!’

After that, he turned away, and walked to and fro upon the deck full two hours. Nor did he speak again, except to say ‘Good night,’ until next day; nor even then upon this subject, but on other topics quite foreign to the purpose.

As they proceeded further on their track, and came more and more towards their journey’s end, the monotonous desolation of the scene increased to that degree, that for any redeeming feature it presented to their eyes, they might have entered, in the body, on the grim domains of Giant Despair. A flat morass, bestrewn with fallen timber; a marsh on which the good growth of the earth seemed to have been wrecked and cast away, that from its decomposing ashes vile and ugly things might rise; where the very trees took the aspect of huge weeds, begotten of the slime from which they sprung, by the hot sun that burnt them up; where fatal maladies, seeking whom they might infect, came forth at night in misty shapes, and creeping out upon the water, hunted them like spectres until day; where even the blessed sun, shining down on festering elements of corruption and disease, became a horror; this was the realm of Hope through which they moved.

At last they stopped. At Eden too. The waters of the Deluge might have left it but a week before; so choked with slime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name.

There being no depth of water close in shore, they landed from the vessel’s boat, with all their goods beside them. There were a few log-houses visible among the dark trees; the best, a cow-shed or a rude stable; but for the wharves, the market-place, the public buildings—

‘Here comes an Edener,’ said Mark. ‘He’ll get us help to carry these things up. Keep a good heart, sir. Hallo there!’

The man advanced toward them through the thickening gloom, very slowly; leaning on a stick. As he drew nearer, they observed that he was pale and worn, and that his anxious eyes were deeply sunken in his head. His dress of homespun blue hung about him in rags; his feet and head were bare. He sat down on a stump half-way, and beckoned them to come to him. When they complied, he put his hand upon his side as if in pain, and while he fetched his breath stared at them, wondering.

‘Strangers!’ he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak.

‘The very same,’ said Mark. ‘How are you, sir?’

‘I’ve had the fever very bad,’ he answered faintly. ‘I haven’t stood upright these many weeks. Those are your notions I see,’ pointing to their property.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark, ‘they are. You couldn’t recommend us some one as would lend a hand to help carry ‘em up to the—to the town, could you, sir?’

‘My eldest son would do it if he could,’ replied the man; ‘but today he has his chill upon him, and is lying wrapped up in the blankets. My youngest died last week.’

‘I’m sorry for it, governor, with all my heart,’ said Mark, shaking him by the hand. ‘Don’t mind us. Come along with me, and I’ll give you an arm back. The goods is safe enough, sir’—to Martin—‘there ain’t many people about, to make away with ‘em. What a comfort that is!’

‘No,’ cried the man. ‘You must look for such folk here,’ knocking his stick upon the ground, ‘or yonder in the bush, towards the north. We’ve buried most of ‘em. The rest have gone away. Them that we have here, don’t come out at night.’

‘The night air ain’t quite wholesome, I suppose?’ said Mark.

‘It’s deadly poison,’ was the settler’s answer.

Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained to him the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to his own log-house, he said; so close that he had used their dwelling as a store-house for some corn; they must excuse it that night, but he would endeavour to get it taken out upon the morrow. He then gave them to understand, as an additional scrap of local chit-chat, that he had buried the last proprietor with his own hands; a piece of information which Mark also received without the least abatement of his equanimity.

In a word, he conducted them to a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees; the door of which had either fallen down or been carried away long ago; and which was consequently open to the wild landscape and the dark night. Saving for the little store he had mentioned, it was perfectly bare of all furniture; but they had left a chest upon the landing-place, and he gave them a rude torch in lieu of candle. This latter acquisition Mark planted in the earth, and then declaring that the mansion ‘looked quite comfortable,’ hurried Martin off again to help bring up the chest. And all the way to the landing-place and back, Mark talked incessantly; as if he would infuse into his partner’s breast some faint belief that they had arrived under the most auspicious and cheerful of all imaginable circumstances.

But many a man who would have stood within a home dismantled, strong in his passion and design of vengeance, has had the firmness of his nature conquered by the razing of an air-built castle. When the log-hut received them for the second time, Martin laid down upon the ground, and wept aloud.

‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried Mr Tapley, in great terror; ‘Don’t do that! Don’t do that, sir! Anything but that! It never helped man, woman, or child, over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will. Besides its being of no use to you, it’s worse than of no use to me, for the least sound of it will knock me flat down. I can’t stand up agin it, sir. Anything but that!’

There is no doubt he spoke the truth, for the extraordinary alarm with which he looked at Martin as he paused upon his knees before the chest, in the act of unlocking it, to say these words, sufficiently confirmed him.

‘I ask your forgiveness a thousand times, my dear fellow,’ said Martin. ‘I couldn’t have helped it, if death had been the penalty.’

‘Ask my forgiveness!’ said Mark, with his accustomed cheerfulness, as he proceeded to unpack the chest. ‘The head partner a-asking forgiveness of Co., eh? There must be something wrong in the firm when that happens. I must have the books inspected and the accounts gone over immediate. Here we are. Everything in its proper place. Here’s the salt pork. Here’s the biscuit. Here’s the whiskey. Uncommon good it smells too. Here’s the tin pot. This tin pot’s a small fortun’ in itself! Here’s the blankets. Here’s the axe. Who says we ain’t got a first-rate fit out? I feel as if I was a cadet gone out to Indy, and my noble father was chairman of the Board of Directors. Now, when I’ve got some water from the stream afore the door and mixed the grog,’ cried Mark, running out to suit the action to the word, ‘there’s a supper ready, comprising every delicacy of the season. Here we are, sir, all complete. For what we are going to receive, et cetrer. Lord bless you, sir, it’s very like a gipsy party!’

It was impossible not to take heart, in the company of such a man as this. Martin sat upon the ground beside the box; took out his knife; and ate and drank sturdily.

‘Now you see,’ said Mark, when they had made a hearty meal; ‘with your knife and mine, I sticks this blanket right afore the door. Or where, in a state of high civilization, the door would be. And very neat it looks. Then I stops the aperture below, by putting the chest agin it. And very neat that looks. Then there’s your blanket, sir. Then here’s mine. And what’s to hinder our passing a good night?’

For all his light-hearted speaking, it was long before he slept himself. He wrapped his blanket round him, put the axe ready to his hand, and lay across the threshold of the door; too anxious and too watchful to close his eyes. The novelty of their dreary situation, the dread of some rapacious animal or human enemy, the terrible uncertainty of their means of subsistence, the apprehension of death, the immense distance and the hosts of obstacles between themselves and England, were fruitful sources of disquiet in the deep silence of the night. Though Martin would have had him think otherwise, Mark felt that he was waking also, and a prey to the same reflections. This was almost worse than all, for if he began to brood over their miseries instead of trying to make head against them there could be little doubt that such a state of mind would powerfully assist the influence of the pestilent climate. Never had the light of day been half so welcome to his eyes, as when awaking from a fitful doze, Mark saw it shining through the blanket in the doorway.

He stole out gently, for his companion was sleeping now; and having refreshed himself by washing in the river, where it snowed before the door, took a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a score of cabins in the whole; half of these appeared untenanted; all were rotten and decayed. The most tottering, abject, and forlorn among them was called, with great propriety, the Bank, and National Credit Office. It had some feeble props about it, but was settling deep down in the mud, past all recovery.

Here and there an effort had been made to clear the land, and something like a field had been marked out, where, among the stumps and ashes of burnt trees, a scanty crop of Indian corn was growing. In some quarters, a snake or zigzag fence had been begun, but in no instance had it been completed; and the felled logs, half hidden in the soil, lay mouldering away. Three or four meagre dogs, wasted and vexed with hunger; some long-legged pigs, wandering away into the woods in search of food; some children, nearly naked, gazing at him from the huts; were all the living things he saw. A fetid vapour, hot and sickening as the breath of an oven, rose up from the earth, and hung on everything around; and as his foot-prints sunk into the marshy ground, a black ooze started forth to blot them out.

Their own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so think and close that they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest, forced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples. The best were stunted, from the pressure and the want of room; and high about the stems of all grew long rank grass, dank weeds, and frowsy underwood; not divisible into their separate kinds, but tangled all together in a heap; a jungle deep and dark, with neither earth nor water at its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two, and of their own corruption.

He went down to the landing-place where they had left their goods last night; and there he found some half-dozen men—wan and forlorn to look at, but ready enough to assist—who helped him to carry them to the log-house. They shook their heads in speaking of the settlement, and had no comfort to give him. Those who had the means of going away had all deserted it. They who were left had lost their wives, their children, friends, or brothers there, and suffered much themselves. Most of them were ill then; none were the men they had been once. They frankly offered their assistance and advice, and, leaving him for that time, went sadly off upon their several tasks.

Martin was by this time stirring; but he had greatly changed, even in one night. He was very pale and languid; he spoke of pains and weakness in his limbs, and complained that his sight was dim, and his voice feeble. Increasing in his own briskness as the prospect grew more and more dismal, Mark brought away a door from one of the deserted houses, and fitted it to their own habitation; then went back again for a rude bench he had observed, with which he presently returned in triumph; and having put this piece of furniture outside the house, arranged the notable tin pot and other such movables upon it, that it might represent a dresser or a sideboard. Greatly satisfied with this arrangement, he next rolled their cask of flour into the house and set it up on end in one corner, where it served for a side-table. No better dining-table could be required than the chest, which he solemnly devoted to that useful service thenceforth. Their blankets, clothes, and the like, he hung on pegs and nails. And lastly, he brought forth a great placard (which Martin in the exultation of his heart had prepared with his own hands at the National Hotel) bearing the inscription, CHUZZLEWIT & CO., ARCHITECTS AND SURVEYORS, which he displayed upon the most conspicuous part of the premises, with as much gravity as if the thriving city of Eden had a real existence, and they expected to be overwhelmed with business.

‘These here tools,’ said Mark, bringing forward Martin’s case of instruments and sticking the compasses upright in a stump before the door, ‘shall be set out in the open air to show that we come provided. And now, if any gentleman wants a house built, he’d better give his orders, afore we’re other ways bespoke.’

Considering the intense heat of the weather, this was not a bad morning’s work; but without pausing for a moment, though he was streaming at every pore, Mark vanished into the house again, and presently reappeared with a hatchet; intent on performing some impossibilities with that implement.

‘Here’s ugly old tree in the way, sir,’ he observed, ‘which’ll be all the better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was such a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That’s convenient, anyhow.’

But Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head upon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking, perhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the home he never would behold again.

Not even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him from his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of no use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.

‘Don’t give in, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

‘Oh, Mark,’ returned his friend, ‘what have I done in all my life that has deserved this heavy fate?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘for the matter of that, everybody as is here might say the same thing; many of ‘em with better reason p’raps than you or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn’t you ease your mind, now, don’t you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to Scadder?’

‘No,’ said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: ‘I am past that.’

‘But if you’re past that already,’ returned Mark, ‘you must be ill, and ought to be attended to.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Martin. ‘Do the best you can for yourself. You’ll soon have only yourself to consider. And then God speed you home, and forgive me for bringing you here! I am destined to die in this place. I felt it the instant I set foot upon the shore. Sleeping or waking, Mark, I dreamed it all last night.’

‘I said you must be ill,’ returned Mark, tenderly, ‘and now I’m sure of it. A touch of fever and ague caught on these rivers, I dare say; but bless you, that’s nothing. It’s only a seasoning, and we must all be seasoned, one way or another. That’s religion that is, you know,’ said Mark.

He only sighed and shook his head.

‘Wait half a minute,’ said Mark cheerily, ‘till I run up to one of our neighbours and ask what’s best to be took, and borrow a little of it to give you; and to-morrow you’ll find yourself as strong as ever again. I won’t be gone a minute. Don’t give in while I’m away, whatever you do!’

Throwing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he had got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.

‘Now, Mr Tapley,’ said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the chest by way of reviver, ‘just you attend to what I’ve got to say. Things is looking about as bad as they can look, young man. You’ll not have such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my fine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now’s your time to come out strong; or Never!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

REPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY, AND REVENGE

‘Hallo, Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. ‘Isn’t somebody a-going to open that precious old door of yours?’

‘Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.’

‘Ecod,’ muttered the orphan, ‘not before it’s time neither. Whoever it is, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the—’ he had such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped even then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, ‘the Seven Sleepers.’

‘Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,’ repeated Pecksniff. ‘Thomas Pinch’—he couldn’t make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to call Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him pro tem—‘go up to my daughters’ room, and tell them who is here. Say, Silence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?

‘Directly, sir!’ cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on his errand.

‘You’ll—ha, ha, ha!—you’ll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door a moment, will you?’ said Pecksniff. ‘This may be a professional call. Indeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.’ Then Mr Pecksniff, gently warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and opened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite certain.

Seeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much confusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere surprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A joyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find me in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient pursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken, Adam was the first of our calling. my Eve, I grieve to say is no more, sir; but’—here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he were not cheerful without an effort—‘but I do a little bit of Adam still.’

He had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the portrait by Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.

‘My daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘will be overjoyed. If I could feel weary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long ago, my dear sir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness and their repeated allusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers’s. Their fair young friend, too,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘whom they so desire to know and love—indeed to know her, is to love—I hope I see her well. I hope in saying, “Welcome to my humble roof!” I find some echo in her own sentiments. If features are an index to the heart, I have no fears of that. An extremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir—very much so!’

‘Mary,’ said the old man, ‘Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But flattery from him is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and it comes from his heart. We thought Mr—’

‘Pinch,’ said Mary.

‘Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.’

‘He did arrive before you, my dear sir,’ retorted Pecksniff, raising his voice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, ‘and was about, I dare say, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him first to knock at my daughters’ chamber, and inquire after Charity, my dear child, who is not so well as I could wish. No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, answering their looks, ‘I am sorry to say, she is not. It is merely an hysterical affection; nothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr Pinch! Thomas!’ exclaimed Pecksniff, in his kindest accents. ‘Pray come in. I shall make no stranger of you. Thomas is a friend of mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you must know.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tom. ‘You introduce me very kindly, and speak of me in terms of which I am very proud.’

‘Old Thomas!’ cried his master, pleasantly ‘God bless you!’

Tom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and that the best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in preparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was speaking, the old man looked at him intently, though with less harshness than was common to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of Tom and the young lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to escape his observation.

‘Pecksniff,’ he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside towards the window, ‘I was much shocked on hearing of my brother’s death. We had been strangers for many years. My only comfort is that he must have lived the happier and better man for having associated no hopes or schemes with me. Peace to his memory! We were play-fellows once; and it would have been better for us both if we had died then.’

Finding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see another way out of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of Jonas.

‘That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for not knowing you,’ he returned, ‘you will excuse my doubting. But that Mr Anthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the affection of his excellent son—a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to all sons—and in the care of a distant relation who, however lowly in his means of serving him, had no bounds to his inclination; I can inform you.’

‘How’s this?’ said the old man. ‘You are not a legatee?’

‘You don’t,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of his hand, ‘quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not a legatee. I am proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say that neither of my children is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with him at his own request. he understood me somewhat better, sir. He wrote and said, “I am sick. I am sinking. Come to me!” I went to him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and I stood beside his grave. Yes, at the risk of offending even you, I did it, sir. Though the avowal should lead to our instant separation, and to the severing of those tender ties between us which have recently been formed, I make it. But I am not a legatee,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling dispassionately; ‘and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!’

‘His son a pattern!’ cried old Martin. ‘How can you tell me that? My brother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root of misery. He carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he would; and shed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own child a greedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the lessening distance between his father and the grave, and cursed his tardy progress on that dismal road.’

‘No!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. ‘Not at all, sir!’

‘But I saw that shadow in his house,’ said Martin Chuzzlewit, ‘the last time we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it when I see it, do I not? I, who have lived within it all these years!’

‘I deny it,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, warmly. ‘I deny it altogether. That bereaved young man is now in this house, sir, seeking in change of scene the peace of mind he has lost. Shall I be backward in doing justice to that young man, when even undertakers and coffin-makers have been moved by the conduct he has exhibited; when even mutes have spoken in his praise, and the medical man hasn’t known what to do with himself in the excitement of his feelings! There is a person of the name of Gamp, sir—Mrs Gamp—ask her. She saw Mr Jonas in a trying time. Ask her, sir. She is respectable, but not sentimental, and will state the fact. A line addressed to Mrs Gamp, at the Bird Shop, Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, London, will meet with every attention, I have no doubt. Let her be examined, my good sir. Strike, but hear! Leap, Mr Chuzzlewit, but look! Forgive me, my dear sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking both his hands, ‘if I am warm; but I am honest, and must state the truth.’

In proof of the character he gave himself, Mr Pecksniff suffered tears of honesty to ooze out of his eyes.

The old man gazed at him for a moment with a look of wonder, repeating to himself, ‘Here now! In this house!’ But he mastered his surprise, and said, after a pause:

‘Let me see him.’

‘In a friendly spirit, I hope?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Forgive me, sir but he is in the receipt of my humble hospitality.’

‘I said,’ replied the old man, ‘let me see him. If I were disposed to regard him in any other than a friendly spirit, I should have said keep us apart.’

‘Certainly, my dear sir. So you would. You are frankness itself, I know. I will break this happiness to him,’ said Mr Pecksniff, as he left the room, ‘if you will excuse me for a minute—gently.’

He paved the way to the disclosure so very gently, that a quarter of an hour elapsed before he returned with Mr Jonas. In the meantime the young ladies had made their appearance, and the table had been set out for the refreshment of the travellers.

Now, however well Mr Pecksniff, in his morality, had taught Jonas the lesson of dutiful behaviour to his uncle, and however perfectly Jonas, in the cunning of his nature, had learnt it, that young man’s bearing, when presented to his father’s brother, was anything but manly or engaging. Perhaps, indeed, so singular a mixture of defiance and obsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of dogged sullenness and an attempt at enraging and propitiation, never was expressed in any one human figure as in that of Jonas, when, having raised his downcast eyes to Martin’s face, he let them fall again, and uneasily closing and unclosing his hands without a moment’s intermission, stood swinging himself from side to side, waiting to be addressed.

‘Nephew,’ said the old man. ‘You have been a dutiful son, I hear.’

‘As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,’ returned Jonas, looking up and down once more. ‘I don’t brag to have been any better than other sons; but I haven’t been any worse, I dare say.’

‘A pattern to all sons, I am told,’ said the old man, glancing towards Mr Pecksniff.

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking his head, ‘I’ve been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It’s the pot and the kettle, if you come to that.’

‘You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,’ said Martin, after a pause. ‘Give me your hand.’

Jonas did so, and was almost at his ease. ‘Pecksniff,’ he whispered, as they drew their chairs about the table; ‘I gave him as good as he brought, eh? He had better look at home, before he looks out of window, I think?’

Mr Pecksniff only answered by a nudge of the elbow, which might either be construed into an indignant remonstrance or a cordial assent; but which, in any case, was an emphatic admonition to his chosen son-in-law to be silent. He then proceeded to do the honours of the house with his accustomed ease and amiability.

But not even Mr Pecksniff’s guileless merriment could set such a party at their ease, or reconcile materials so utterly discordant and conflicting as those with which he had to deal. The unspeakable jealously and hatred which that night’s explanation had sown in Charity’s breast, was not to be so easily kept down; and more than once it showed itself in such intensity, as seemed to render a full disclosure of all the circumstances then and there, impossible to be avoided. The beauteous Merry, too, with all the glory of her conquest fresh upon her, so probed and lanced the rankling disappointment of her sister by her capricious airs and thousand little trials of Mr Jonas’s obedience, that she almost goaded her into a fit of madness, and obliged her to retire from table in a burst of passion, hardly less vehement than that to which she had abandoned herself in the first tumult of her wrath. The constraint imposed upon the family by the presence among them for the first time of Mary Graham (for by that name old Martin Chuzzlewit had introduced her) did not at all improve this state of things; gentle and quiet though her manner was. Mr Pecksniff’s situation was peculiarly trying; for, what with having constantly to keep the peace between his daughters; to maintain a reasonable show of affection and unity in his household; to curb the growing ease and gaiety of Jonas, which vented itself in sundry insolences towards Mr Pinch, and an indefinable coarseness of manner in reference to Mary (they being the two dependants); to make no mention at all of his having perpetually to conciliate his rich old relative, and to smooth down, or explain away, some of the ten thousand bad appearances and combinations of bad appearances, by which they were surrounded on that unlucky evening—what with having to do this, and it would be difficult to sum up how much more, without the least relief or assistance from anybody, it may be easily imagined that Mr Pecksniff had in his enjoyment something more than that usual portion of alloy which is mixed up with the best of men’s delights. Perhaps he had never in his life felt such relief as when old Martin, looking at his watch, announced that it was time to go.

‘We have rooms,’ he said, ‘at the Dragon, for the present. I have a fancy for the evening walk. The nights are dark just now; perhaps Mr Pinch would not object to light us home?’

‘My dear sir!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘I shall be delighted. Merry, my child, the lantern.’

‘The lantern, if you please, my dear,’ said Martin; ‘but I couldn’t think of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to be brief, I won’t.’

Mr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so emphatically said that he paused.

‘I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,’ said Martin. ‘Which shall it be?’

‘It shall be Thomas, sir,’ cried Pecksniff, ‘since you are so resolute upon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you please.’

Tom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous, and trembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the lantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man’s bidding she drew her hand through his—Tom Pinch’s—arm!

‘And so, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, on the way, ‘you are very comfortably situated here; are you?’

Tom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he was under obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a lifetime would but imperfectly repay.

‘How long have you known my nephew?’ asked Martin.

‘Your nephew, sir?’ faltered Tom.

‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit,’ said Mary.

‘Oh dear, yes,’ cried Tom, greatly relieved, for his mind was running upon Martin. ‘Certainly. I never spoke to him before to-night, sir!’

‘Perhaps half a lifetime will suffice for the acknowledgment of his kindness,’ observed the old man.

Tom felt that this was a rebuff for him, and could not but understand it as a left-handed hit at his employer. So he was silent. Mary felt that Mr Pinch was not remarkable for presence of mind, and that he could not say too little under existing circumstances. So she was silent. The old man, disgusted by what in his suspicious nature he considered a shameless and fulsome puff of Mr Pecksniff, which was a part of Tom’s hired service and in which he was determined to persevere, set him down at once for a deceitful, servile, miserable fawner. So he was silent. And though they were all sufficiently uncomfortable, it is fair to say that Martin was perhaps the most so; for he had felt kindly towards Tom at first, and had been interested by his seeming simplicity.

‘You’re like the rest,’ he thought, glancing at the face of the unconscious Tom. ‘You had nearly imposed upon me, but you have lost your labour. You are too zealous a toad-eater, and betray yourself, Mr Pinch.’

During the whole remainder of the walk, not another word was spoken. First among the meetings to which Tom had long looked forward with a beating heart, it was memorable for nothing but embarrassment and confusion. They parted at the Dragon door; and sighing as he extinguished the candle in the lantern, Tom turned back again over the gloomy fields.

As he approached the first stile, which was in a lonely part, made very dark by a plantation of young firs, a man slipped past him and went on before. Coming to the stile he stopped, and took his seat upon it. Tom was rather startled, and for a moment stood still, but he stepped forward again immediately, and went close up to him.

It was Jonas; swinging his legs to and fro, sucking the head of a stick, and looking with a sneer at Tom.

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom, ‘who would have thought of its being you! You followed us, then?’

‘What’s that to you?’ said Jonas. ‘Go to the devil!’

‘You are not very civil, I think,’ remarked Tom.

‘Civil enough for you,’ retorted Jonas. ‘Who are you?’

‘One who has as good a right to common consideration as another,’ said Tom mildly.

‘You’re a liar,’ said Jonas. ‘You haven’t a right to any consideration. You haven’t a right to anything. You’re a pretty sort of fellow to talk about your rights, upon my soul! Ha, ha!—Rights, too!’

‘If you proceed in this way,’ returned Tom, reddening, ‘you will oblige me to talk about my wrongs. But I hope your joke is over.’

‘It’s the way with you curs,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘that when you know a man’s in real earnest, you pretend to think he’s joking, so that you may turn it off. But that won’t do with me. It’s too stale. Now just attend to me for a bit, Mr Pitch, or Witch, or Stitch, or whatever your name is.’

‘My name is Pinch,’ observed Tom. ‘Have the goodness to call me by it.’

‘What! You mustn’t even be called out of your name, mustn’t you!’ cried Jonas. ‘Pauper’ prentices are looking up, I think. Ecod, we manage ‘em a little better in the city!’

‘Never mind what you do in the city,’ said Tom. ‘What have you got to say to me?’

‘Just this, Mister Pinch,’ retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so close to Tom’s that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. ‘I advise you to keep your own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut in where you’re not wanted. I’ve heard something of you, my friend, and your meek ways; and I recommend you to forget ‘em till I am married to one of Pecksniff’s gals, and not to curry favour among my relations, but to leave the course clear. You know, when curs won’t leave the course clear, they’re whipped off; so this is kind advice. Do you understand? Eh? Damme, who are you,’ cried Jonas, with increased contempt, ‘that you should walk home with them, unless it was behind ‘em, like any other servant out of livery?’

‘Come!’ cried Tom, ‘I see that you had better get off the stile, and let me pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.’

‘Don’t think it!’ said Jonas, spreading out his legs. ‘Not till I choose. And I don’t choose now. What! You’re afraid of my making you split upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?’

‘I am not afraid of many things, I hope,’ said Tom; ‘and certainly not of anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all meanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!’ cried Tom, indignantly. ‘Is this manly from one in your position to one in mine? Please to make room for me to pass. The less I say, the better.’

‘The less you say!’ retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more, and taking no heed of this request. ‘You say very little, don’t you? Ecod, I should like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond member of my family. There’s very little in that too, I dare say!’

‘I know no vagabond member of your family,’ cried Tom, stoutly.

‘You do!’ said Jonas.

‘I don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Your uncle’s namesake, if you mean him, is no vagabond. Any comparison between you and him’—Tom snapped his fingers at him, for he was rising fast in wrath—‘is immeasurably to your disadvantage.’

‘Oh indeed!’ sneered Jonas. ‘And what do you think of his deary—his beggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?’

‘I don’t mean to say another word, or stay here another instant,’ replied Tom.

‘As I told you before, you’re a liar,’ said Jonas, coolly. ‘You’ll stay here till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you are, will you?’

He flourished his stick over Tom’s head; but in a moment it was spinning harmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in the ditch. In the momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought it into violent contact with his opponent’s forehead; and the blood welled out profusely from a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first apprised of this by seeing that he pressed his handkerchief to the wounded part, and staggered as he rose, being stunned.

‘Are you hurt?’ said Tom. ‘I am very sorry. Lean on me for a moment. You can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me malice. But I don’t know why; for I never offended you before we met on this spot.’

He made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him, or even to know that he was hurt, though he several times took his handkerchief from the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it. After one of these examinations, he looked at Tom, and then there was an expression in his features, which showed that he understood what had taken place, and would remember it.

Nothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept a little in advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the grief which the knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent benefactor. When Jonas knocked at the door, Tom’s heart beat high; higher when Miss Mercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover, shireked aloud; higher, when he followed them into the family parlour; higher than at any other time, when Jonas spoke.

‘Don’t make a noise about it,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing worth mentioning. I didn’t know the road; the night’s very dark; and just as I came up with Mr Pinch’—he turned his face towards Tom, but not his eyes—‘I ran against a tree. It’s only skin deep.’

‘Cold water, Merry, my child!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Brown paper! Scissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a bandage. Bless me, Mr Jonas!’

‘Oh, bother your nonsense,’ returned the gracious son-in-law elect. ‘Be of some use if you can. If you can’t, get out!’

Miss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in one corner, with a smile upon her face, and didn’t move a finger. Though Mercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the patient’s head between his two hands, as if without that assistance it must inevitably come in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty agitation, shook a bottle of Dutch Drops until they were nothing but English Froth, and in his other hand sustained a formidable carving-knife, really intended to reduce the swelling, but apparently designed for the ruthless infliction of another wound as soon as that was dressed; Charity rendered not the least assistance, nor uttered a word. But when Mr Jonas’s head was bound up, and he had gone to bed, and everybody else had retired, and the house was quiet, Mr Pinch, as he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating, heard a gentle tap at his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great astonishment, standing before him with her finger on her lip.

‘Mr Pinch,’ she whispered. ‘Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth! You did that? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck him? I am sure of it!’

It was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all the many years they had passed together. He was stupefied with amazement.

‘Was it so, or not?’ she eagerly demanded.

‘I was very much provoked,’ said Tom.

‘Then it was?’ cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.

‘Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,’ said Tom. ‘But I didn’t mean to hurt him so much.’

‘Not so much!’ she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her foot, to Tom’s great wonder. ‘Don’t say that. It was brave of you. I honour you for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don’t spare him for the world, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not a word of this to anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from tonight. I am always your friend from this time.’

She turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its kindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to render it at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of observation was by no means remarkable, knew from the energy with which she did it that she would have fondled any hand, no matter how bedaubed or dyed, that had broken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.

Tom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable thoughts. That there should be any such tremendous division in the family as he knew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff into his friend, for any reason, but, above all, for that which was clearly the real one; that Jonas, who had assailed him with such exceeding coarseness, should have been sufficiently magnanimous to keep the secret of their quarrel; and that any train of circumstances should have led to the commission of an assault and battery by Thomas Pinch upon any man calling himself the friend of Seth Pecksniff; were matters of such deep and painful cogitation that he could not close his eyes. His own violence, in particular, so preyed upon the generous mind of Tom, that coupling it with the many former occasions on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain and anxiety (occasions of which that gentleman often reminded him), he really began to regard himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be the evil genius and bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last, and dreamed—new source of waking uneasiness—that he had betrayed his trust, and run away with Mary Graham.

It must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom’s position in reference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw of her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable qualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a few days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and kindness between the angry sisters. When she spoke, Tom held his breath, so eagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced. She touched his organ, and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence.

God’s love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee, for three summer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over the jingling anatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour, could have missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit it was dimly known to thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy cheek when leaning down to listen, after hours of labour, for the sound of one incorrigible note, thou foundest that it had a voice at last, and wheezed out a flat something, distantly akin to what it ought to be, would not have known that it was destined for no common touch, but one that smote, though gently as an angel’s hand, upon the deepest chord within thee! And if a friendly glance—aye, even though it were as guileless as thine own, Dear Tom—could have but pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in a voice well tempered to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she first sang to the altered instrument, and wondered at the change; and thou, sitting apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a swelling heart—must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a story, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!

Tom Pinch’s situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult by the fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin. Honourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all kinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in the village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these places he might have spoken freely. But no; at all such times she carefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could not be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little delicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled him out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of kindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never returned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom’s cheek grew red with self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.

All this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat among the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little intercourse with any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not willful in other things, or troublesome, or morose; being never better pleased than when they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own amusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in whom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them. Unless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or eyes for anything that passed.

One day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree in the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by the imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas, felt that a new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the expectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to see old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his seat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:

‘When are you to be married?’

‘Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I’m sure I don’t know. Not yet awhile, I hope.’

‘You hope?’ said the old man.

It was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled excessively.

‘Come!’ said the old man, with unusual kindness, ‘you are young, good-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to be, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.’

‘I have not given it all away, I can tell you,’ said Merry, nodding her head shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.

‘Have you parted with any of it?’

She threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.

Martin repeated his question.

‘Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you are.’

‘If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man whom I understand you are to marry, I am very odd,’ said Martin. ‘For that is certainly my wish.’

‘He’s such a monster, you know,’ said Merry, pouting.

‘Then you don’t love him?’ returned the old man. ‘Is that your meaning?’

‘Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I’m sure I tell him a hundred times a day that I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.’

‘Often,’ said Martin.

‘And so I do,’ cried Merry. ‘I do positively.’

‘Being at the same time engaged to marry him,’ observed the old man.

‘Oh yes,’ said Merry. ‘But I told the wretch—my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I told him when he asked me—that if I ever did marry him, it should only be that I might hate and tease him all my life.’

She had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with anything but favour, and intended these remarks to be extremely captivating. He did not appear, however, to regard them in that light by any means; for when he spoke again, it was in a tone of severity.

‘Look about you,’ he said, pointing to the graves; ‘and remember that from your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low as these, and laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against him. Think, and speak, and act, for once, like an accountable creature. Is any control put upon your inclinations? Are you forced into this match? Are you insidiously advised or tempted to contract it, by any one? I will not ask by whom; by any one?’

‘No,’ said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know that I am.’

‘Don’t know that you are! Are you?’

‘No,’ replied Merry. ‘Nobody ever said anything to me about it. If any one had tried to make me have him, I wouldn’t have had him at all.’

‘I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister’s admirer,’ said Martin.

‘Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very hard to make him, though he is a monster, accountable for other people’s vanity,’ said Merry. ‘And poor dear Cherry is the vainest darling!’

‘It was her mistake, then?’

‘I hope it was,’ cried Merry; ‘but, all along, the dear child has been so dreadfully jealous, and so cross, that, upon my word and honour, it’s impossible to please her, and it’s of no use trying.’

‘Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,’ said Martin, thoughtfully. ‘And that’s true, I see. There is one chance yet. You may have lapsed into this engagement in very giddiness. It may have been the wanton act of a light head. Is that so?’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ simpered Merry, ‘as to light-headedness, there never was such a feather of a head as mine. It’s perfect balloon, I declare! You never did, you know!’

He waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily and slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her confidence:

‘Have you any wish—or is there anything within your breast that whispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think—to be released from this engagement?’

Again Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass, and shrugged her shoulders. No. She didn’t know that she had. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. Quite sure, she might say. She ‘didn’t mind it.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ said Martin, ‘that your married life may perhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most unhappy?’

Merry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the roots.

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall quarrel with him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people always quarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter, and all those dreadful things, you know, why I couldn’t be absolutely that, unless he always had the best of it; and I mean to have the best of it myself. I always do now,’ cried Merry, nodding her head and giggling very much; ‘for I make a perfect slave of the creature.’

‘Let it go on,’ said Martin, rising. ‘Let it go on! I sought to know your mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you joy. Joy!’ he repeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the wicket-gate where Jonas entered at the moment. And then, without waiting for his nephew, he passed out at another gate, and went away.

‘Oh, you terrible old man!’ cried the facetious Merry to herself. ‘What a perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the broad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don’t come here, Griffin, or I’ll go away directly.’

Mr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in spite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:

‘What’s my uncle been a-talking about?’

‘About you,’ rejoined Merry. ‘He says you’re not half good enough for me.’

‘Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some present worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?’

‘That he didn’t!’ cried Merry, most decisively.

‘A stingy old dog he is,’ said Jonas. ‘Well?’

‘Griffin!’ cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; ‘what are you doing, Griffin?’

‘Only giving you a squeeze,’ said the discomfited Jonas. ‘There’s no harm in that, I suppose?’

‘But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don’t consider it agreeable,’ returned his cousin. ‘Do go along, will you? You make me so hot!’

Mr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more like a murderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees, and broke silence with:

‘I say, Mel!’

‘What do you say, you vulgar thing—you low savage?’ cried his fair betrothed.

‘When is it to be? I can’t afford to go on dawdling about here half my life, I needn’t tell you, and Pecksniff says that father’s being so lately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as quiet as we please down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to the neighbours for taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he knew. As to crossbones (my uncle, I mean), he’s sure not to put a spoke in the wheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only this morning, that if you liked it he’d nothing at all to say. So, Mel,’ said Jonas, venturing on another squeeze; ‘when shall it be?’

‘Upon my word!’ cried Merry.

‘Upon my soul, if you like,’ said Jonas. ‘What do you say to next week, now?’

‘To next week! If you had said next quarter, I should have wondered at your impudence.’

‘But I didn’t say next quarter,’ retorted Jonas. ‘I said next week.’

‘Then, Griffin,’ cried Miss Merry, pushing him off, and rising. ‘I say no! not next week. It shan’t be till I choose, and I may not choose it to be for months. There!’

He glanced up at her from the ground, almost as darkly as he had looked at Tom Pinch; but held his peace.

‘No fright of a Griffin with a patch over his eye shall dictate to me or have a voice in the matter,’ said Merry. ‘There!’

Still Mr Jonas held his peace.

‘If it’s next month, that shall be the very earliest; but I won’t say when it shall be till to-morrow; and if you don’t like that, it shall never be at all,’ said Merry; ‘and if you follow me about and won’t leave me alone, it shall never be at all. There! And if you don’t do everything I order you to do, it shall never be at all. So don’t follow me. There, Griffin!’

And with that, she skipped away, among the trees.

‘Ecod, my lady!’ said Jonas, looking after her, and biting a piece of straw, almost to powder; ‘you’ll catch it for this, when you are married. It’s all very well now—it keeps one on, somehow, and you know it—but I’ll pay you off scot and lot by-and-bye. This is a plaguey dull sort of a place for a man to be sitting by himself in. I never could abide a mouldy old churchyard.’

As he turned into the avenue himself, Miss Merry, who was far ahead, happened to look back.

‘Ah!’ said Jonas, with a sullen smile, and a nod that was not addressed to her. ‘Make the most of it while it lasts. Get in your hay while the sun shines. Take your own way as long as it’s in your power, my lady!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IS IN PART PROFESSIONAL, AND FURNISHES THE READER WITH SOME VALUABLE HINTS IN RELATION TO THE MANAGEMENT OF A SICK CHAMBER

Mr Mould was surrounded by his household gods. He was enjoying the sweets of domestic repose, and gazing on them with a calm delight. The day being sultry, and the window open, the legs of Mr Mould were on the window-seat, and his back reclined against the shutter. Over his shining head a handkerchief was drawn, to guard his baldness from the flies. The room was fragrant with the smell of punch, a tumbler of which grateful compound stood upon a small round table, convenient to the hand of Mr Mould; so deftly mixed that as his eye looked down into the cool transparent drink, another eye, peering brightly from behind the crisp lemon-peel, looked up at him, and twinkled like a star.

Deep in the City, and within the ward of Cheap, stood Mr Mould’s establishment. His Harem, or, in other words, the common sitting room of Mrs Mould and family, was at the back, over the little counting-house behind the shop; abutting on a churchyard small and shady. In this domestic chamber Mr Mould now sat; gazing, a placid man, upon his punch and home. If, for a moment at a time, he sought a wider prospect, whence he might return with freshened zest to these enjoyments, his moist glance wandered like a sunbeam through a rural screen of scarlet runners, trained on strings before the window, and he looked down, with an artist’s eye, upon the graves.

The partner of his life, and daughters twain, were Mr Mould’s companions. Plump as any partridge was each Miss Mould, and Mrs M. was plumper than the two together. So round and chubby were their fair proportions, that they might have been the bodies once belonging to the angels’ faces in the shop below, grown up, with other heads attached to make them mortal. Even their peachy cheeks were puffed out and distended, as though they ought of right to be performing on celestial trumpets. The bodiless cherubs in the shop, who were depicted as constantly blowing those instruments for ever and ever without any lungs, played, it is to be presumed, entirely by ear.

Mr Mould looked lovingly at Mrs Mould, who sat hard by, and was a helpmate to him in his punch as in all other things. Each seraph daughter, too, enjoyed her share of his regards, and smiled upon him in return. So bountiful were Mr Mould’s possessions, and so large his stock in trade, that even there, within his household sanctuary, stood a cumbrous press, whose mahogany maw was filled with shrouds, and winding-sheets, and other furniture of funerals. But, though the Misses Mould had been brought up, as one may say, beneath his eye, it had cast no shadow on their timid infancy or blooming youth. Sporting behind the scenes of death and burial from cradlehood, the Misses Mould knew better. Hat-bands, to them, were but so many yards of silk or crape; the final robe but such a quantity of linen. The Misses Mould could idealise a player’s habit, or a court-lady’s petticoat, or even an act of parliament. But they were not to be taken in by palls. They made them sometimes.

The premises of Mr Mould were hard of hearing to the boisterous noises in the great main streets, and nestled in a quiet corner, where the City strife became a drowsy hum, that sometimes rose and sometimes fell and sometimes altogether ceased; suggesting to a thoughtful mind a stoppage in Cheapside. The light came sparkling in among the scarlet runners, as if the churchyard winked at Mr Mould, and said, ‘We understand each other;’ and from the distant shop a pleasant sound arose of coffin-making with a low melodious hammer, rat, tat, tat, tat, alike promoting slumber and digestion.

‘Quite the buzz of insects,’ said Mr Mould, closing his eyes in a perfect luxury. ‘It puts one in mind of the sound of animated nature in the agricultural districts. It’s exactly like the woodpecker tapping.’

‘The woodpecker tapping the hollow Elm tree,’ observed Mrs Mould, adapting the words of the popular melody to the description of wood commonly used in the trade.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Mould. ‘Not at all bad, my dear. We shall be glad to hear from you again, Mrs M. Hollow elm tree, eh! Ha, ha! Very good indeed. I’ve seen worse than that in the Sunday papers, my love.’

Mrs Mould, thus encouraged, took a little more of the punch, and handed it to her daughters, who dutifully followed the example of their mother.

‘Hollow Elm tree, eh?’ said Mr Mould, making a slight motion with his legs in his enjoyment of the joke. ‘It’s beech in the song. Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that’s one of the best things I know?’ He was so excessively tickled by the jest that he couldn’t forget it, but repeated twenty times, ‘Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Elm, of course. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my life, you know, that ought to be sent to somebody who could make use of it. It’s one of the smartest things that ever was said. Hollow Elm ree, eh? of course. Very hollow. Ha, ha, ha!’

Here a knock was heard at the room door.

‘That’s Tacker, I know,’ said Mrs Mould, ‘by the wheezing he makes. Who that hears him now, would suppose he’d ever had wind enough to carry the feathers on his head! Come in, Tacker.’

‘Beg your pardon, ma’am,’ said Tacker, looking in a little way. ‘I thought our Governor was here.’

‘Well! so he is,’ cried Mould.

‘Oh! I didn’t see you, I’m sure,’ said Tacker, looking in a little farther. ‘You wouldn’t be inclined to take a walking one of two, with the plain wood and a tin plate, I suppose?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr Mould, ‘much too common. Nothing to say to it.’

‘I told ‘em it was precious low,’ observed Mr Tacker.

‘Tell ‘em to go somewhere else. We don’t do that style of business here,’ said Mr Mould. ‘Like their impudence to propose it. Who is it?’

‘Why,’ returned Tacker, pausing, ‘that’s where it is, you see. It’s the beadle’s son-in-law.’

‘The beadle’s son-in-law, eh?’ said Mould. ‘Well! I’ll do it if the beadle follows in his cocked hat; not else. We carry it off that way, by looking official, but it’ll be low enough, then. His cocked hat, mind!’

‘I’ll take care, sir,’ rejoined Tacker. ‘Oh! Mrs Gamp’s below, and wants to speak to you.’

‘Tell Mrs Gamp to come upstairs,’ said Mould. ‘Now Mrs Gamp, what’s your news?’

The lady in question was by this time in the doorway, curtseying to Mrs Mould. At the same moment a peculiar fragrance was borne upon the breeze, as if a passing fairy had hiccoughed, and had previously been to a wine-vaults.

Mrs Gamp made no response to Mr Mould, but curtseyed to Mrs Mould again, and held up her hands and eyes, as in a devout thanksgiving that she looked so well. She was neatly, but not gaudily attired, in the weeds she had worn when Mr Pecksniff had the pleasure of making her acquaintance; and was perhaps the turning of a scale more snuffy.

‘There are some happy creeturs,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘as time runs back’ards with, and you are one, Mrs Mould; not that he need do nothing except use you in his most owldacious way for years to come, I’m sure; for young you are and will be. I says to Mrs Harris,’ Mrs Gamp continued, ‘only t’other day; the last Monday evening fortnight as ever dawned upon this Piljian’s Projiss of a mortal wale; I says to Mrs Harris when she says to me, “Years and our trials, Mrs Gamp, sets marks upon us all.”—“Say not the words, Mrs Harris, if you and me is to be continual friends, for sech is not the case. Mrs Mould,” I says, making so free, I will confess, as use the name,’ (she curtseyed here), ‘“is one of them that goes agen the obserwation straight; and never, Mrs Harris, whilst I’ve a drop of breath to draw, will I set by, and not stand up, don’t think it.”—“I ast your pardon, ma’am,” says Mrs Harris, “and I humbly grant your grace; for if ever a woman lived as would see her feller creeturs into fits to serve her friends, well do I know that woman’s name is Sairey Gamp.”’

At this point she was fain to stop for breath; and advantage may be taken of the circumstance, to state that a fearful mystery surrounded this lady of the name of Harris, whom no one in the circle of Mrs Gamp’s acquaintance had ever seen; neither did any human being know her place of residence, though Mrs Gamp appeared on her own showing to be in constant communication with her. There were conflicting rumours on the subject; but the prevalent opinion was that she was a phantom of Mrs Gamp’s brain—as Messrs. Doe and Roe are fictions of the law—created for the express purpose of holding visionary dialogues with her on all manner of subjects, and invariably winding up with a compliment to the excellence of her nature.

‘And likeways what a pleasure,’ said Mrs Gamp, turning with a tearful smile towards the daughters, ‘to see them two young ladies as I know’d afore a tooth in their pretty heads was cut, and have many a day seen—ah, the sweet creeturs!—playing at berryins down in the shop, and follerin’ the order-book to its long home in the iron safe! But that’s all past and over, Mr Mould;’ as she thus got in a carefully regulated routine to that gentleman, she shook her head waggishly; ‘That’s all past and over now, sir, an’t it?’

‘Changes, Mrs Gamp, changes!’ returned the undertaker.

‘More changes too, to come, afore we’ve done with changes, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, nodding yet more waggishly than before. ‘Young ladies with such faces thinks of something else besides berryins, don’t they, sir?’

‘I am sure I don’t know, Mrs Gamp,’ said Mould, with a chuckle—‘Not bad in Mrs Gamp, my dear?’

‘Oh yes, you do know, sir!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and so does Mrs Mould, your ‘ansome pardner too, sir; and so do I, although the blessing of a daughter was deniged me; which, if we had had one, Gamp would certainly have drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our precious boy he did, and arterward send the child a errand to sell his wooden leg for any money it would fetch as matches in the rough, and bring it home in liquor; which was truly done beyond his years, for ev’ry individgle penny that child lost at toss or buy for kidney ones; and come home arterwards quite bold, to break the news, and offering to drown himself if sech would be a satisfaction to his parents.—Oh yes, you do know, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, wiping her eye with her shawl, and resuming the thread of her discourse. ‘There’s something besides births and berryins in the newspapers, an’t there, Mr Mould?’

Mr Mould winked at Mrs Mould, whom he had by this time taken on his knee, and said: ‘No doubt. A good deal more, Mrs Gamp. Upon my life, Mrs Gamp is very far from bad, my dear!’

‘There’s marryings, an’t there, sir?’ said Mrs Gamp, while both the daughters blushed and tittered. ‘Bless their precious hearts, and well they knows it! Well you know’d it too, and well did Mrs Mould, when you was at their time of life! But my opinion is, you’re all of one age now. For as to you and Mrs Mould, sir, ever having grandchildren—’

‘Oh! Fie, fie! Nonsense, Mrs Gamp,’ replied the undertaker. ‘Devilish smart, though. Ca-pi-tal!’—this was in a whisper. ‘My dear’—aloud again—‘Mrs Gamp can drink a glass of rum, I dare say. Sit down, Mrs Gamp, sit down.’

Mrs Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, and casting up her eyes towards the ceiling, feigned to be wholly insensible to the fact of a glass of rum being in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by one of the young ladies, when she exhibited the greatest surprise.

‘A thing,’ she said, ‘as hardly ever, Mrs Mould, occurs with me unless it is when I am indispoged, and find my half a pint of porter settling heavy on the chest. Mrs Harris often and often says to me, “Sairey Gamp,” she says, “you raly do amaze me!” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “why so? Give it a name, I beg.” “Telling the truth then, ma’am,” says Mrs Harris, “and shaming him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me, never did I think till I know’d you, as any woman could sick-nurse and monthly likeways, on the little that you takes to drink.” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “none on us knows what we can do till we tries; and wunst, when me and Gamp kept ‘ouse, I thought so too. But now,” I says, “my half a pint of porter fully satisfies; perwisin’, Mrs Harris, that it is brought reg’lar, and draw’d mild. Whether I sicks or monthlies, ma’am, I hope I does my duty, but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my living hard; therefore I do require it, which I makes confession, to be brought reg’lar and draw’d mild.”’

The precise connection between these observations and the glass of rum, did not appear; for Mrs Gamp proposing as a toast ‘The best of lucks to all!’ took off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any further remarks.

‘And what’s your news, Mrs Gamp?’ asked Mould again, as that lady wiped her lips upon her shawl, and nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which she appeared to carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent drams. ‘How’s Mr Chuffey?’

‘Mr Chuffey, sir,’ she replied, ‘is jest as usual; he an’t no better and he an’t no worse. I take it very kind in the gentleman to have wrote up to you and said, “let Mrs Gamp take care of him till I come home;” but ev’rythink he does is kind. There an’t a many like him. If there was, we shouldn’t want no churches.’

‘What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs Gamp?’ said Mould, coming to the point.

‘Jest this, sir,’ Mrs Gamp returned, ‘with thanks to you for asking. There is a gent, sir, at the Bull in Holborn, as has been took ill there, and is bad abed. They have a day nurse as was recommended from Bartholomew’s; and well I knows her, Mr Mould, her name bein’ Mrs Prig, the best of creeturs. But she is otherways engaged at night, and they are in wants of night-watching; consequent she says to them, having reposed the greatest friendliness in me for twenty year, “The soberest person going, and the best of blessings in a sick room, is Mrs Gamp. Send a boy to Kingsgate Street,” she says, “and snap her up at any price, for Mrs Gamp is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas.” My landlord brings the message down to me, and says, “bein’ in a light place where you are, and this job promising so well, why not unite the two?” “No, sir,” I says, “not unbeknown to Mr Mould, and therefore do not think it. But I will go to Mr Mould,” I says, “and ast him, if you like.”’ Here she looked sideways at the undertaker, and came to a stop.

‘Night-watching, eh?’ said Mould, rubbing his chin.

‘From eight o’clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive you,’ Mrs Gamp rejoined.

‘And then go back, eh?’ said would.

‘Quite free, then, sir, to attend to Mr Chuffey. His ways bein’ quiet, and his hours early, he’d be abed, sir, nearly all the time. I will not deny,’ said Mrs Gamp with meekness, ‘that I am but a poor woman, and that the money is a object; but do not let that act upon you, Mr Mould. Rich folks may ride on camels, but it an’t so easy for ‘em to see out of a needle’s eye. That is my comfort, and I hope I knows it.’

‘Well, Mrs Gamp,’ observed Mould, ‘I don’t see any particular objection to your earning an honest penny under such circumstances. I should keep it quiet, I think, Mrs Gamp. I wouldn’t mention it to Mr Chuzzlewit on his return, for instance, unless it were necessary, or he asked you pointblank.’

‘The very words was on my lips, sir,’ Mrs Gamp rejoined. ‘Suppoging that the gent should die, I hope I might take the liberty of saying as I know’d some one in the undertaking line, and yet give no offence to you, sir?’

‘Certainly, Mrs Gamp,’ said Mould, with much condescension. ‘You may casually remark, in such a case, that we do the thing pleasantly and in a great variety of styles, and are generally considered to make it as agreeable as possible to the feelings of the survivors. But don’t obtrude it, don’t obtrude it. Easy, easy! My dear, you may as well give Mrs Gamp a card or two, if you please.’

Mrs Gamp received them, and scenting no more rum in the wind (for the bottle was locked up again) rose to take her departure.

‘Wishing ev’ry happiness to this happy family,’ said Mrs Gamp ‘with all my heart. Good arternoon, Mrs Mould! If I was Mr would I should be jealous of you, ma’am; and I’m sure, if I was you, I should be jealous of Mr Mould.’

‘Tut, tut! Bah, bah! Go along, Mrs Gamp!’ cried the delighted undertaker.

‘As to the young ladies,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey, ‘bless their sweet looks—how they can ever reconsize it with their duties to be so grown up with such young parents, it an’t for sech as me to give a guess at.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense. Be off, Mrs Gamp!’ cried Mould. But in the height of his gratification he actually pinched Mrs Mould as he said it.

‘I’ll tell you what, my dear,’ he observed, when Mrs Gamp had at last withdrawn and shut the door, ‘that’s a ve-ry shrewd woman. That’s a woman whose intellect is immensely superior to her station in life. That’s a woman who observes and reflects in an uncommon manner. She’s the sort of woman now,’ said Mould, drawing his silk handkerchief over his head again, and composing himself for a nap ‘one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing; and do it neatly, too!’

Mrs Mould and her daughters fully concurred in these remarks; the subject of which had by this time reached the street, where she experienced so much inconvenience from the air, that she was obliged to stand under an archway for a short time, to recover herself. Even after this precaution, she walked so unsteadily as to attract the compassionate regards of divers kind-hearted boys, who took the liveliest interest in her disorder; and in their simple language bade her be of good cheer, for she was ‘only a little screwed.’

Whatever she was, or whatever name the vocabulary of medical science would have bestowed upon her malady, Mrs Gamp was perfectly acquainted with the way home again; and arriving at the house of Anthony Chuzzlewit & Son, lay down to rest. Remaining there until seven o’clock in the evening, and then persuading poor old Chuffey to betake himself to bed, she sallied forth upon her new engagement. First, she went to her private lodgings in Kingsgate Street, for a bundle of robes and wrappings comfortable in the night season; and then repaired to the Bull in Holborn, which she reached as the clocks were striking eight.

As she turned into the yard, she stopped; for the landlord, landlady, and head chambermaid, were all on the threshold together talking earnestly with a young gentleman who seemed to have just come or to be just going away. The first words that struck upon Mrs Gamp’s ear obviously bore reference to the patient; and it being expedient that all good attendants should know as much as possible about the case on which their skill is brought to bear, Mrs Gamp listened as a matter of duty.

‘No better, then?’ observed the gentleman.

‘Worse!’ said the landlord.

‘Much worse,’ added the landlady.

‘Oh! a deal badder,’ cried the chambermaid from the background, opening her eyes very wide, and shaking her head.

‘Poor fellow!’ said the gentleman, ‘I am sorry to hear it. The worst of it is, that I have no idea what friends or relations he has, or where they live, except that it certainly is not in London.’

The landlord looked at the landlady; the landlady looked at the landlord; and the chambermaid remarked, hysterically, ‘that of all the many wague directions she had ever seen or heerd of (and they wasn’t few in an hotel), that was the waguest.’

‘The fact is, you see,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘as I told you yesterday when you sent to me, I really know very little about him. We were school-fellows together; but since that time I have only met him twice. On both occasions I was in London for a boy’s holiday (having come up for a week or so from Wiltshire), and lost sight of him again directly. The letter bearing my name and address which you found upon his table, and which led to your applying to me, is in answer, you will observe, to one he wrote from this house the very day he was taken ill, making an appointment with him at his own request. Here is his letter, if you wish to see it.’

The landlord read it; the landlady looked over him. The chambermaid, in the background, made out as much of it as she could, and invented the rest; believing it all from that time forth as a positive piece of evidence.

‘He has very little luggage, you say?’ observed the gentleman, who was no other than our old friend, John Westlock.

‘Nothing but a portmanteau,’ said the landlord; ‘and very little in it.’

‘A few pounds in his purse, though?’

‘Yes. It’s sealed up, and in the cash-box. I made a memorandum of the amount, which you’re welcome to see.’

‘Well!’ said John, ‘as the medical gentleman says the fever must take its course, and nothing can be done just now beyond giving him his drinks regularly and having him carefully attended to, nothing more can be said that I know of, until he is in a condition to give us some information. Can you suggest anything else?’

‘N-no,’ replied the landlord, ‘except—’

‘Except, who’s to pay, I suppose?’ said John.

‘Why,’ hesitated the landlord, ‘it would be as well.’

‘Quite as well,’ said the landlady.

‘Not forgetting to remember the servants,’ said the chambermaid in a bland whisper.

‘It is but reasonable, I fully admit,’ said John Westlock. ‘At all events, you have the stock in hand to go upon for the present; and I will readily undertake to pay the doctor and the nurses.’

‘Ah!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘A rayal gentleman!’

She groaned her admiration so audibly, that they all turned round. Mrs Gamp felt the necessity of advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing herself.

‘The night-nurse,’ she observed, ‘from Kingsgate Street, well beknown to Mrs Prig the day-nurse, and the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear gentleman to-night? If he an’t no better yet, still that is what must be expected and prepared for. It an’t the fust time by a many score, ma’am,’ dropping a curtsey to the landlady, ‘that Mrs Prig and me has nussed together, turn and turn about, one off, one on. We knows each other’s ways, and often gives relief when others fail. Our charges is but low, sir’—Mrs Gamp addressed herself to John on this head—‘considerin’ the nater of our painful dooty. If they wos made accordin’ to our wishes, they would be easy paid.’

Regarding herself as having now delivered her inauguration address, Mrs Gamp curtseyed all round, and signified her wish to be conducted to the scene of her official duties. The chambermaid led her, through a variety of intricate passages, to the top of the house; and pointing at length to a solitary door at the end of a gallery, informed her that yonder was the chamber where the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all the speed she could make.

Mrs Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from having carried her large bundle up so many stairs, and tapped at the door which was immediately opened by Mrs Prig, bonneted and shawled and all impatience to be gone. Mrs Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so fat; and her voice was deeper and more like a man’s. She had also a beard.

‘I began to think you warn’t a-coming!’ Mrs Prig observed, in some displeasure.

‘It shall be made good to-morrow night,’ said Mrs Gamp ‘Honorable. I had to go and fetch my things.’ She had begun to make signs of inquiry in reference to the position of the patient and his overhearing them—for there was a screen before the door—when Mrs Prig settled that point easily.

‘Oh!’ she said aloud, ‘he’s quiet, but his wits is gone. It an’t no matter wot you say.’

‘Anythin’ to tell afore you goes, my dear?’ asked Mrs Gamp, setting her bundle down inside the door, and looking affectionately at her partner.

‘The pickled salmon,’ Mrs Prig replied, ‘is quite delicious. I can partlck’ler recommend it. Don’t have nothink to say to the cold meat, for it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.’

Mrs Gamp expressed herself much gratified.

‘The physic and them things is on the drawers and mankleshelf,’ said Mrs Prig, cursorily. ‘He took his last slime draught at seven. The easy-chair an’t soft enough. You’ll want his piller.’

Mrs Gamp thanked her for these hints, and giving her a friendly good night, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end of the gallery. Having thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her safely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle, walked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick chamber.

‘A little dull, but not so bad as might be,’ Mrs Gamp remarked. ‘I’m glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and chimley-pots to walk upon.’

It will be seen from these remarks that Mrs Gamp was looking out of window. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair, which she indignantly declared was ‘harder than a brickbadge.’ Next she pursued her researches among the physic-bottles, glasses, jugs, and tea-cups; and when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these subjects of investigation, she untied her bonnet-strings and strolled up to the bedside to take a look at the patient.

A young man—dark and not ill-looking—with long black hair, that seemed the blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly open, and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the pillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter words; but every now and then gave vent to an expression of impatience or fatigue, sometimes of surprise; and still his restless head—oh, weary, weary hour!—went to and fro without a moment’s intermission.

Mrs Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him with her head inclined a little sideways, as a connoisseur might gaze upon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one branch of her calling took possession of the woman; and stooping down, she pinned his wandering arms against his sides, to see how he would look if laid out as a dead man. Her fingers itched to compose his limbs in that last marble attitude.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, walking away from the bed, ‘he’d make a lovely corpse.’

She now proceeded to unpack her bundle; lighted a candle with the aid of a fire-box on the drawers; filled a small kettle, as a preliminary to refreshing herself with a cup of tea in the course of the night; laid what she called ‘a little bit of fire,’ for the same philanthropic purpose; and also set forth a small tea-board, that nothing might be wanting for her comfortable enjoyment. These preparations occupied so long, that when they were brought to a conclusion it was high time to think about supper; so she rang the bell and ordered it.

‘I think, young woman,’ said Mrs Gamp to the assistant chambermaid, in a tone expressive of weakness, ‘that I could pick a little bit of pickled salmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white pepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with just a little pat of fresh butter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing as a cowcumber in the ‘ouse, will you be so kind as bring it, for I’m rather partial to ‘em, and they does a world of good in a sick room. If they draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes that ale at night, my love, it bein’ considered wakeful by the doctors. And whatever you do, young woman, don’t bring more than a shilling’s-worth of gin and water-warm when I rings the bell a second time; for that is always my allowance, and I never takes a drop beyond!’

Having preferred these moderate requests, Mrs Gamp observed that she would stand at the door until the order was executed, to the end that the patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time; and therefore she would thank the young woman to ‘look sharp.’

A tray was brought with everything upon it, even to the cucumber and Mrs Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good humour. The extent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that refreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed in narrative.

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling’s-worth, ‘what a blessed thing it is—living in a wale—to be contented! What a blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never mind one’s self as long as one can do a service! I don’t believe a finer cowcumber was ever grow’d. I’m sure I never see one!’

She moralised in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then administered the patient’s medicine, by the simple process of clutching his windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his throat.

‘I a’most forgot the piller, I declare!’ said Mrs Gamp, drawing it away. ‘There! Now he’s comfortable as he can be, I’m sure! I must try to make myself as much so as I can.’

With this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed in the easy-chair, with the addition of the next easy one for her feet. Having formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she took out of her bundle a yellow night-cap, of prodigious size, in shape resembling a cabbage; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with the utmost care, previously divesting herself of a row of bald old curls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very innocent of anything approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought forth a night-jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she produced a watchman’s coat which she tied round her neck by the sleeves, so that she become two people; and looked, behind, as if she were in the act of being embraced by one of the old patrol.

All these arrangements made, she lighted the rush-light, coiled herself up on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became, and full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were gradually hushed; the house was quiet as a sepulchre; the dead of night was coffined in the silent city.

Oh, weary, weary hour! Oh, haggard mind, groping darkly through the past; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present; dragging its heavy chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes of awful pomp; seeking but a moment’s rest among the long-forgotten haunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday; and dimly finding fear and horror everywhere! Oh, weary, weary hour! What were the wanderings of Cain, to these!

Still, without a moment’s interval, the burning head tossed to and fro. Still, from time to time, fatigue, impatience, suffering, and surprise, found utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in words. At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk; waiting awfully for answers sometimes; as though invisible companions were about his bed; and so replying to their speech and questioning again.

Mrs Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed; presenting on the wall the shadow of a gigantic night constable, struggling with a prisoner.

‘Come! Hold your tongue!’ she cried, in sharp reproof. ‘Don’t make none of that noise here.’

There was no alteration in the face, or in the incessant motion of the head, but he talked on wildly.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver; ‘I thought I was a-sleepin’ too pleasant to last! The devil’s in the night, I think, it’s turned so chilly!’

‘Don’t drink so much!’ cried the sick man. ‘You’ll ruin us all. Don’t you see how the fountain sinks? Look at the mark where the sparkling water was just now!’

‘Sparkling water, indeed!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I’ll have a sparkling cup o’ tea, I think. I wish you’d hold your noise!’

He burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal wail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count—fast.

‘One—two—three—four—five—six.’

“One, two, buckle my shoe,”’ said Mrs Gamp, who was now on her knees, lighting the fire, “three, four, shut the door,”—I wish you’d shut your mouth, young man—“five, six, picking up sticks.” If I’d got a few handy, I should have the kettle boiling all the sooner.’

Awaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the fender (which was a high one) that her nose rested upon it; and for some time she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and forwards along the brass top, as far as she could, without changing her position to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary upon the wanderings of the man in bed.

‘That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with the same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window, and out at the door,’ he cried, anxiously. ‘Look there! Five hundred and twenty-two—twenty-three—twenty-four. Do you see them?’

‘Ah! I see ‘em,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘all the whole kit of ‘em numbered like hackney-coaches, an’t they?’

‘Touch me! Let me be sure of this. Touch me!’

‘You’ll take your next draught when I’ve made the kettle bile,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, composedly, ‘and you’ll be touched then. You’ll be touched up, too, if you don’t take it quiet.’

‘Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five hundred and thirty.—Look here!’

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘They’re coming four abreast, each man with his arm entwined in the next man’s, and his hand upon his shoulder. What’s that upon the arm of every man, and on the flag?’

‘Spiders, p’raps,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Crape! Black crape! Good God! why do they wear it outside?’

‘Would you have ‘em carry black crape in their insides?’ Mrs Gamp retorted. ‘Hold your noise, hold your noise.’

The fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs Gamp became silent; gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the top of the fender; and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the room ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew:

‘Chuzzlewit!’

The sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonised entreaty, that Mrs Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to find the passage filled with people, come to tell her that the house in the city had taken fire. But the place was empty; not a soul was there. She opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate house-tops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient. Just the same; but silent. Mrs Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off the watchman’s coat, and fanned herself.

‘It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,’ she said. ‘What could I have been a-dreaming of? That dratted Chuffey, I’ll be bound.’

The supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and the song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs Gamp’s nerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea; made some buttered toast; and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the fire.

When once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in her slumbering ear, these words were shrieked out:

‘Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!’

Mrs Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and turned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry had come from the bed.

It was bright morning the next time Mrs Gamp looked out of the window, and the sun was rising cheerfully. Lighter and lighter grew the sky, and noisier the streets; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of newly kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake.

Mrs Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other patient’s. Mr Westlock came at the same time, but he was not admitted, the disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook his head. It was all he could do, under the circumstances, and he did it well.

‘What sort of a night, nurse?’

‘Restless, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Talk much?’

‘Middling, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Nothing to the purpose, I suppose?’

‘Oh bless you, no, sir. Only jargon.’

‘Well!’ said the doctor, ‘we must keep him quiet; keep the room cool; give him his draughts regularly; and see that he’s carefully looked to. That’s all!’

‘And as long as Mrs Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘I suppose,’ observed Mrs Prig, when they had curtseyed the doctor out; ‘there’s nothin’ new?’

‘Nothin’ at all, my dear,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He’s rather wearin’ in his talk from making up a lot of names; elseways you needn’t mind him.’

‘Oh, I shan’t mind him,’ Mrs Prig returned. ‘I have somethin’ else to think of.’

‘I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But, Betsy Prig’—speaking with great feeling, and laying her hand upon her arm—‘try the cowcumbers, God bless you!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT

The laws of sympathy between beards and birds, and the secret source of that attraction which frequently impels a shaver of the one to be a dealer in the other, are questions for the subtle reasoning of scientific bodies; not the less so, because their investigation would seem calculated to lead to no particular result. It is enough to know that the artist who had the honour of entertaining Mrs Gamp as his first-floor lodger, united the two pursuits of barbering and bird-fancying; and that it was not an original idea of his, but one in which he had, dispersed about the by-streets and suburbs of the town, a host of rivals.

The name of the householder was Paul Sweedlepipe. But he was commonly called Poll Sweedlepipe; and was not uncommonly believed to have been so christened, among his friends and neighbours.

With the exception of the staircase, and his lodger’s private apartment, Poll Sweedlepipe’s house was one great bird’s nest. Gamecocks resided in the kitchen; pheasants wasted the brightness of their golden plumage on the garret; bantams roosted in the cellar; owls had possession of the bedroom; and specimens of all the smaller fry of birds chirrupped and twittered in the shop. The staircase was sacred to rabbits. There in hutches of all shapes and kinds, made from old packing-cases, boxes, drawers, and tea-chests, they increased in a prodigious degree, and contributed their share towards that complicated whiff which, quite impartially, and without distinction of persons, saluted every nose that was put into Sweedlepipe’s easy shaving-shop.

Many noses found their way there, for all that, especially on Sunday morning, before church-time. Even archbishops shave, or must be shaved, on a Sunday, and beards will grow after twelve o’clock on Saturday night, though it be upon the chins of base mechanics; who, not being able to engage their valets by the quarter, hire them by the job, and pay them—oh, the wickedness of copper coin!—in dirty pence. Poll Sweedlepipe, the sinner, shaved all comers at a penny each, and cut the hair of any customer for twopence; and being a lone unmarried man, and having some connection in the bird line, Poll got on tolerably well.

He was a little elderly man, with a clammy cold right hand, from which even rabbits and birds could not remove the smell of shaving-soap. Poll had something of the bird in his nature; not of the hawk or eagle, but of the sparrow, that builds in chimney-stacks and inclines to human company. He was not quarrelsome, though, like the sparrow; but peaceful, like the dove. In his walk he strutted; and, in this respect, he bore a faint resemblance to the pigeon, as well as in a certain prosiness of speech, which might, in its monotony, be likened to the cooing of that bird. He was very inquisitive; and when he stood at his shop-door in the evening-tide, watching the neighbours, with his head on one side, and his eye cocked knowingly, there was a dash of the raven in him. Yet there was no more wickedness in Poll than in a robin. Happily, too, when any of his ornithological properties were on the verge of going too far, they were quenched, dissolved, melted down, and neutralised in the barber; just as his bald head—otherwise, as the head of a shaved magpie—lost itself in a wig of curly black ringlets, parted on one side, and cut away almost to the crown, to indicate immense capacity of intellect.

Poll had a very small, shrill treble voice, which might have led the wags of Kingsgate Street to insist the more upon his feminine designation. He had a tender heart, too; for, when he had a good commission to provide three or four score sparrows for a shooting-match, he would observe, in a compassionate tone, how singular it was that sparrows should have been made expressly for such purposes. The question, whether men were made to shoot them, never entered into Poll’s philosophy.

Poll wore, in his sporting character, a velveteen coat, a great deal of blue stocking, ankle boots, a neckerchief of some bright colour, and a very tall hat. Pursuing his more quiet occupation of barber, he generally subsided into an apron not over-clean, a flannel jacket, and corduroy knee-shorts. It was in this latter costume, but with his apron girded round his waist, as a token of his having shut up shop for the night, that he closed the door one evening, some weeks after the occurrences detailed in the last chapter, and stood upon the steps in Kingsgate Street, listening until the little cracked bell within should leave off ringing. For until it did—this was Mr Sweedlepipe’s reflection—the place never seemed quiet enough to be left to itself.

‘It’s the greediest little bell to ring,’ said Poll, ‘that ever was. But it’s quiet at last.’

He rolled his apron up a little tighter as he said these words, and hastened down the street. Just as he was turning into Holborn, he ran against a young gentleman in a livery. This youth was bold, though small, and with several lively expressions of displeasure, turned upon him instantly.

‘Now, stoo-pid!’ cried the young gentleman. ‘Can’t you look where you’re a-going to—eh? Can’t you mind where you’re a-coming to—eh? What do you think your eyes was made for—eh? Ah! Yes. Oh! Now then!’

The young gentleman pronounced the two last words in a very loud tone and with frightful emphasis, as though they contained within themselves the essence of the direst aggravation. But he had scarcely done so, when his anger yielded to surprise, and he cried, in a milder tone:

‘What! Polly!’

‘Why, it an’t you, sure!’ cried Poll. ‘It can’t be you!’

‘No. It an’t me,’ returned the youth. ‘It’s my son, my oldest one. He’s a credit to his father, an’t he, Polly?’ With this delicate little piece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round in circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the inconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal state of spirits with himself.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ said Poll. ‘What! You’ve left your old place, then? Have you?’

‘Have I!’ returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his hands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering along at the barber’s side. ‘D’ye know a pair of top-boots when you see ‘em, Polly?—look here!’

‘Beau-ti-ful’ cried Mr Sweedlepipe.

‘D’ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?’ said the youth. ‘Don’t look at mine, if you ain’t a judge, because these lions’ heads was made for men of taste; not snobs.’

‘Beau-ti-ful!’ cried the barber again. ‘A grass-green frock-coat, too, bound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!’

‘I should hope so,’ replied the youth. ‘Blow the cockade, though; for, except that it don’t turn round, it’s like the wentilator that used to be in the kitchen winder at Todgers’s. You ain’t seen the old lady’s name in the Gazette, have you?’

‘No,’ returned the barber. ‘Is she a bankrupt?’

‘If she ain’t, she will be,’ retorted Bailey. ‘That bis’ness never can be carried on without me. Well! How are you?’

‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘Are you living at this end of the town, or were you coming to see me? Was that the bis’ness that brought you to Holborn?’

‘I haven’t got no bis’ness in Holborn,’ returned Bailey, with some displeasure. ‘All my bis’ness lays at the West End. I’ve got the right sort of governor now. You can’t see his face for his whiskers, and can’t see his whiskers for the dye upon ‘em. That’s a gentleman ain’t it? You wouldn’t like a ride in a cab, would you? Why, it wouldn’t be safe to offer it. You’d faint away, only to see me a-comin’ at a mild trot round the corner.’

To convey a slight idea of the effect of this approach, Mr Bailey counterfeited in his own person the action of a high-trotting horse and threw up his head so high, in backing against a pump, that he shook his hat off.

‘Why, he’s own uncle to Capricorn,’ said Bailey, ‘and brother to Cauliflower. He’s been through the winders of two chaney shops since we’ve had him, and was sold for killin’ his missis. That’s a horse, I hope?’

‘Ah! you’ll never want to buy any more red polls, now,’ observed Poll, looking on his young friend with an air of melancholy. ‘You’ll never want to buy any more red polls now, to hang up over the sink, will you?’

‘I should think not,’ replied Bailey. ‘Reether so. I wouldn’t have nothin’ to say to any bird below a Peacock; and he’d be wulgar. Well, how are you?’

‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. He answered the question again because Mr Bailey asked it again; Mr Bailey asked it again, because—accompanied with a straddling action of the white cords, a bend of the knees, and a striking forth of the top-boots—it was an easy horse-fleshy, turfy sort of thing to do.

‘Wot are you up to, old feller?’ added Mr Bailey, with the same graceful rakishness. He was quite the man-about-town of the conversation, while the easy-shaver was the child.

‘Why, I am going to fetch my lodger home,’ said Paul.

‘A woman!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘for a twenty-pun’ note!’

The little barber hastened to explain that she was neither a young woman, nor a handsome woman, but a nurse, who had been acting as a kind of house-keeper to a gentleman for some weeks past, and left her place that night, in consequence of being superseded by another and a more legitimate house-keeper—to wit, the gentleman’s bride.

‘He’s newly married, and he brings his young wife home to-night,’ said the barber. ‘So I’m going to fetch my lodger away—Mr Chuzzlewit’s, close behind the Post Office—and carry her box for her.’

‘Jonas Chuzzlewit’s?’ said Bailey.

‘Ah!’ returned Paul: ‘that’s the name sure enough. Do you know him?’

‘Oh, no!’ cried Mr Bailey; ‘not at all. And I don’t know her! Not neither! Why, they first kept company through me, a’most.’

‘Ah?’ said Paul.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Bailey, with a wink; ‘and she ain’t bad looking mind you. But her sister was the best. She was the merry one. I often used to have a bit of fun with her, in the hold times!’

Mr Bailey spoke as if he already had a leg and three-quarters in the grave, and this had happened twenty or thirty years ago. Paul Sweedlepipe, the meek, was so perfectly confounded by his precocious self-possession, and his patronizing manner, as well as by his boots, cockade, and livery, that a mist swam before his eyes, and he saw—not the Bailey of acknowledged juvenility from Todgers’s Commercial Boarding House, who had made his acquaintance within a twelvemonth, by purchasing, at sundry times, small birds at twopence each—but a highly-condensed embodiment of all the sporting grooms in London; an abstract of all the stable-knowledge of the time; a something at a high-pressure that must have had existence many years, and was fraught with terrible experiences. And truly, though in the cloudy atmosphere of Todgers’s, Mr Bailey’s genius had ever shone out brightly in this particular respect, it now eclipsed both time and space, cheated beholders of their senses, and worked on their belief in defiance of all natural laws. He walked along the tangible and real stones of Holborn Hill, an undersized boy; and yet he winked the winks, and thought the thoughts, and did the deeds, and said the sayings of an ancient man. There was an old principle within him, and a young surface without. He became an inexplicable creature; a breeched and booted Sphinx. There was no course open to the barber, but to go distracted himself, or to take Bailey for granted; and he wisely chose the latter.

Mr Bailey was good enough to continue to bear him company, and to entertain him, as they went, with easy conversation on various sporting topics; especially on the comparative merits, as a general principle, of horses with white stockings, and horses without. In regard to the style of tail to be preferred, Mr Bailey had opinions of his own, which he explained, but begged they might by no means influence his friend’s, as here he knew he had the misfortune to differ from some excellent authorities. He treated Mr Sweedlepipe to a dram, compounded agreeably to his own directions, which he informed him had been invented by a member of the Jockey Club; and, as they were by this time near the barber’s destination, he observed that, as he had an hour to spare, and knew the parties, he would, if quite agreeable, be introduced to Mrs Gamp.

Paul knocked at Jonas Chuzzlewit’s; and, on the door being opened by that lady, made the two distinguished persons known to one another. It was a happy feature in Mrs Gamp’s twofold profession, that it gave her an interest in everything that was young as well as in everything that was old. She received Mr Bailey with much kindness.

‘It’s very good, I’m sure, of you to come,’ she said to her landlord, ‘as well as bring so nice a friend. But I’m afraid that I must trouble you so far as to step in, for the young couple has not yet made appearance.’

‘They’re late, ain’t they?’ inquired her landlord, when she had conducted them downstairs into the kitchen.

‘Well, sir, considern’ the Wings of Love, they are,’ said Mrs Gamp.

Mr Bailey inquired whether the Wings of Love had ever won a plate, or could be backed to do anything remarkable; and being informed that it was not a horse, but merely a poetical or figurative expression, evinced considerable disgust. Mrs Gamp was so very much astonished by his affable manners and great ease, that she was about to propound to her landlord in a whisper the staggering inquiry, whether he was a man or a boy, when Mr Sweedlepipe, anticipating her design, made a timely diversion.

‘He knows Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ said Paul aloud.

‘There’s nothin’ he don’t know; that’s my opinion,’ observed Mrs Gamp. ‘All the wickedness of the world is Print to him.’

Mr Bailey received this as a compliment, and said, adjusting his cravat, ‘reether so.’

‘As you knows Mrs Chuzzlewit, you knows, p’raps, what her chris’en name is?’ Mrs Gamp observed.

‘Charity,’ said Bailey.

‘That it ain’t!’ cried Mrs Gamp.

‘Cherry, then,’ said Bailey. ‘Cherry’s short for it. It’s all the same.’

‘It don’t begin with a C at all,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, shaking her head. ‘It begins with a M.’

‘Whew!’ cried Mr Bailey, slapping a little cloud of pipe-clay out of his left leg, ‘then he’s been and married the merry one!’

As these words were mysterious, Mrs Gamp called upon him to explain, which Mr Bailey proceeded to do; that lady listening greedily to everything he said. He was yet in the fullness of his narrative when the sound of wheels, and a double knock at the street door, announced the arrival of the newly married couple. Begging him to reserve what more he had to say for her hearing on the way home, Mrs Gamp took up the candle, and hurried away to receive and welcome the young mistress of the house.

‘Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey as they entered the hall; ‘and you, too, sir. Your lady looks a little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!’

‘She has bothered enough about it,’ grumbled Mr Jonas. ‘Now, show a light, will you?’

‘This way, ma’am, if you please,’ said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before them. ‘Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there’s many things you’ll have to alter your own self when you gets time to look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don’t,’ added Mrs Gamp, internally, ‘you don’t look much like a merry one, I must say!’

It was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal seemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and oppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and corner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged clerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He rose and looked at her.

‘So there you are, Mr Chuff,’ said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his boots; ‘still in the land of the living, eh?’

‘Still in the land of the living, sir,’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘And Mr Chuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I’ve told him.’

Mr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he looked round, ‘We don’t want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.’

‘I’m a-going immediate, sir,’ returned the nurse; ‘unless there’s nothink I can do for you, ma’am. Ain’t there,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket; ‘ain’t there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?’

‘No,’ said Merry, almost crying. ‘You had better go away, please!’ With a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the future, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly spiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar to her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a printed card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.

‘Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,’ Mrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, ‘as put that somewheres where you can keep it in your mind? I’m well beknown to many ladies, and it’s my card. Gamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin’ quite handy, I will make so bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and spirits is, my precious chick!’

And with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys, all leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential understanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a blessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and curtseyed herself out of the room.

‘But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for it,’ Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, ‘that she don’t look much like a merry one at this present moment of time.’

‘Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!’ said Bailey.

‘Hem!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. ‘I will, child.’

They said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr Sweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards Kingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin and progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It was a pleasant instance of this youth’s precocity, that he fancied Mrs Gamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her misplaced attachment.

As the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair, and felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the room. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary. She had thought to see it brightened to receive her.

‘It ain’t good enough for you, I suppose?’ said Jonas, watching her looks.

‘Why, it is dull,’ said Merry, trying to be more herself.

‘It’ll be duller before you’re done with it,’ retorted Jonas, ‘if you give me any of your airs. You’re a nice article, to turn sulky on first coming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague me with it. The gal’s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take my boots off!’

She roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do what he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on her arm.

‘You are not married?’ he said eagerly. ‘Not married?’

‘Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?’

He answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear and wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above his head, and heard him say:

‘Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!’

It was her welcome—home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN FALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY SOMETIMES BE BITTEN.

Mr Bailey, Junior—for the sporting character, whilom of general utility at Todgers’s, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without troubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in the form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills is without exception the most unreasonable in its charges—Mr Bailey, Junior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing indolently at society from beneath the apron of his master’s cab, drove slowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his ‘Governor.’ The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his nephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his high relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with foam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the patent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was complacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, ‘A barrow, good people, a mere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!’ and on he went, squaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on to it by his armpits.

Mr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated his powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his practice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful, if not injurious, expressions, as, ‘Ah! would you!’ ‘Did you think it, then?’ ‘Where are you going to now?’ ‘No, you won’t, my lad!’ and similar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk of the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength between them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating, now and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had already hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.

On the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than commonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal confined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his paces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the cabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr Bailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to bestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown coal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, ‘Now, young ‘un, who trusted you with a cart?’ inquiring of elderly ladies who wanted to cross, and ran back again, ‘Why they didn’t go to the workhouse and get an order to be buried?’ tempting boys, with friendly words, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down; and the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally relieve by going round St. James’s Square at a hand gallop, and coming slowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace had been a perfect crawl.

It was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the apple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to appear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain house in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out. It was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every jerk of Cauliflower’s brother’s head, and every twitch of Cauliflower’s brother’s nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that two persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove rapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds of yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron step, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind. Then, indeed, he became a sight to see; and—standing now on one foot and now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side, now on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went dashing in among the carts and coaches—was from head to heel Newmarket.

The appearance of Mr Bailey’s governor as he drove along fully justified that enthusiastic youth’s description of him to the wondering Poll. He had a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks, upon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were of the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue, and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a honey-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his outward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down, and inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same Satanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered, newly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.

Beside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business looks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the—how shall it be phrased?—the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David, tapster at the Lombards’ Arms? Yes. The very man.

‘The secretary’s salary, David,’ said Mr Montague, ‘the office being now established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent, coals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course. Is that enough?’

David smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio which he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in question.

‘If that’s enough,’ said Montague, ‘I will propose it at the Board to-day, in my capacity as chairman.’

The secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said, rubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:

‘It was a capital thought, wasn’t it?’

‘What was a capital thought, David?’ Mr Montague inquired.

‘The Anglo-Bengalee,’ tittered the secretary.

‘The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is rather a capital concern, I hope, David,’ said Montague.

‘Capital indeed!’ cried the secretary, with another laugh—’ in one sense.’

‘In the only important one,’ observed the chairman; ‘which is number one, David.’

‘What,’ asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, ‘what will be the paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?’

‘A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get into the same line,’ replied his friend. ‘Ha, ha!’

At this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking up his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower’s brother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr Bailey’s receiving such a sudden swing, that he held on for a moment quite a young Fame, by one strap and no legs.

‘What a chap you are!’ exclaimed David admiringly, when this little alarm had subsided.

‘Say, genius, David, genius.’

‘Well, upon my soul, you are a genius then,’ said David. ‘I always knew you had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were half the man you are. How could I?’

‘I rise with circumstances, David. That’s a point of genius in itself,’ said Tigg. ‘If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at this minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly improbable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.’

It is due to Mr Tigg to say that he had really risen with his opportunities; and, peculating on a grander scale, he had become a grander man altogether.

‘Ha, ha,’ cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing familiarity, upon the chairman’s arm. ‘When I look at you, and think of your property in Bengal being—ha, ha, ha!—’

The half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr Tigg than to his friend, for he laughed too, heartily.

‘—Being,’ resumed David, ‘being amenable—your property in Bengal being amenable—to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think of that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at me. Upon my soul you might!’

‘It a devilish fine property,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘to be amenable to any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money, David.’

David could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, ‘Oh, what a chap you are!’ and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe his eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.

‘A capital idea?’ said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion’s first remark; ‘no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.’

‘No, no. It was my idea,’ said David. ‘Hang it, let a man have some credit. Didn’t I say to you that I’d saved a few pounds?—’

‘You said! Didn’t I say to you,’ interposed Tigg, ‘that I had come into a few pounds?’

‘Certainly you did,’ returned David, warmly, ‘but that’s not the idea. Who said, that if we put the money together we could furnish an office, and make a show?’

‘And who said,’ retorted Mr Tigg, ‘that, provided we did it on a sufficiently large scale, we could furnish an office and make a show, without any money at all? Be rational, and just, and calm, and tell me whose idea was that.’

‘Why, there,’ David was obliged to confess, ‘you had the advantage of me, I admit. But I don’t put myself on a level with you. I only want a little credit in the business.’

‘All the credit you deserve to have,’ said Tigg.

‘The plain work of the company, David—figures, books, circulars, advertisements, pen, ink, and paper, sealing-wax and wafers—is admirably done by you. You are a first-rate groveller. I don’t dispute it. But the ornamental department, David; the inventive and poetical department—’

‘Is entirely yours,’ said his friend. ‘No question of it. But with such a swell turnout as this, and all the handsome things you’ve got about you, and the life you lead, I mean to say it’s a precious comfortable department too.’

‘Does it gain the purpose? Is it Anglo-Bengalee?’ asked Tigg.

‘Yes,’ said David.

‘Could you undertake it yourself?’ demanded Tigg.

‘No,’ said David.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Tigg. ‘Then be contented with your station and your profits, David, my fine fellow, and bless the day that made us acquainted across the counter of our common uncle, for it was a golden day to you.’

It will have been already gathered from the conversation of these worthies, that they were embarked in an enterprise of some magnitude, in which they addressed the public in general from the strong position of having everything to gain and nothing at all to lose; and which, based upon this great principle, was thriving pretty comfortably.

The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company started into existence one morning, not an Infant Institution, but a Grown-up Company running alone at a great pace, and doing business right and left: with a ‘branch’ in a first floor over a tailor’s at the west-end of the town, and main offices in a new street in the City, comprising the upper part of a spacious house resplendent in stucco and plate-glass, with wire-blinds in all the windows, and ‘Anglo-Bengalee’ worked into the pattern of every one of them. On the doorpost was painted again in large letters, ‘offices of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company,’ and on the door was a large brass plate with the same inscription; always kept very bright, as courting inquiry; staring the City out of countenance after office hours on working days, and all day long on Sundays; and looking bolder than the Bank. Within, the offices were newly plastered, newly painted, newly papered, newly countered, newly floor-clothed, newly tabled, newly chaired, newly fitted up in every way, with goods that were substantial and expensive, and designed (like the company) to last. Business! Look at the green ledgers with red backs, like strong cricket-balls beaten flat; the court-guides directories, day-books, almanacks, letter-boxes, weighing-machines for letters, rows of fire-buckets for dashing out a conflagration in its first spark, and saving the immense wealth in notes and bonds belonging to the company; look at the iron safes, the clock, the office seal—in its capacious self, security for anything. Solidity! Look at the massive blocks of marble in the chimney-pieces, and the gorgeous parapet on the top of the house! Publicity! Why, Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance company is painted on the very coal-scuttles. It is repeated at every turn until the eyes are dazzled with it, and the head is giddy. It is engraved upon the top of all the letter paper, and it makes a scroll-work round the seal, and it shines out of the porter’s buttons, and it is repeated twenty times in every circular and public notice wherein one David Crimple, Esquire, Secretary and resident Director, takes the liberty of inviting your attention to the accompanying statement of the advantages offered by the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; and fully proves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment must result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus to yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except the office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And this, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you believe him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by the Board of Management for its permanence and stability.

This gentleman’s name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as the word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be misrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.

Lest with all these proofs and confirmations, any man should be suspicious of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance company; should doubt in tiger, cab, or person, Tigg Montague, Esquire, (of Pall Mall and Bengal), or any other name in the imaginative List of Directors; there was a porter on the premises—a wonderful creature, in a vast red waistcoat and a short-tailed pepper-and-salt coat—who carried more conviction to the minds of sceptics than the whole establishment without him. No confidences existed between him and the Directorship; nobody knew where he had served last; no character or explanation had been given or required. No questions had been asked on either side. This mysterious being, relying solely on his figure, had applied for the situation, and had been instantly engaged on his own terms. They were high; but he knew, doubtless, that no man could carry such an extent of waistcoat as himself, and felt the full value of his capacity to such an institution. When he sat upon a seat erected for him in a corner of the office, with his glazed hat hanging on a peg over his head, it was impossible to doubt the respectability of the concern. It went on doubling itself with every square inch of his red waistcoat until, like the problem of the nails in the horse’s shoes, the total became enormous. People had been known to apply to effect an insurance on their lives for a thousand pounds, and looking at him, to beg, before the form of proposal was filled up, that it might be made two. And yet he was not a giant. His coat was rather small than otherwise. The whole charm was in his waistcoat. Respectability, competence, property in Bengal or anywhere else, responsibility to any amount on the part of the company that employed him, were all expressed in that one garment.

Rival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself had beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered ‘Be a Beadle!’ but he still continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep rogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he appeared to believe in the Anglo-Bengalee. He was grave with imaginary cares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less to take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties, and a sense of the treasure in the company’s strong-room, made him a solemn and a thoughtful man.

As the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed on the pavement, crying aloud ‘Room for the chairman, room for the chairman, if you please!’ much to the admiration of the bystanders, who, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the Anglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped gracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time very distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by the porter, who cried as he went, ‘By your leave there! by your leave! The Chairman of the Board, Gentle—men! In like manner, but in a still more stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public office, where some humble clients were transacting business, into an awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary immediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.

The board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of Tigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office, garnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table, set out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean pens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat. This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little fiction.

‘Bullamy!’ said Mr Tigg.

‘Sir!’ replied the porter.

‘Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.’

Bullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying ‘The Chairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave there! By your leave!’ He soon returned with the gentleman in question; and at both openings of the board-room door—at his coming in and at his going out—simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and stand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that mysterious chamber.

‘Jobling, my dear friend!’ said Mr Tigg, ‘how are you? Bullamy, wait outside. Crimple, don’t leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to see you.’

‘And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?’ said the Medical Officer, throwing himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his black satin waistcoat. ‘How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices with lunch, Mr Montague.’

The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs Gamp’s patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, ‘I always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!’

‘Bullamy!’ said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.

‘Sir!’

‘Lunch.’

‘Not on my account, I hope?’ said the doctor. ‘You are very good. Thank you. I’m quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner, Mr Montague, I shouldn’t have mentioned it without a fee; for you may depend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don’t make a point of taking lunch, you’ll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate this. In Mr Crimple’s leg—’

The resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the heat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as if he were going to take it off, then and there.

‘In Mr Crimple’s leg, you’ll observe,’ pursued the doctor, turning back his cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, ‘where Mr Crimple’s knee fits into the socket, here, there is—that is to say, between the bone and the socket—a certain quantity of animal oil.’

‘What do you pick my leg out for?’ said Mr Crimple, looking with something of an anxious expression at his limb. ‘It’s the same with other legs, ain’t it?’

‘Never you mind, my good sir,’ returned the doctor, shaking his head, ‘whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.’

‘But I do mind,’ said David.

‘I take a particular case, Mr Montague,’ returned the doctor, ‘as illustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple’s leg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr Crimple’s joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very good. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper quantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the consequence? Mr Crimple’s bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and Mr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!’

The doctor let Mr Crimple’s leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in that agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked triumphantly at the chairman.

‘We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the College for that; and we take our station in society by that. It’s extraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where do you suppose, now’—the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back smilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which his two thumbs composed the base—‘where do you suppose Mr Crimple’s stomach is?’

Mr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately below his waistcoat.

‘Not at all,’ cried the doctor; ‘not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My good sir, you’re altogether deceived.’

‘I feel it there, when it’s out of order; that’s all I know,’ said Crimple.

‘You think you do,’ replied the doctor; ‘but science knows better. There was a patient of mine once,’ touching one of the many mourning rings upon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, ‘a gentleman who did me the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will—“in testimony,” as he was pleased to say, “of the unremitting zeal, talent, and attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire, M.R.C.S.,”—who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life laboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important organ, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was mistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, “Jobling, God bless you!” Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was ultimately buried at Brixton.’

‘By your leave there!’ cried Bullamy, without. ‘By your leave! Refreshment for the Board-room!’

‘Ha!’ said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his chair nearer to the table. ‘The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The best Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat and drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?’

The resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification of replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his preconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance of the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls, flanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his good humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle of excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked the repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical officer.

The lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate, and china; which seemed to denote that eating and drinking on a showy scale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee Directorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more joyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every drop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and to light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.

In certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was, as we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He had a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy. His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest, creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands, or warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Ah!’ at intervals while patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It seemed to express, ‘I know what you’re going to say better than you do; but go on, go on.’ As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything to say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was ‘full of anecdote;’ and his experience and profit from it were considered, for the same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His female patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of his male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, ‘that whatever Jobling’s professional skill might be (and it could not be denied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most comfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!’

Jobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his connection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly the sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical officer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the company in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary, or to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help it. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this manner:

‘Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information, you see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in consideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of his hire; bis dat qui cito dat’—(‘classical scholar, Jobling!’ thinks the patient, ‘well-read man!’)—‘and I receive it regularly. Therefore I am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the establishment.’ (‘Nothing can be fairer than Jobling’s conduct,’ thinks the patient, who has just paid Jobling’s bill himself.) ‘If you put any question to me, my dear friend,’ says the doctor, ‘touching the responsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I have no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of showing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy—your amiable lady will agree with me I am sure—should be one of the first characteristics of a medical man.’ (‘Nothing can be finer or more gentlemanly than Jobling’s feeling,’ thinks the patient.) ‘Very good, my dear sir, so the matter stands. You don’t know Mr Montague? I’m sorry for it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every respect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging to him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish scale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are perfection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the company, I’ll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously report you a healthy subject. If I understand any man’s constitution, it is yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good, ma’am,’ says the doctor, turning to the patient’s wife, ‘than if he had swallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery. For they are nonsense—to tell the honest truth, one half of them are nonsense—compared with such a constitution as his!’ (‘Jobling is the most friendly creature I ever met with in my life,’ thinks the patient; ‘and upon my word and honour, I’ll consider of it!’)

‘Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this morning, eh?’ said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over some papers brought in by the porter. ‘Well done!’

‘Jobling, my dear friend,’ said Tigg, ‘long life to you.’

‘No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I’ve no right to draw the commission,’ said the doctor, ‘I haven’t really. It’s picking your pocket. I don’t recommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what I know, and I tell ‘em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak side, that’s the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,’ said the doctor, filling his glass, ‘caution in behalf of other people. Whether I would repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying money elsewhere for many years—that’s quite another question.’

He tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he did it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.

‘Talking of wine,’ said the doctor, ‘reminds me of one of the finest glasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a funeral. You have not seen anything of—of that party, Mr Montague, have you?’ handing him a card.

‘He is not buried, I hope?’ said Tigg, as he took it. ‘The honour of his company is not requested if he is.’

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed the doctor. ‘No; not quite. He was honourably connected with that very occasion though.’

‘Oh!’ said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the name. ‘I recollect. No. He has not been here.’

The words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card to the Medical Officer.

‘Talk of the what’s his name—’ observed the doctor rising.

‘And he’s sure to appear, eh?’ said Tigg.

‘Why, no, Mr Montague, no,’ returned the doctor. ‘We will not say that in the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.’

‘So much the better,’ retorted Tigg. ‘So much the more adaptable to the Anglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the other door. Mr Crimple, business.’

‘Shall I introduce him?’ asked Jobling.

‘I shall be eternally delighted,’ answered Tigg, kissing his hand and smiling sweetly.

The doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned with Jonas Chuzzlewit.

‘Mr Montague,’ said Jobling. ‘Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear friend—our chairman. Now do you know,’ he added checking himself with infinite policy, and looking round with a smile; ‘that’s a very singular instance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable instance of the force of example. I say our chairman. Why do I say our chairman? Because he is not my chairman, you know. I have no connection with the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and reward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any day to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply because I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the involuntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man. Mr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.’

Pending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and sonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at the board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader’s knowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in the nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine furniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.

‘Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,’ said the doctor, ‘and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are waiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make after—after I have taken ‘em. Having had the happiness to introduce you to each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr Montague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you: That gentleman has done more, sir,’ rapping his snuff-box solemnly, ‘to reconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!’

With these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded in his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a sense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and the great difficulty of getting into the Anglo-Bengalee; by feeling their pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs, poking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn’t well know beforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee would accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his friend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious imitation.

Mr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas Chuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.

‘I learn from our friend,’ said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas with a winning ease of manner, ‘that you have been thinking—’

‘Oh! Ecod then he’d no right to say so,’ cried Jonas, interrupting. ‘I didn’t tell him my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was coming here for such or such a purpose, why, that’s his lookout. I don’t stand committed by that.’

Jonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual distrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge himself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion as he had been unable to withstand their influence.

‘If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to consider of, I don’t bind myself to anything. Let’s understand that, you know,’ said Jonas.

‘My dear fellow!’ cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘I applaud your frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all possible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you know so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all birds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in serving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining our own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you’re in our secret. You’re behind the scenes. We’ll make a merit of dealing plainly with you, when we know we can’t help it.’

It was remarked, on the first introduction of Mr Jonas into these pages, that there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of innocence, and that in all matters involving a faith in knavery, he was the most credulous of men. If Mr Tigg had preferred any claim to high and honourable dealing, Jonas would have suspected him though he had been a very model of probity; but when he gave utterance to Jonas’s own thoughts of everything and everybody, Jonas began to feel that he was a pleasant fellow, and one to be talked to freely.

He changed his position in the chair, not for a less awkward, but for a more boastful attitude; and smiling in his miserable conceit rejoined:

‘You an’t a bad man of business, Mr Montague. You know how to set about it, I will say.’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tigg, nodding confidentially, and showing his white teeth; ‘we are not children, Mr Chuzzlewit; we are grown men, I hope.’

Jonas assented, and said after a short silence, first spreading out his legs, and sticking one arm akimbo to show how perfectly at home he was,

‘The truth is—’

‘Don’t say, the truth,’ interposed Tigg, with another grin. ‘It’s so like humbug.’

Greatly charmed by this, Jonas began again.

‘The long and the short of it is—’

‘Better,’ muttered Tigg. ‘Much better!’

‘—That I didn’t consider myself very well used by one or two of the old companies in some negotiations I have had with ‘em—once had, I mean. They started objections they had no right to start, and put questions they had no right to put, and carried things much too high for my taste.’

As he made these observations he cast down his eyes, and looked curiously at the carpet. Mr Tigg looked curiously at him.

He made so long a pause, that Tigg came to the rescue, and said, in his pleasantest manner:

‘Take a glass of wine.’

‘No, no,’ returned Jonas, with a cunning shake of the head; ‘none of that, thankee. No wine over business. All very well for you, but it wouldn’t do for me.’

‘What an old hand you are, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ said Tigg, leaning back in his chair, and leering at him through his half-shut eyes.

Jonas shook his head again, as much as to say, ‘You’re right there;’ And then resumed, jocosely:

‘Not such an old hand, either, but that I’ve been and got married. That’s rather green, you’ll say. Perhaps it is, especially as she’s young. But one never knows what may happen to these women, so I’m thinking of insuring her life. It is but fair, you know, that a man should secure some consolation in case of meeting with such a loss.’

‘If anything can console him under such heart-breaking circumstances,’ murmured Tigg, with his eyes shut up as before.

‘Exactly,’ returned Jonas; ‘if anything can. Now, supposing I did it here, I should do it cheap, I know, and easy, without bothering her about it; which I’d much rather not do, for it’s just in a woman’s way to take it into her head, if you talk to her about such things, that she’s going to die directly.’

‘So it is,’ cried Tigg, kissing his hand in honour of the sex. ‘You’re quite right. Sweet, silly, fluttering little simpletons!’

‘Well,’ said Jonas, ‘on that account, you know, and because offence has been given me in other quarters, I wouldn’t mind patronizing this Company. But I want to know what sort of security there is for the Company’s going on. That’s the—’

‘Not the truth?’ cried Tigg, holding up his jewelled hand. ‘Don’t use that Sunday School expression, please!’

‘The long and the short of it,’ said Jonas. ‘The long and the short of it is, what’s the security?’

‘The paid-up capital, my dear sir,’ said Tigg, referring to some papers on the table, ‘is, at this present moment—’

‘Oh! I understand all about paid-up capitals, you know,’ said Jonas.

‘You do?’ cried Tigg, stopping short.

‘I should hope so.’

He turned the papers down again, and moving nearer to him, said in his ear:

‘I know you do. I know you do. Look at me!’

It was not much in Jonas’s way to look straight at anybody; but thus requested, he made shift to take a tolerable survey of the chairman’s features. The chairman fell back a little, to give him the better opportunity.

‘You know me?’ he inquired, elevating his eyebrows. ‘You recollect? You’ve seen me before?’

‘Why, I thought I remembered your face when I first came in,’ said Jonas, gazing at it; ‘but I couldn’t call to mind where I had seen it. No. I don’t remember, even now. Was it in the street?’

‘Was it in Pecksniff’s parlour?’ said Tigg

‘In Pecksniff’s parlour!’ echoed Jonas, fetching a long breath. ‘You don’t mean when—’

‘Yes,’ cried Tigg, ‘when there was a very charming and delightful little family party, at which yourself and your respected father assisted.’

‘Well, never mind him,’ said Jonas. ‘He’s dead, and there’s no help for it.’

‘Dead, is he!’ cried Tigg, ‘Venerable old gentleman, is he dead! You’re very like him.’

Jonas received this compliment with anything but a good grace, perhaps because of his own private sentiments in reference to the personal appearance of his deceased parent; perhaps because he was not best pleased to find that Montague and Tigg were one. That gentleman perceived it, and tapping him familiarly on the sleeve, beckoned him to the window. From this moment, Mr Montague’s jocularity and flow of spirits were remarkable.

‘Do you find me at all changed since that time?’ he asked. ‘Speak plainly.’

Jonas looked hard at his waistcoat and jewels; and said ‘Rather, ecod!’

‘Was I at all seedy in those days?’ asked Montague.

‘Precious seedy,’ said Jonas.

Mr Montague pointed down into the street, where Bailey and the cab were in attendance.

‘Neat; perhaps dashing. Do you know whose it is?’

‘No.’

‘Mine. Do you like this room?’

‘It must have cost a lot of money,’ said Jonas.

‘You’re right. Mine too. Why don’t you’—he whispered this, and nudged him in the side with his elbow—‘why don’t you take premiums, instead of paying ‘em? That’s what a man like you should do. Join us!’

Jonas stared at him in amazement.

‘Is that a crowded street?’ asked Montague, calling his attention to the multitude without.

‘Very,’ said Jonas, only glancing at it, and immediately afterwards looking at him again.

‘There are printed calculations,’ said his companion, ‘which will tell you pretty nearly how many people will pass up and down that thoroughfare in the course of a day. I can tell you how many of ‘em will come in here, merely because they find this office here; knowing no more about it than they do of the Pyramids. Ha, ha! Join us. You shall come in cheap.’

Jonas looked at him harder and harder.

‘I can tell you,’ said Tigg in his ear, ‘how many of ‘em will buy annuities, effect insurances, bring us their money in a hundred shapes and ways, force it upon us, trust us as if we were the Mint; yet know no more about us than you do of that crossing-sweeper at the corner. Not so much. Ha, ha!’

Jonas gradually broke into a smile.

‘Yah!’ said Montague, giving him a pleasant thrust in the breast; ‘you’re too deep for us, you dog, or I wouldn’t have told you. Dine with me to-morrow, in Pall Mall!’

‘I will’ said Jonas.

‘Done!’ cried Montague. ‘Wait a bit. Take these papers with you and look ‘em over. See,’ he said, snatching some printed forms from the table. ‘B is a little tradesman, clerk, parson, artist, author, any common thing you like.’

‘Yes,’ said Jonas, looking greedily over his shoulder. ‘Well!’

‘B wants a loan. Say fifty or a hundred pound; perhaps more; no matter. B proposes self and two securities. B is accepted. Two securities give a bond. B assures his own life for double the amount, and brings two friends’ lives also—just to patronize the office. Ha ha, ha! Is that a good notion?’

‘Ecod, that’s a capital notion!’ cried Jonas. ‘But does he really do it?’

‘Do it!’ repeated the chairman. ‘B’s hard up, my good fellow, and will do anything. Don’t you see? It’s my idea.’

‘It does you honour. I’m blest if it don’t,’ said Jonas.

‘I think it does,’ replied the chairman, ‘and I’m proud to hear you say so. B pays the highest lawful interest—’

‘That an’t much,’ interrupted Jonas.

‘Right! quite right!’ retorted Tigg. ‘And hard it is upon the part of the law that it should be so confoundedly down upon us unfortunate victims; when it takes such amazing good interest for itself from all its clients. But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door. Well! The law being hard upon us, we’re not exactly soft upon B; for besides charging B the regular interest, we get B’s premium, and B’s friends’ premiums, and we charge B for the bond, and, whether we accept him or not, we charge B for “inquiries” (we keep a man, at a pound a week, to make ‘em), and we charge B a trifle for the secretary; and in short, my good fellow, we stick it into B, up hill and down dale, and make a devilish comfortable little property out of him. Ha, ha, ha! I drive B, in point of fact,’ said Tigg, pointing to the cabriolet, ‘and a thoroughbred horse he is. Ha, ha, ha!’

Jonas enjoyed this joke very much indeed. It was quite in his peculiar vein of humour.

‘Then,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘we grant annuities on the very lowest and most advantageous terms known in the money market; and the old ladies and gentlemen down in the country buy ‘em. Ha, ha, ha! And we pay ‘em too—perhaps. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘But there’s responsibility in that,’ said Jonas, looking doubtful.

‘I take it all myself,’ said Tigg Montague. ‘Here I am responsible for everything. The only responsible person in the establishment! Ha, ha, ha! Then there are the Life Assurances without loans; the common policies. Very profitable, very comfortable. Money down, you know; repeated every year; capital fun!’

‘But when they begin to fall in,’ observed Jonas. ‘It’s all very well, while the office is young, but when the policies begin to die—that’s what I am thinking of.’

‘At the first start, my dear fellow,’ said Montague, ‘to show you how correct your judgment is, we had a couple of unlucky deaths that brought us down to a grand piano.’

‘Brought you down where?’ cried Jonas.

‘I give you my sacred word of honour,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘that I raised money on every other individual piece of property, and was left alone in the world with a grand piano. And it was an upright-grand too, so that I couldn’t even sit upon it. But, my dear fellow, we got over it. We granted a great many new policies that week (liberal allowance to solicitors, by the bye), and got over it in no time. Whenever they should chance to fall in heavily, as you very justly observe they may, one of these days; then—’ he finished the sentence in so low a whisper, that only one disconnected word was audible, and that imperfectly. But it sounded like ‘Bolt.’

‘Why, you’re as bold as brass!’ said Jonas, in the utmost admiration.

‘A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he gets gold in exchange!’ cried the chairman, with a laugh that shook him from head to foot. ‘You’ll dine with me to-morrow?’

‘At what time?’ asked Jonas.

‘Seven. Here’s my card. Take the documents. I see you’ll join us!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jonas. ‘There’s a good deal to be looked into first.’

‘You shall look,’ said Montague, slapping him on the back, ‘into anything and everything you please. But you’ll join us, I am convinced. You were made for it. Bullamy!’

Obedient to the summons and the little bell, the waistcoat appeared. Being charged to show Jonas out, it went before; and the voice within it cried, as usual, ‘By your leave there, by your leave! Gentleman from the board-room, by your leave!’

Mr Montague being left alone, pondered for some moments, and then said, raising his voice:

‘Is Nadgett in the office there?’

‘Here he is, sir.’ And he promptly entered; shutting the board-room door after him, as carefully as if he were about to plot a murder.

He was the man at a pound a week who made the inquiries. It was no virtue or merit in Nadgett that he transacted all his Anglo-Bengalee business secretly and in the closest confidence; for he was born to be a secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered old man, who seemed to have secreted his very blood; for nobody would have given him credit for the possession of six ounces of it in his whole body. How he lived was a secret; where he lived was a secret; and even what he was, was a secret. In his musty old pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in some of which he called himself a coal-merchant, in others a wine-merchant, in others a commission-agent, in others a collector, in others an accountant; as if he really didn’t know the secret himself. He was always keeping appointments in the City, and the other man never seemed to come. He would sit on ‘Change for hours, looking at everybody who walked in and out, and would do the like at Garraway’s, and in other business coffee-rooms, in some of which he would be occasionally seen drying a very damp pocket-handkerchief before the fire, and still looking over his shoulder for the man who never appeared. He was mildewed, threadbare, shabby; always had flue upon his legs and back; and kept his linen so secretly buttoning up and wrapping over, that he might have had none—perhaps he hadn’t. He carried one stained beaver glove, which he dangled before him by the forefinger as he walked or sat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some people said he had been a bankrupt, others that he had gone an infant into an ancient Chancery suit which was still depending, but it was all a secret. He carried bits of sealing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal in his pocket, and often secretly indited letters in corner boxes of the trysting-places before mentioned; but they never appeared to go to anybody, for he would put them into a secret place in his coat, and deliver them to himself weeks afterwards, very much to his own surprise, quite yellow. He was that sort of man that if he had died worth a million of money, or had died worth twopence halfpenny, everybody would have been perfectly satisfied, and would have said it was just as they expected. And yet he belonged to a class; a race peculiar to the City; who are secrets as profound to one another, as they are to the rest of mankind.

‘Mr Nadgett,’ said Montague, copying Jonas Chuzzlewit’s address upon a piece of paper, from the card which was still lying on the table, ‘any information about this name, I shall be glad to have myself. Don’t you mind what it is. Any you can scrape together, bring me. Bring it to me, Mr Nadgett.’

Nadgett put on his spectacles, and read the name attentively; then looked at the chairman over his glasses, and bowed; then took them off, and put them in their case; and then put the case in his pocket. When he had done so, he looked, without his spectacles, at the paper as it lay before him, and at the same time produced his pocket-book from somewhere about the middle of his spine. Large as it was, it was very full of documents, but he found a place for this one; and having clasped it carefully, passed it by a kind of solemn legerdemain into the same region as before.

He withdrew with another bow and without a word; opening the door no wider than was sufficient for his passage out; and shutting it as carefully as before. The chairman of the board employed the rest of the morning in affixing his sign-manual of gracious acceptance to various new proposals of annuity-purchase and assurance. The Company was looking up, for they flowed in gayly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MR. MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR. JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME

There were many powerful reasons for Jonas Chuzzlewit being strongly prepossessed in favour of the scheme which its great originator had so boldly laid open to him; but three among them stood prominently forward. Firstly, there was money to be made by it. Secondly, the money had the peculiar charm of being sagaciously obtained at other people’s cost. Thirdly, it involved much outward show of homage and distinction: a board being an awful institution in its own sphere, and a director a mighty man. ‘To make a swingeing profit, have a lot of chaps to order about, and get into regular good society by one and the same means, and them so easy to one’s hand, ain’t such a bad look-out,’ thought Jonas. The latter considerations were only second to his avarice; for, conscious that there was nothing in his person, conduct, character, or accomplishments, to command respect, he was greedy of power, and was, in his heart, as much a tyrant as any laureled conqueror on record.

But he determined to proceed with cunning and caution, and to be very keen on his observation of the gentility of Mr Montague’s private establishment. For it no more occurred to this shallow knave that Montague wanted him to be so, or he wouldn’t have invited him while his decision was yet in abeyance, than the possibility of that genius being able to overreach him in any way, pierced through his self-deceit by the inlet of a needle’s point. He had said, in the outset, that Jonas was too sharp for him; and Jonas, who would have been sharp enough to believe him in nothing else, though he had solemnly sworn it, believed him in that, instantly.

It was with a faltering hand, and yet with an imbecile attempt at a swagger, that he knocked at his new friend’s door in Pall Mall when the appointed hour arrived. Mr Bailey quickly answered to the summons. He was not proud and was kindly disposed to take notice of Jonas; but Jonas had forgotten him.

‘Mr Montague at home?’

‘I should hope he wos at home, and waiting dinner, too,’ said Bailey, with the ease of an old acquaintance. ‘Will you take your hat up along with you, or leave it here?’

Mr Jonas preferred leaving it there.

‘The hold name, I suppose?’ said Bailey, with a grin.

Mr Jonas stared at him in mute indignation.

‘What, don’t you remember hold mother Todgers’s?’ said Mr Bailey, with his favourite action of the knees and boots. ‘Don’t you remember my taking your name up to the young ladies, when you came a-courting there? A reg’lar scaly old shop, warn’t it? Times is changed ain’t they. I say how you’ve growed!’

Without pausing for any acknowledgement of this compliment, he ushered the visitor upstairs, and having announced him, retired with a private wink.

The lower story of the house was occupied by a wealthy tradesman, but Mr Montague had all the upper portion, and splendid lodging it was. The room in which he received Jonas was a spacious and elegant apartment, furnished with extreme magnificence; decorated with pictures, copies from the antique in alabaster and marble, china vases, lofty mirrors, crimson hangings of the richest silk, gilded carvings, luxurious couches, glistening cabinets inlaid with precious woods; costly toys of every sort in negligent abundance. The only guests besides Jonas were the doctor, the resident Director, and two other gentlemen, whom Montague presented in due form.

‘My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Jobling you know, I believe?’

‘I think so,’ said the doctor pleasantly, as he stepped out of the circle to shake hands. ‘I trust I have the honour. I hope so. My dear sir, I see you well. Quite well? That’s well!’

‘Mr Wolf,’ said Montague, as soon as the doctor would allow him to introduce the two others, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit. Mr Pip, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

Both gentlemen were exceedingly happy to have the honour of making Mr Chuzzlewit’s acquaintance. The doctor drew Jonas a little apart, and whispered behind his hand:

‘Men of the world, my dear sir—men of the world. Hem! Mr Wolf—literary character—you needn’t mention it—remarkably clever weekly paper—oh, remarkably clever! Mr Pip—theatrical man—capital man to know—oh, capital man!’

‘Well!’ said Wolf, folding his arms and resuming a conversation which the arrival of Jonas had interrupted. ‘And what did Lord Nobley say to that?’

‘Why,’ returned Pip, with an oath. ‘He didn’t know what to say. Same, sir, if he wasn’t as mute as a poker. But you know what a good fellow Nobley is!’

‘The best fellow in the world!’ cried Wolf. ‘It as only last week that Nobley said to me, “By Gad, Wolf, I’ve got a living to bestow, and if you had but been brought up at the University, strike me blind if I wouldn’t have made a parson of you!”’

‘Just like him,’ said Pip with another oath. ‘And he’d have done it!’

‘Not a doubt of it,’ said Wolf. ‘But you were going to tell us—’

‘Oh, yes!’ cried Pip. ‘To be sure. So I was. At first he was dumb—sewn up, dead, sir—but after a minute he said to the Duke, “Here’s Pip. Ask Pip. Pip’s our mutual friend. Ask Pip. He knows.” “Damme!” said the Duke, “I appeal to Pip then. Come, Pip. Bandy or not bandy? Speak out!” “Bandy, your Grace, by the Lord Harry!” said I. “Ha, ha!” laughed the Duke. “To be sure she is. Bravo, Pip. Well said Pip. I wish I may die if you’re not a trump, Pip. Pop me down among your fashionable visitors whenever I’m in town, Pip.” And so I do, to this day.’

The conclusion of this story gave immense satisfaction, which was in no degree lessened by the announcement of dinner. Jonas repaired to the dining room, along with his distinguished host, and took his seat at the board between that individual and his friend the doctor. The rest fell into their places like men who were well accustomed to the house; and dinner was done full justice to, by all parties.

It was a good a one as money (or credit, no matter which) could produce. The dishes, wines, and fruits were of the choicest kind. Everything was elegantly served. The plate was gorgeous. Mr Jonas was in the midst of a calculation of the value of this item alone, when his host disturbed him.

‘A glass of wine?’

‘Oh!’ said Jonas, who had had several glasses already. ‘As much of that as you like! It’s too good to refuse.’

‘Well said, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ cried Wolf.

‘Tom Gag, upon my soul!’ said Pip.

‘Positively, you know, that’s—ha, ha, ha!’ observed the doctor, laying down his knife and fork for one instant, and then going to work again, pell-mell—‘that’s epigrammatic; quite!’

‘You’re tolerably comfortable, I hope?’ said Tigg, apart to Jonas.

‘Oh! You needn’t trouble your head about me,’ he replied, ‘Famous!’

‘I thought it best not to have a party,’ said Tigg. ‘You feel that?’

‘Why, what do you call this?’ retorted Jonas. ‘You don’t mean to say you do this every day, do you?’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders, ‘every day of my life, when I dine at home. This is my common style. It was of no use having anything uncommon for you. You’d have seen through it. “You’ll have a party?” said Crimple. “No, I won’t,” I said, “he shall take us in the rough!”

‘And pretty smooth, too, ecod!’ said Jonas, glancing round the table. ‘This don’t cost a trifle.’

‘Why, to be candid with you, it does not,’ returned the other. ‘But I like this sort of thing. It’s the way I spend my money.’

Jonas thrust his tongue into his cheek, and said, ‘Was it?’

‘When you join us, you won’t get rid of your share of the profits in the same way?’ said Tigg.

‘Quite different,’ retorted Jonas.

‘Well, and you’re right,’ said Tigg, with friendly candour. ‘You needn’t. It’s not necessary. One of a Company must do it to hold the connection together; but, as I take a pleasure in it, that’s my department. You don’t mind dining expensively at another man’s expense, I hope?’

‘Not a bit,’ said Jonas.

‘Then I hope you’ll often dine with me?’

‘Ah!’ said Jonas, ‘I don’t mind. On the contrary.’

‘And I’ll never attempt to talk business to you over wine, I take my oath,’ said Tigg. ‘Oh deep, deep, deep of you this morning! I must tell ‘em that. They’re the very men to enjoy it. Pip, my good fellow, I’ve a splendid little trait to tell you of my friend Chuzzlewit who is the deepest dog I know; I give you my sacred word of honour he is the deepest dog I know, Pip!’

Pip swore a frightful oath that he was sure of it already; and the anecdote, being told, was received with loud applause, as an incontestable proof of Mr Jonas’s greatness. Pip, in a natural spirit of emulation, then related some instances of his own depth; and Wolf not to be left behind-hand, recited the leading points of one or two vastly humorous articles he was then preparing. These lucubrations being of what he called ‘a warm complexion,’ were highly approved; and all the company agreed that they were full of point.

‘Men of the world, my dear sir,’ Jobling whispered to Jonas; ‘thorough men of the world! To a professional person like myself it’s quite refreshing to come into this kind of society. It’s not only agreeable—and nothing can be more agreeable—but it’s philosophically improving. It’s character, my dear sir; character!’

It is so pleasant to find real merit appreciated, whatever its particular walk in life may be, that the general harmony of the company was doubtless much promoted by their knowing that the two men of the world were held in great esteem by the upper classes of society, and by the gallant defenders of their country in the army and navy, but particularly the former. The least of their stories had a colonel in it; lords were as plentiful as oaths; and even the Blood Royal ran in the muddy channel of their personal recollections.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit didn’t know him, I’m afraid,’ said Wolf, in reference to a certain personage of illustrious descent, who had previously figured in a reminiscence.

‘No,’ said Tigg. ‘But we must bring him into contact with this sort of fellows.’

‘He was very fond of literature,’ observed Wolf.

‘Was he?’ said Tigg.

‘Oh, yes; he took my paper regularly for many years. Do you know he said some good things now and then? He asked a certain Viscount, who’s a friend of mine—Pip knows him—“What’s the editor’s name, what’s the editor’s name?” “Wolf.” “Wolf, eh? Sharp biter, Wolf. We must keep the Wolf from the door, as the proverb says.” It was very well. And being complimentary, I printed it.’

‘But the Viscount’s the boy!’ cried Pip, who invented a new oath for the introduction of everything he said. ‘The Viscount’s the boy! He came into our place one night to take Her home; rather slued, but not much; and said, “Where’s Pip? I want to see Pip. Produce Pip!”—“What’s the row, my lord?”—“Shakspeare’s an infernal humbug, Pip! What’s the good of Shakspeare, Pip? I never read him. What the devil is it all about, Pip? There’s a lot of feet in Shakspeare’s verse, but there an’t any legs worth mentioning in Shakspeare’s plays, are there, Pip? Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, and all the rest of ‘em, whatever their names are, might as well have no legs at all, for anything the audience know about it, Pip. Why, in that respect they’re all Miss Biffins to the audience, Pip. I’ll tell you what it is. What the people call dramatic poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be lectured? No, Pip. If I wanted that, I’d go to church. What’s the legitimate object of the drama, Pip? Human nature. What are legs? Human nature. Then let us have plenty of leg pieces, Pip, and I’ll stand by you, my buck!” and I am proud to say,’ added Pip, ‘that he did stand by me, handsomely.’

The conversation now becoming general, Mr Jonas’s opinion was requested on this subject; and as it was in full accordance with the sentiments of Mr Pip, that gentleman was extremely gratified. Indeed, both himself and Wolf had so much in common with Jonas, that they became very amicable; and between their increasing friendship and the fumes of wine, Jonas grew talkative.

It does not follow in the case of such a person that the more talkative he becomes, the more agreeable he is; on the contrary, his merits show to most advantage, perhaps, in silence. Having no means, as he thought, of putting himself on an equality with the rest, but by the assertion of that depth and sharpness on which he had been complimented, Jonas exhibited that faculty to the utmost; and was so deep and sharp that he lost himself in his own profundity, and cut his fingers with his own edge-tools.

It was especially in his way and character to exhibit his quality at his entertainer’s expense; and while he drank of his sparkling wines, and partook of his monstrous profusion, to ridicule the extravagance which had set such costly fare before him. Even at such a wanton board, and in such more than doubtful company, this might have proved a disagreeable experiment, but that Tigg and Crimple, studying to understand their man thoroughly, gave him what license he chose: knowing that the more he took, the better for their purpose. And thus while the blundering cheat—gull that he was, for all his cunning—thought himself rolled up hedgehog fashion, with his sharpest points towards them, he was, in fact, betraying all his vulnerable parts to their unwinking watchfulness.

Whether the two gentlemen who contributed so much to the doctor’s philosophical knowledge (by the way, the doctor slipped off quietly, after swallowing his usual amount of wine) had had their cue distinctly from the host, or took it from what they saw and heard, they acted their parts very well. They solicited the honour of Jonas’s better acquaintance; trusted that they would have the pleasure of introducing him into that elevated society in which he was so well qualified to shine; and informed him, in the most friendly manner that the advantages of their respective establishments were entirely at his control. In a word, they said ‘Be one of us!’ And Jonas said he was infinitely obliged to them, and he would be; adding within himself, that so long as they ‘stood treat,’ there was nothing he would like better.

After coffee, which was served in the drawing-room, there was a short interval (mainly sustained by Pip and Wolf) of conversation; rather highly spiced and strongly seasoned. When it flagged, Jonas took it up and showed considerable humour in appraising the furniture; inquiring whether such an article was paid for; what it had originally cost, and the like. In all of this, he was, as he considered, desperately hard on Montague, and very demonstrative of his own brilliant parts.

Some Champagne Punch gave a new though temporary fillip to the entertainments of the evening. For after leading to some noisy proceedings, which were not intelligible, it ended in the unsteady departure of the two gentlemen of the world, and the slumber of Mr Jonas upon one of the sofas.

As he could not be made to understand where he was, Mr Bailey received orders to call a hackney-coach, and take him home; which that young gentleman roused himself from an uneasy sleep in the hall to do. It being now almost three o’clock in the morning.

‘Is he hooked, do you think?’ whispered Crimple, as himself and partner stood in a distant part of the room observing him as he lay.

‘Aye!’ said Tigg, in the same tone. ‘With a strong iron, perhaps. Has Nadgett been here to-night?’

‘Yes. I went out to him. Hearing you had company, he went away.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘He said he would come back early in the morning, before you were out of bed.’

‘Tell them to be sure and send him up to my bedside. Hush! Here’s the boy! Now Mr Bailey, take this gentleman home, and see him safely in. Hallo, here! Why Chuzzlewit, halloa!’

They got him upright with some difficulty, and assisted him downstairs, where they put his hat upon his head, and tumbled him into the coach. Mr Bailey, having shut him in, mounted the box beside the coachman, and smoked his cigar with an air of particular satisfaction; the undertaking in which he was engaged having a free and sporting character about it, which was quite congenial to his taste.

Arriving in due time at the house in the City, Mr Bailey jumped down, and expressed the lively nature of his feelings in a knock the like of which had probably not been heard in that quarter since the great fire of London. Going out into the road to observe the effect of this feat, he saw that a dim light, previously visible at an upper window, had been already removed and was travelling downstairs. To obtain a foreknowledge of the bearer of this taper, Mr Bailey skipped back to the door again, and put his eye to the keyhole.

It was the merry one herself. But sadly, strangely altered! So careworn and dejected, so faltering and full of fear; so fallen, humbled, broken; that to have seen her quiet in her coffin would have been a less surprise.

She set the light upon a bracket in the hall, and laid her hand upon her heart; upon her eyes; upon her burning head. Then she came on towards the door with such a wild and hurried step that Mr Bailey lost his self-possession, and still had his eye where the keyhole had been, when she opened it.

‘Aha!’ said Mr Bailey, with an effort. ‘There you are, are you? What’s the matter? Ain’t you well, though?’

In the midst of her astonishment as she recognized him in his altered dress, so much of her old smile came back to her face that Bailey was glad. But next moment he was sorry again, for he saw tears standing in her poor dim eyes.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Bailey. ‘There ain’t nothing the matter. I’ve brought home Mr Chuzzlewit. He ain’t ill. He’s only a little swipey, you know.’ Mr Bailey reeled in his boots, to express intoxication.

‘Have you come from Mrs Todgers’s?’ asked Merry, trembling.

‘Todgers’s, bless you! No!’ cried Mr Bailey. ‘I haven’t got nothin, to do with Todgers’s. I cut that connection long ago. He’s been a-dining with my governor at the west-end. Didn’t you know he was a-coming to see us?’

‘No,’ she said, faintly.

‘Oh yes! We’re heavy swells too, and so I tell you. Don’t you come out, a-catching cold in your head. I’ll wake him!’ Mr Bailey expressing in his demeanour a perfect confidence that he could carry him in with ease, if necessary, opened the coach door, let down the steps, and giving Jonas a shake, cried ‘We’ve got home, my flower! Tumble up, then!’

He was so far recovered as to be able to respond to this appeal, and to come stumbling out of the coach in a heap, to the great hazard of Mr Bailey’s person. When he got upon the pavement, Mr Bailey first butted at him in front, and then dexterously propped him up behind; and having steadied him by these means, he assisted him into the house.

‘You go up first with the light,’ said Bailey to Mr Jonas, ‘and we’ll foller. Don’t tremble so. He won’t hurt you. When I’ve had a drop too much, I’m full of good natur myself.’

She went on before; and her husband and Bailey, by dint of tumbling over each other, and knocking themselves about, got at last into the sitting-room above stairs, where Jonas staggered into a seat.

‘There!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘He’s all right now. You ain’t got nothing to cry for, bless you! He’s righter than a trivet!’

The ill-favoured brute, with dress awry, and sodden face, and rumpled hair, sat blinking and drooping, and rolling his idiotic eyes about, until, becoming conscious by degrees, he recognized his wife, and shook his fist at her.

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Bailey, squaring his arms with a sudden emotion. ‘What, you’re wicious, are you? Would you though! You’d better not!’

‘Pray, go away!’ said Merry. ‘Bailey, my good boy, go home. Jonas!’ she said; timidly laying her hand upon his shoulder, and bending her head down over him. ‘Jonas!’

‘Look at her!’ cried Jonas, pushing her off with his extended arm. ‘Look here! Look at her! Here’s a bargain for a man!’

‘Dear Jonas!’

‘Dear Devil!’ he replied, with a fierce gesture. ‘You’re a pretty clog to be tied to a man for life, you mewling, white-faced cat! Get out of my sight!’

‘I know you don’t mean it, Jonas. You wouldn’t say it if you were sober.’

With affected gayety she gave Bailey a piece of money, and again implored him to be gone. Her entreaty was so earnest, that the boy had not the heart to stay there. But he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and listened.

‘I wouldn’t say it if I was sober!’ retorted Jonas. ‘You know better. Have I never said it when I was sober?’

‘Often, indeed!’ she answered through her tears.

‘Hark ye!’ cried Jonas, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘You made me bear your pretty humours once, and ecod I’ll make you bear mine now. I always promised myself I would. I married you that I might. I’ll know who’s master, and who’s slave!’

‘Heaven knows I am obedient!’ said the sobbing girl. ‘Much more so than I ever thought to be!’

Jonas laughed in his drunken exultation. ‘What! you’re finding it out, are you! Patience, and you will in time! Griffins have claws, my girl. There’s not a pretty slight you ever put upon me, nor a pretty trick you ever played me, nor a pretty insolence you ever showed me, that I won’t pay back a hundred-fold. What else did I marry you for? you, too!’ he said, with coarse contempt.

It might have softened him—indeed it might—to hear her turn a little fragment of a song he used to say he liked; trying, with a heart so full, to win him back.

‘Oho!’ he said, ‘you’re deaf, are you? You don’t hear me, eh? So much the better for you. I hate you. I hate myself, for having, been fool enough to strap a pack upon my back for the pleasure of treading on it whenever I choose. Why, things have opened to me, now, so that I might marry almost where I liked. But I wouldn’t; I’d keep single. I ought to be single, among the friends I know. Instead of that, here I am, tied like a log to you. Pah! Why do you show your pale face when I come home? Am I never to forget you?’

‘How late it is!’ she said cheerfully, opening the shutter after an interval of silence. ‘Broad day, Jonas!’

‘Broad day or black night, what do I care!’ was the kind rejoinder.

‘The night passed quickly, too. I don’t mind sitting up, at all.’

‘Sit up for me again, if you dare!’ growled Jonas.

‘I was reading,’ she proceeded, ‘all night long. I began when you went out, and read till you came home again. The strangest story, Jonas! And true, the book says. I’ll tell it you to-morrow.’

‘True, was it?’ said Jonas, doggedly.

‘So the book says.’

‘Was there anything in it, about a man’s being determined to conquer his wife, break her spirit, bend her temper, crush all her humours like so many nut-shells—kill her, for aught I know?’ said Jonas.

‘No. Not a word,’ she answered quickly.

‘Oh!’ he returned. ‘That’ll be a true story though, before long; for all the book says nothing about it. It’s a lying book, I see. A fit book for a lying reader. But you’re deaf. I forgot that.’

There was another interval of silence; and the boy was stealing away, when he heard her footstep on the floor, and stopped. She went up to him, as it seemed, and spoke lovingly; saying that she would defer to him in everything and would consult his wishes and obey them, and they might be very happy if he would be gentle with her. He answered with an imprecation, and—

Not with a blow? Yes. Stern truth against the base-souled villain; with a blow.

No angry cries; no loud reproaches. Even her weeping and her sobs were stifled by her clinging round him. She only said, repeating it in agony of heart, how could he, could he, could he—and lost utterance in tears.

Oh woman, God beloved in old Jerusalem! The best among us need deal lightly with thy faults, if only for the punishment thy nature will endure, in bearing heavy evidence against us, on the Day of Judgment!

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IN WHICH SOME PEOPLE ARE PRECOCIOUS, OTHERS PROFESSIONAL, AND OTHERS MYSTERIOUS; ALL IN THEIR SEVERAL WAYS

It may have been the restless remembrance of what he had seen and heard overnight, or it may have been no deeper mental operation than the discovery that he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on the following afternoon, to feel particularly disposed for agreeable society, and prompted him to pay a visit to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.

On the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor’s approach (for Mr Bailey came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much sound out of the bell as possible), Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from the contemplation of a favourite owl, and gave his young friend hearty welcome.

‘Why, you look smarter by day,’ said Poll, ‘than you do by candle-light. I never see such a tight young dasher.’

‘Reether so, Polly. How’s our fair friend, Sairah?’

‘Oh, she’s pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘She’s at home.’

‘There’s the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,’ observed Mr Bailey, with genteel indifference.

‘Oh!’ thought Poll, ‘he’s old. He must be very old!’

‘Too much crumb, you know,’ said Mr Bailey; ‘too fat, Poll. But there’s many worse at her time of life.’

‘The very owl’s a-opening his eyes!’ thought Poll. ‘I don’t wonder at it in a bird of his opinions.’

He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying open in a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing at these preparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared to occur to him.

‘Poll,’ he said, ‘I ain’t as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.’

The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his neck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity and confidence in life. There was no resisting his manner. The evidence of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as smooth as a new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn’t have ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish rabbi.

‘Go with the grain, Poll, all round, please,’ said Mr Bailey, screwing up his face for the reception of the lather. ‘You may do wot you like with the bits of whisker. I don’t care for ‘em.’

The meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-dish in his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous uncertainty, as if he were disabled by some fascination from beginning. At last he made a dash at Mr Bailey’s cheek. Then he stopped again, as if the ghost of a beard had suddenly receded from his touch; but receiving mild encouragement from Mr Bailey, in the form of an adjuration to ‘Go in and win,’ he lathered him bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in his satisfaction. ‘Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the pimples!’

Poll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with particular care. Mr Bailey squinted at every successive dab, as it was deposited on a cloth on his left shoulder, and seemed, with a microscopic eye, to detect some bristles in it; for he murmured more than once ‘Reether redder than I could wish, Poll.’ The operation being concluded, Poll fell back and stared at him again, while Mr Bailey, wiping his face on the jack-towel, remarked, ‘that arter late hours nothing freshened up a man so much as a easy shave.’

He was in the act of tying his cravat at the glass, without his coat, and Poll had wiped his razor, ready for the next customer, when Mrs Gamp, coming downstairs, looked in at the shop-door to give the barber neighbourly good day. Feeling for her unfortunate situation, in having conceived a regard for himself which it was not in the nature of things that he could return, Mr Bailey hastened to soothe her with words of kindness.

‘Hallo!’ he said, ‘Sairah! I needn’t ask you how you’ve been this long time, for you’re in full bloom. All a-blowin and a-growin; ain’t she, Polly?’

‘Why, drat the Bragian boldness of that boy!’ cried Mrs Gamp, though not displeased. ‘What a imperent young sparrow it is! I wouldn’t be that creetur’s mother not for fifty pound!’

Mr Bailey regarded this as a delicate confession of her attachment, and a hint that no pecuniary gain could recompense her for its being rendered hopeless. He felt flattered. Disinterested affection is always flattering.

‘Ah, dear!’ moaned Mrs Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, ‘that there blessed Bull, Mr Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me. Of all the trying inwalieges in this walley of the shadder, that one beats ‘em black and blue.’

It was the practice of Mrs Gamp and her friends in the profession, to say this of all the easy customers; as having at once the effect of discouraging competitors for office, and accounting for the necessity of high living on the part of the nurses.

‘Talk of constitooshun!’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘A person’s constitooshun need be made of bricks to stand it. Mrs Harris jestly says to me, but t’other day, “Oh! Sairey Gamp,” she says, “how is it done?” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says to her, “we gives no trust ourselves, and puts a deal o’trust elsevere; these is our religious feelins, and we finds ‘em answer.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, “sech is life. Vich likeways is the hend of all things!”’

The barber gave a soft murmur, as much as to say that Mrs Harris’s remark, though perhaps not quite so intelligible as could be desired from such an authority, did equal honour to her head and to her heart.

‘And here,’ continued Mrs Gamp, ‘and here am I a-goin twenty mile in distant, on as wentersome a chance as ever any one as monthlied ever run, I do believe. Says Mrs Harris, with a woman’s and a mother’s art a-beatin in her human breast, she says to me, “You’re not a-goin, Sairey, Lord forgive you!” “Why am I not a-goin, Mrs Harris?” I replies. “Mrs Gill,” I says, “wos never wrong with six; and is it likely, ma’am—I ast you as a mother—that she will begin to be unreg’lar now? Often and often have I heerd him say,” I says to Mrs Harris, meaning Mr Gill, “that he would back his wife agen Moore’s almanack, to name the very day and hour, for ninepence farden. is it likely, ma’am,” I says, “as she will fail this once?” Says Mrs Harris “No, ma’am, not in the course of natur. But,” she says, the tears a-fillin in her eyes, “you knows much betterer than me, with your experienge, how little puts us out. A Punch’s show,” she says, “a chimbley sweep, a newfundlan dog, or a drunkin man a-comin round the corner sharp may do it.” So it may, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘there’s no deniging of it; and though my books is clear for a full week, I takes a anxious art along with me, I do assure you, sir.’

‘You’re so full of zeal, you see!’ said Poll. ‘You worrit yourself so.’

‘Worrit myself!’ cried Mrs Gamp, raising her hands and turning up her eyes. ‘You speak truth in that, sir, if you never speaks no more ‘twixt this and when two Sundays jines together. I feels the sufferins of other people more than I feels my own, though no one mayn’t suppoge it. The families I’ve had,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘if all was knowd and credit done where credit’s doo, would take a week to chris’en at Saint Polge’s fontin!’

‘Where’s the patient goin?’ asked Sweedlepipe.

‘Into Har’fordshire, which is his native air. But native airs nor native graces neither,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘won’t bring him round.’

‘So bad as that?’ inquired the wistful barber. ‘Indeed!’

Mrs Gamp shook her head mysteriously, and pursed up her lips. ‘There’s fevers of the mind,’ she said, ‘as well as body. You may take your slime drafts till you flies into the air with efferwescence; but you won’t cure that.’

‘Ah!’ said the barber, opening his eyes, and putting on his raven aspect; ‘Lor!’

‘No. You may make yourself as light as any gash balloon,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But talk, when you’re wrong in your head and when you’re in your sleep, of certain things; and you’ll be heavy in your mind.’

‘Of what kind of things now?’ inquired Poll, greedily biting his nails in his great interest. ‘Ghosts?’

Mrs Gamp, who perhaps had been already tempted further than she had intended to go, by the barber’s stimulating curiosity, gave a sniff of uncommon significance, and said, it didn’t signify.

‘I’m a-goin down with my patient in the coach this arternoon,’ she proceeded. ‘I’m a-goin to stop with him a day or so, till he gets a country nuss (drat them country nusses, much the orkard hussies knows about their bis’ness); and then I’m a-comin back; and that’s my trouble, Mr Sweedlepipes. But I hope that everythink’ll only go on right and comfortable as long as I’m away; perwisin which, as Mrs Harris says, Mrs Gill is welcome to choose her own time; all times of the day and night bein’ equally the same to me.’

During the progress of the foregoing remarks, which Mrs Gamp had addressed exclusively to the barber, Mr Bailey had been tying his cravat, getting on his coat, and making hideous faces at himself in the glass. Being now personally addressed by Mrs Gamp, he turned round, and mingled in the conversation.

‘You ain’t been in the City, I suppose, sir, since we was all three there together,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘at Mr Chuzzlewit’s?’

‘Yes, I have, Sairah. I was there last night.’

‘Last night!’ cried the barber.

‘Yes, Poll, reether so. You can call it this morning, if you like to be particular. He dined with us.’

‘Who does that young Limb mean by “hus?”’ said Mrs Gamp, with most impatient emphasis.

‘Me and my Governor, Sairah. He dined at our house. We wos very merry, Sairah. So much so, that I was obliged to see him home in a hackney coach at three o’clock in the morning.’ It was on the tip of the boy’s tongue to relate what had followed; but remembering how easily it might be carried to his master’s ears, and the repeated cautions he had had from Mr Crimple ‘not to chatter,’ he checked himself; adding, only, ‘She was sitting up, expecting him.’

‘And all things considered,’ said Mrs Gamp sharply, ‘she might have know’d better than to go a-tirin herself out, by doin’ anythink of the sort. Did they seem pretty pleasant together, sir?’

‘Oh, yes,’ answered Bailey, ‘pleasant enough.’

‘I’m glad on it,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a second sniff of significance.

‘They haven’t been married so long,’ observed Poll, rubbing his hands, ‘that they need be anything but pleasant yet awhile.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a third significant signal.

‘Especially,’ pursued the barber, ‘when the gentleman bears such a character as you gave him.’

‘I speak; as I find, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Forbid it should be otherways! But we never knows wot’s hidden in each other’s hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we’d need keep the shetters up, some on us, I do assure you!’

‘But you don’t mean to say—’ Poll Sweedlepipe began.

‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, cutting him very short, ‘I don’t. Don’t think I do. The torters of the Imposition shouldn’t make me own I did. All I says is,’ added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl about her, ‘that the Bull’s a-waitin, and the precious moments is a-flyin’ fast.’

The little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to see Mrs Gamp’s patient, proposed to Mr Bailey that they should accompany her to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach. That young gentleman assenting, they all went out together.

Arriving at the tavern, Mrs Gamp (who was full-dressed for the journey, in her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to entertain themselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick room, where her fellow-labourer Mrs Prig was dressing the invalid.

He was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when they moved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally large. He lay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than living; and rolled his languid eyes towards the door when Mrs Gamp appeared, as painfully as if their weight alone were burdensome to move.

‘And how are we by this time?’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘We looks charming.’

‘We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,’ returned Mrs Prig, a little chafed in her temper. ‘We got out of bed back’ards, I think, for we’re as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn’t have been washed, if he’d had his own way.’

‘She put the soap in my mouth,’ said the unfortunate patient feebly.

‘Couldn’t you keep it shut then?’ retorted Mrs Prig. ‘Who do you think’s to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one’s eyes out with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin’.’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the patient, ‘oh dear, dear!’

‘There!’ said Mrs Prig, ‘that’s the way he’s been a-conductin of himself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you’ll believe it.’

‘Instead of being grateful,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘for all our little ways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!’

Here Mrs Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his unhappy head with a hair-brush.

‘I suppose you don’t like that, neither!’ she observed, stopping to look at him.

It was just possible that he didn’t for the brush was a specimen of the hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his very eyelids were red with the friction. Mrs Prig was gratified to observe the correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly ‘she know’d as much.’

When his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs Prig and Mrs Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with great nicety, so that the starched points should also invade those organs, and afflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His waistcoat and coat were next arranged; and as every button was wrenched into a wrong button-hole, and the order of his boots was reversed, he presented on the whole rather a melancholy appearance.

‘I don’t think it’s right,’ said the poor weak invalid. ‘I feel as if I was in somebody else’s clothes. I’m all on one side; and you’ve made one of my legs shorter than the other. There’s a bottle in my pocket too. What do you make me sit upon a bottle for?’

‘Deuce take the man!’ cried Mrs Gamp, drawing it forth. ‘If he ain’t been and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard of his coat when it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it, Betsey. You’ll find a ingun or two, and a little tea and sugar in his t’other pocket, my dear, if you’ll just be good enough to take ‘em out.’

Betsey produced the property in question, together with some other articles of general chandlery; and Mrs Gamp transferred them to her own pocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment then arrived in the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and a basin of beef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at an end when John Westlock appeared.

‘Up and dressed!’ cried John, sitting down beside him. ‘That’s brave. How do you feel?’

‘Much better. But very weak.’

‘No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change of scene,’ said John, ‘will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,’ he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man’s garments, ‘you have odd notions of a gentleman’s dress!’

‘Mr Lewsome an’t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied with dignity; ‘as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!’

John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned, when he said in a whisper:

‘Mr Westlock! I don’t wish to be overheard. I have something very particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.’

Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.

‘Not now. I’ve not the strength. I’ve not the courage. May I tell it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?’

‘May you!’ cried John. ‘Why, Lewsome, what is this!’

‘Don’t ask me what it is. It’s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and don’t ask me what it is!’

At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected in his mind.

‘Oh bless you, no!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He hates his nusses to this hour. They always does it, sir. It’s a certain sign. If you could have heerd the poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey Prig, not half an hour ago, you would have wondered how it is we don’t get fretted to the tomb.’

This almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had passed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful manner, and assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome downstairs to the coach; just then upon the point of starting. Poll Sweedlepipe was at the door with his arms tight folded and his eyes wide open, and looked on with absorbing interest, while the sick man was slowly moved into the vehicle. His bony hands and haggard face impressed Poll wonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey in confidence, that he wouldn’t have missed seeing him for a pound. Mr Bailey, who was of a different constitution, remarked that he would have stayed away for five shillings.

It was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp’s luggage to her satisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the inconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself, and to have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for heavy damages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella with the circular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and several times thrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper crevices and chinks, to the great terror of the other passengers. Indeed, in her intense anxiety to find a haven of refuge for this chattel, Mrs Gamp so often moved it, in the course of five minutes, that it seemed not one umbrella but fifty. At length it was lost, or said to be; and for the next five minutes she was face to face with the coachman, go wherever he might, protesting that it should be ‘made good,’ though she took the question to the House of Commons.

At last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and everything else, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of Poll and Mr Bailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted as from a cherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.

‘Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘and good places. It won’t be long, I hope, afore we works together, off and on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin’ be at a large family’s, where they all takes it reg’lar, one from another, turn and turn about, and has it business-like.’

‘I don’t care how soon it is,’ said Mrs Prig; ‘nor how many weeks it lasts.’

Mrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the coach, when she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were passing along the footway.

‘Take care, take care here!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Halloo! My dear! Why, it’s Mrs Gamp!’

‘What, Mr Mould!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘And Mrs Mould! who would have thought as we should ever have a meetin’ here, I’m sure!’

‘Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?’ cried Mould. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

‘It is unusual, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But only for a day or two at most. The gent,’ she whispered, ‘as I spoke about.’

‘What, in the coach!’ cried Mould. ‘The one you thought of recommending? Very odd. My dear, this will interest you. The gentleman that Mrs Gamp thought likely to suit us is in the coach, my love.’

Mrs Mould was greatly interested.

‘Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,’ said Mould, ‘and take a look at him. Ha! There he is. Where’s my glass? Oh! all right. I’ve got it. Do you see him, my dear?’

‘Quite plain,’ said Mrs Mould.

‘Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,’ said Mould, quite delighted. ‘This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn’t have missed on any account. It tickles one. It’s interesting. It’s almost a little play, you know. Ah! There he is! To be sure. Looks poorly, Mrs M., don’t he?’

Mrs Mould assented.

‘He’s coming our way, perhaps, after all,’ said Mould. ‘Who knows! I feel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He don’t seem a stranger to me. I’m very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.’

‘He’s looking hard this way,’ said Mrs Mould.

‘Then I will!’ cried Mould. ‘How d’ye do, sir! I wish you good day. Ha! He bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I have no doubt. This is very singular, my dear—and very pleasant. I am not superstitious, but it really seems as if one was destined to pay him those little melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar line of business. There can be no kind of objection to your kissing your hand to him, my dear.’

Mrs Mould did so.

‘Ha!’ said Mould. ‘He’s evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!’ waving his hand. ‘There he goes; there he goes!’

So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr and Mrs Mould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired with Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little time elapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground, owing to the impression wrought upon the barber’s nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he pronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent charms.

When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-room, looking wistfully up at the clock—as if the man who never appeared were a little behind his time.

CHAPTER THIRTY

PROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT MR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR

As the surgeon’s first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the arteries the cruel knife has severed, so it is the duty of this history, which in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its various ramifications it got on without her.

And first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for his youngest daughter that choicest of blessings, a tender and indulgent husband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental heart by establishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading the plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all kinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after giving their daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate themselves on having no other business on their hands but to die immediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do it. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage and practical class, appeared to think that his immediate business was to live; and having deprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.

But however much inclined the good man was to be jocose and playful, and in the garden of his fancy to disport himself (if one may say so) like an architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to him. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which far from softening down or wearing out, rankled and festered in her heart—the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that dog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard as Mr Pecksniff’s with his gentle child.

The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had retired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.

‘Cherry,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘what is amiss between us? My child, why are we disunited?’

Miss Pecksniff’s answer was scarcely a response to this gush of affection, for it was simply, ‘Bother, Pa!’

‘Bother!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.

‘Oh! ‘tis too late, Pa,’ said his daughter, calmly ‘to talk to me like this. I know what it means, and what its value is.’

‘This is hard!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. ‘This is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore shapeless worsted shoes—I might say, mufflers—many years ago!’

‘You needn’t taunt me with that, Pa,’ retorted Cherry, with a spiteful look. ‘I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she is married to your friend!’

‘Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at human nature, as if he didn’t belong to it. ‘To think that this discord should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh dear!’

‘From such a cause indeed!’ cried Cherry. ‘State the real cause, Pa, or I’ll state it myself. Mind! I will!’

Perhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that may be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for one of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:

‘You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no decency; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to Mr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.’

‘Myself!’ cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. ‘Oh indeed! I don’t mind that.’

‘Me, too, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

His daughter answered with a scornful laugh.

‘And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rolling his head portentously, ‘let me tell you that I won’t allow it. None of your nonsense, Miss! I won’t permit it to be done.’

‘I shall do,’ said Charity, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, and raising her voice to a high pitch, ‘I shall do, Pa, what I please and what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend upon it. I’ve been more shamefully used than anybody ever was in this world,’ here she began to cry and sob, ‘and may expect the worse treatment from you, I know. But I don’t care for that. No, I don’t!’

Mr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke, that, after looking about him in frantic uncertainty for some means of softening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental bow of hair upon her head nodded like a plume. She was so very much astonished by this assault, that it really had the desired effect.

‘I’ll do it again!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and fetched his breath, ‘if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do you mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in preference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I to do with it?’

‘Wasn’t I made a convenience of? Weren’t my feelings trifled with? Didn’t he address himself to me first?’ sobbed Cherry, clasping her hands; ‘and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!’

‘You’ll live to be shaken again,’ returned her parent, ‘if you drive me to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble roof. You surprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn’t care for you, how could you wish to have him?’

‘I wish to have him!’ exclaimed Cherry. ‘I wish to have him, Pa!’

‘Then what are you making all this piece of work for,’ retorted her father, ‘if you didn’t wish to have him?’

‘Because I was treated with duplicity,’ said Cherry; ‘and because my own sister and my own father conspired against me. I am not angry with her,’ said Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. ‘I pity her. I’m sorry for her. I know the fate that’s in store for her, with that Wretch.’

‘Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; ‘but call him what you like and make an end of it.’

‘Not an end, Pa,’ said Charity. ‘No, not an end. That’s not the only point on which we’re not agreed. I won’t submit to it. It’s better you should know that at once. No; I won’t submit to it indeed, Pa! I am not quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won’t submit to it.’

Whatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame attempt to seem composed was melancholy in the last degree. His anger changed to meekness, and his words were mild and fawning.

‘My dear,’ he said; ‘if in the short excitement of an angry moment I resorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak calculated to injure you as well as myself—it’s possible I may have done so; perhaps I did—I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of his child,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is, I believe, a spectacle to soften the most rugged nature.’

But it didn’t at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature was not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over and over again, that she wasn’t quite a fool, and wasn’t blind, and wouldn’t submit to it.

‘You labour under some mistake, my child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but I will not ask you what it is; I don’t desire to know. No, pray!’ he added, holding out his hand and colouring again, ‘let us avoid the subject, my dear, whatever it is!’

‘It’s quite right that the subject should be avoided between us, sir,’ said Cherry. ‘But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and consequently must beg you to provide me with a home.’

Mr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, ‘A home, my child!’

‘Another home, papa,’ said Cherry, with increasing stateliness ‘Place me at Mrs Todgers’s or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not live here, if such is to be the case.’

It is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers’s a vision of enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration at her feet. It is possible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility, saw, in the suggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving himself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness. It is undoubtedly a fact that in the attentive ears of Mr Pecksniff, the proposition did not sound quite like the dismal knell of all his hopes.

But he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed his pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands—as such men always do, especially when they are observed. ‘One of my birds,’ Mr Pecksniff said, ‘has left me for the stranger’s breast; the other would take wing to Todgers’s! Well, well, what am I? I don’t know what I am, exactly. Never mind!’

Even this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in the middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid, and inflexible.

‘But I have ever,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sacrificed my children’s happiness to my own—I mean my own happiness to my children’s—and I will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you can be happier at Mrs Todgers’s than in your father’s house, my dear, go to Mrs Todgers’s! Do not think of me, my girl!’ said Mr Pecksniff with emotion; ‘I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.’

Miss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of the proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the terms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that another difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to ensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and the storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity’s idea was so agreeable to both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an amicable agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project should be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry’s not being well, and needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should form the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of whom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises agreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing, with all the dignity of a self-denying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself with the reflection that virtue is its own reward. Thus they were reconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night, when Mr Jonas, repudiating the elder, had confessed his passion for the younger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted him on moral grounds.

But how happened it—in the name of an unexpected addition to that small family, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may be, how happened it—that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about to part? How happened it that their mutual relations were so greatly altered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous to have it understood that she was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn’t bear it? It is not possible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that his daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed his design!

Let us inquire into this.

Mr Pecksniff, as a man without reproach, from whom the breath of slander passed like common breath from any other polished surface, could afford to do what common men could not. He knew the purity of his own motives; and when he had a motive worked at it as only a very good man (or a very bad one) can. Did he set before himself any strong and palpable motives for taking a second wife? Yes; and not one or two of them, but a combination of very many.

Old Martin Chuzzlewit had gradually undergone an important change. Even upon the night when he made such an ill-timed arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s house, he was comparatively subdued and easy to deal with. This Mr Pecksniff attributed, at the time, to the effect his brother’s death had had upon him. But from that hour his character seemed to have modified by regular degrees, and to have softened down into a dull indifference for almost every one but Mr Pecksniff. His looks were much the same as ever, but his mind was singularly altered. It was not that this or that passion stood out in brighter or in dimmer hues; but that the colour of the whole man was faded. As one trait disappeared, no other trait sprung up to take its place. His senses dwindled too. He was less keen of sight; was deaf sometimes; took little notice of what passed before him; and would be profoundly taciturn for days together. The process of this alteration was so easy that almost as soon as it began to be observed it was complete. But Mr Pecksniff saw it first, and having Anthony Chuzzlewit fresh in his recollection, saw in his brother Martin the same process of decay.

To a gentleman of Mr Pecksniff’s tenderness, this was a very mournful sight. He could not but foresee the probability of his respected relative being made the victim of designing persons, and of his riches falling into worthless hands. It gave him so much pain that he resolved to secure the property to himself; to keep bad testamentary suitors at a distance; to wall up the old gentleman, as it were, for his own use. By little and little, therefore, he began to try whether Mr Chuzzlewit gave any promise of becoming an instrument in his hands, and finding that he did, and indeed that he was very supple in his plastic fingers, he made it the business of his life—kind soul!—to establish an ascendancy over him; and every little test he durst apply meeting with a success beyond his hopes, he began to think he heard old Martin’s cash already chinking in his own unworldly pockets.

But when Mr Pecksniff pondered on this subject (as, in his zealous way, he often did), and thought with an uplifted heart of the train of circumstances which had delivered the old gentleman into his hands for the confusion of evil-doers and the triumph of a righteous nature, he always felt that Mary Graham was his stumbling-block. Let the old man say what he would, Mr Pecksniff knew he had a strong affection for her. He knew that he showed it in a thousand little ways; that he liked to have her near him, and was never quite at ease when she was absent long. That he had ever really sworn to leave her nothing in his will, Mr Pecksniff greatly doubted. That even if he had, there were many ways by which he could evade the oath and satisfy his conscience, Mr Pecksniff knew. That her unprotected state was no light burden on the old man’s mind, he also knew, for Mr Chuzzlewit had plainly told him so. ‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff ‘what if I married her! What,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, sticking up his hair and glancing at his bust by Spoker; ‘what if, making sure of his approval first—he is nearly imbecile, poor gentleman—I married her!’

Mr Pecksniff had a lively sense of the Beautiful; especially in women. His manner towards the sex was remarkable for its insinuating character. It is recorded of him in another part of these pages, that he embraced Mrs Todgers on the smallest provocation; and it was a way he had; it was a part of the gentle placidity of his disposition. Before any thought of matrimony was in his mind, he had bestowed on Mary many little tokens of his spiritual admiration. They had been indignantly received, but that was nothing. True, as the idea expanded within him, these had become too ardent to escape the piercing eye of Cherry, who read his scheme at once; but he had always felt the power of Mary’s charms. So Interest and Inclination made a pair, and drew the curricle of Mr Pecksniff’s plan.

As to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent expressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more effectually from any hope of reconciliation with his grandfather, Mr Pecksniff was much too meek and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring it. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that in her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were both against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a case, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff’s moral code; for he knew what a good man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter having broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr Pecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and by the craftiest approaches.

‘Well, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the garden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the fancy took him; ‘and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?’

‘Do you mean me?’ asked the old man.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any one else, my dear sir?’

‘You might have meant Mary,’ said the old man.

‘Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear friend, I hope?’ observed Mr Pecksniff.

‘I hope so,’ returned old Martin. ‘I think she deserves it.’

‘Think!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘think, Mr Chuzzlewit!’

‘You are speaking, I know,’ returned Martin, ‘but I don’t catch what you say. Speak up!’

‘He’s getting deafer than a flint,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I was saying, my dear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.’

‘What has she been doing?’ asked the old man.

‘He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!’ muttered Mr Pecksniff. ‘He’s a child to-day.’ After which he added, in a mild roar: ‘She hasn’t been doing anything, my dear friend.’

‘What are you going to part with her for?’ demanded Martin.

‘She hasn’t her health by any means,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘She misses her sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I think of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir, if I find she likes it.’

‘Quite right,’ cried Martin. ‘It’s judicious.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in this dull part, while she’s away?’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I have no intention of removing from it,’ was Martin’s answer.

‘Then why,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man’s arm in his, and walking slowly on; ‘Why, my good sir, can’t you come and stay with me? I am sure I could surround you with more comforts—lowly as is my Cot—than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon me, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon, however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the worthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.’

Martin mused a moment; and then said, as he shook him by the hand:

‘No. You’re quite right; it is not.’

‘The very sight of skittles,’ Mr Pecksniff eloquently pursued, ‘is far from being congenial to a delicate mind.’

‘It’s an amusement of the vulgar,’ said old Martin, ‘certainly.’

‘Of the very vulgar,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. ‘Then why not bring Miss Graham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my daughter’s chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I hope!’

‘We are not likely to do that,’ said Martin.

Mr Pecksniff pressed his hand. ‘We understand each other, my dear sir, I see!—I can wind him,’ he thought, with exultation, ‘round my little finger.’

‘You leave the recompense to me?’ said the old man, after a minute’s silence.

‘Oh! do not speak of recompense!’ cried Pecksniff.

‘I say,’ repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, ‘you leave the recompense to me. Do you?’

‘Since you desire it, my good sir.’

‘I always desire it,’ said the old man. ‘You know I always desire it. I wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.’

The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear upon his patron’s hand, but couldn’t find one in his dry distillery.

‘May that day be very distant!’ was his pious exclamation. ‘Ah, sir! If I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to our beautiful young friend.’

‘True,’ he answered. ‘True. She need have some one interested in her. I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my whim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no protector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that any dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!’

‘If her position could be altered and defined, sir?’ Mr Pecksniff hinted.

‘How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a governess?’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘My dear sir, there are other ways. There are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and would rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit me to resume it at another time.’

‘You are not unwell?’ asked Martin anxiously.

‘No, no!’ cried Pecksniff. ‘No. Permit me to resume it at another time. I’ll walk a little. Bless you!’

Old Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned away, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing after him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in any other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery for feeling Martin’s pulse. The change in the old man found such a slight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him, could not help saying to himself:

‘And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!’

Old Martin happening to turn his head, saluted him affectionately. Mr Pecksniff returned the gesture.

‘Why, the time was,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and not long ago, when he wouldn’t look at me! How soothing is this change. Such is the delicate texture of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being softened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my little finger. Only think!’

In sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff might not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr Pecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done. Martin had escaped so many snares from needy fortune-hunters, and had withered in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years, but to become the good man’s tool and plaything. With the happiness of this conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth upon his morning walk.

The summer weather in his bosom was reflected in the breast of Nature. Through deep green vistas where the boughs arched overhead, and showed the sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern from which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by mantled pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling among last year’s leaves whose scent woke memory of the past; the placid Pecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses; and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as a man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil meditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do; the idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds, so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr Pecksniff paid his homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he walked along.

Chancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old tree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before him. It startled him to see the embodied image of his thoughts not far ahead. Mary herself. And alone.

At first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding her; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace; caroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence that he only wanted feathers and wings to be a bird.

Hearing notes behind her, not belonging to the songsters of the grove, she looked round. Mr Pecksniff kissed his hand, and was at her side immediately.

‘Communing with nature?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘So am I.’

She said the morning was so beautiful that she had walked further than she intended, and would return. Mr Pecksniff said it was exactly his case, and he would return with her.

‘Take my arm, sweet girl,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

Mary declined it, and walked so very fast that he remonstrated. ‘You were loitering when I came upon you,’ Mr Pecksniff said. ‘Why be so cruel as to hurry now? You would not shun me, would you?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she answered, turning her glowing cheek indignantly upon him, ‘you know I would. Release me, Mr Pecksniff. Your touch is disagreeable to me.’

His touch! What? That chaste patriarchal touch which Mrs Todgers—surely a discreet lady—had endured, not only without complaint, but with apparent satisfaction! This was positively wrong. Mr Pecksniff was sorry to hear her say it.

‘If you have not observed,’ said Mary, ‘that it is so, pray take assurance from my lips, and do not, as you are a gentleman, continue to offend me.’

‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘I feel that I might consider this becoming in a daughter of my own, and why should I object to it in one so beautiful! It’s harsh. It cuts me to the soul,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘but I cannot quarrel with you, Mary.’

She tried to say she was sorry to hear it, but burst into tears. Mr Pecksniff now repeated the Todgers performance on a comfortable scale, as if he intended it to last some time; and in his disengaged hand, catching hers, employed himself in separating the fingers with his own, and sometimes kissing them, as he pursued the conversation thus:

‘I am glad we met. I am very glad we met. I am able now to ease my bosom of a heavy load, and speak to you in confidence. Mary,’ said Mr Pecksniff in his tenderest tones, indeed they were so very tender that he almost squeaked: ‘My soul! I love you!’

A fantastic thing, that maiden affectation! She made believe to shudder.

‘I love you,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘my gentle life, with a devotion which is quite surprising, even to myself. I did suppose that the sensation was buried in the silent tomb of a lady, only second to you in qualities of the mind and form; but I find I am mistaken.’

She tried to disengage her hand, but might as well have tried to free herself from the embrace of an affectionate boa-constrictor; if anything so wily may be brought into comparison with Pecksniff.

‘Although I am a widower,’ said Mr Pecksniff, examining the rings upon her fingers, and tracing the course of one delicate blue vein with his fat thumb, ‘a widower with two daughters, still I am not encumbered, my love. One of them, as you know, is married. The other, by her own desire, but with a view, I will confess—why not?—to my altering my condition, is about to leave her father’s house. I have a character, I hope. People are pleased to speak well of me, I think. My person and manner are not absolutely those of a monster, I trust. Ah! naughty Hand!’ said Mr Pecksniff, apostrophizing the reluctant prize, ‘why did you take me prisoner? Go, go!’

He slapped the hand to punish it; but relenting, folded it in his waistcoat to comfort it again.

‘Blessed in each other, and in the society of our venerable friend, my darling,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we shall be happy. When he is wafted to a haven of rest, we will console each other. My pretty primrose, what do you say?’

‘It is possible,’ Mary answered, in a hurried manner, ‘that I ought to feel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I cannot say that I do, but I am willing to suppose you may deserve my thanks. Take them; and pray leave me, Mr Pecksniff.’

The good man smiled a greasy smile; and drew her closer to him.

‘Pray, pray release me, Mr Pecksniff. I cannot listen to your proposal. I cannot receive it. There are many to whom it may be acceptable, but it is not so to me. As an act of kindness and an act of pity, leave me!’

Mr Pecksniff walked on with his arm round her waist, and her hand in his, as contentedly as if they had been all in all to each other, and were joined in the bonds of truest love.

‘If you force me by your superior strength,’ said Mary, who finding that good words had not the least effect upon him, made no further effort to suppress her indignation; ‘if you force me by your superior strength to accompany you back, and to be the subject of your insolence upon the way, you cannot constrain the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in the deepest abhorrence. I know your real nature and despise it.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sweetly. ‘No, no, no!’

‘By what arts or unhappy chances you have gained your influence over Mr Chuzzlewit, I do not know,’ said Mary; ‘it may be strong enough to soften even this, but he shall know of this, trust me, sir.’

Mr Pecksniff raised his heavy eyelids languidly, and let them fall again. It was saying with perfect coolness, ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’

‘Is it not enough,’ said Mary, ‘that you warp and change his nature, adapt his every prejudice to your bad ends, and harden a heart naturally kind by shutting out the truth and allowing none but false and distorted views to reach it; is it not enough that you have the power of doing this, and that you exercise it, but must you also be so coarse, so cruel, and so cowardly to me?’

Still Mr Pecksniff led her calmly on, and looked as mild as any lamb that ever pastured in the fields.

‘Will nothing move you, sir?’ cried Mary.

‘My dear,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, with a placid leer, ‘a habit of self-examination, and the practice of—shall I say of virtue?’

‘Of hypocrisy,’ said Mary.

‘No, no,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully, ‘of virtue—have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it is really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is difficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp ‘that she could! How little did she know his heart!’

Little, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would have preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent—nay, the hug of a bear—to the endearments of Mr Pecksniff.

‘Come, come,’ said that good gentleman, ‘a word or two will set this matter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am not angry, my love.’

‘You angry!’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I am not. I say so. Neither are you.’

There was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story though.

‘I am sure you are not,’ said Mr Pecksniff: ‘and I will tell you why. There are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger to one might have a serious effect—who knows!—upon the other. You wouldn’t wish to hurt him, would you?’

She trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that he turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in spite of his better self.

‘A passive quarrel, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘may be changed into an active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited young man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it. Ah, how easy! Have I influence with our venerable friend, do you think? Well, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’

He raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was charming.

‘No,’ he continued, thoughtfully. ‘Upon the whole, my sweet, if I were you I’d keep my secret to myself. I am not at all sure—very far from it—that it would surprise our friend in any way, for he and I have had some conversation together only this morning, and he is anxious, very anxious, to establish you in some more settled manner. But whether he was surprised or not surprised, the consequence of your imparting it might be the same. Martin junior might suffer severely. I’d have compassion on Martin junior, do you know?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a persuasive smile. ‘Yes. He don’t deserve it, but I would.’

She wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed, that he thought it prudent to unclasp her waist, and hold her only by the hand.

‘As to our own share in the precious little mystery,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we will keep it to ourselves, and talk of it between ourselves, and you shall think it over. You will consent, my love; you will consent, I know. Whatever you may think; you will. I seem to remember to have heard—I really don’t know where, or how’—he added, with bewitching frankness, ‘that you and Martin junior, when you were children, had a sort of childish fondness for each other. When we are married, you shall have the satisfaction of thinking that it didn’t last to ruin him, but passed away to do him good; for we’ll see then what we can do to put some trifling help in Martin junior’s way. Have I any influence with our venerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’

The outlet from the wood in which these tender passages occurred, was close to Mr Pecksniff’s house. They were now so near it that he stopped, and holding up her little finger, said in playful accents, as a parting fancy:

‘Shall I bite it?’

Receiving no reply he kissed it instead; and then stooping down, inclined his flabby face to hers—he had a flabby face, although he was a good man—and with a blessing, which from such a source was quite enough to set her up in life, and prosper her from that time forth permitted her to leave him.

Gallantry in its true sense is supposed to ennoble and dignify a man; and love has shed refinements on innumerable Cymons. But Mr Pecksniff—perhaps because to one of his exalted nature these were mere grossnesses—certainly did not appear to any unusual advantage, now that he was left alone. On the contrary, he seemed to be shrunk and reduced; to be trying to hide himself within himself; and to be wretched at not having the power to do it. His shoes looked too large; his sleeve looked too long; his hair looked too limp; his features looked too mean; his exposed throat looked as if a halter would have done it good. For a minute or two, in fact, he was hot, and pale, and mean, and shy, and slinking, and consequently not at all Pecksniffian. But after that, he recovered himself, and went home with as beneficent an air as if he had been the High Priest of the summer weather.

‘I have arranged to go, Papa,’ said Charity, ‘to-morrow.’

‘So soon, my child!’

‘I can’t go too soon,’ said Charity, ‘under the circumstances. I have written to Mrs Todgers to propose an arrangement, and have requested her to meet me at the coach, at all events. You’ll be quite your own master now, Mr Pinch!’

Mr Pecksniff had just gone out of the room, and Tom had just come into it.

‘My own master!’ repeated Tom.

‘Yes, you’ll have nobody to interfere with you,’ said Charity. ‘At least I hope you won’t. Hem! It’s a changing world.’

‘What! are you going to be married, Miss Pecksniff?’ asked Tom in great surprise.

‘Not exactly,’ faltered Cherry. ‘I haven’t made up my mind to be. I believe I could be, if I chose, Mr Pinch.’

‘Of course you could!’ said Tom. And he said it in perfect good faith. He believed it from the bottom of his heart.

‘No,’ said Cherry, ‘I am not going to be married. Nobody is, that I know of. Hem! But I am not going to live with Papa. I have my reasons, but it’s all a secret. I shall always feel very kindly towards you, I assure you, for the boldness you showed that night. As to you and me, Mr Pinch, we part the best friends possible!’

Tom thanked her for her confidence, and for her friendship, but there was a mystery in the former which perfectly bewildered him. In his extravagant devotion to the family, he had felt the loss of Merry more than any one but those who knew that for all the slights he underwent he thought his own demerits were to blame, could possibly have understood. He had scarcely reconciled himself to that when here was Charity about to leave them. She had grown up, as it were, under Tom’s eye. The sisters were a part of Pecksniff, and a part of Tom; items in Pecksniff’s goodness, and in Tom’s service. He couldn’t bear it; not two hours’ sleep had Tom that night, through dwelling in his bed upon these dreadful changes.

When morning dawned he thought he must have dreamed this piece of ambiguity; but no, on going downstairs he found them packing trunks and cording boxes, and making other preparations for Miss Charity’s departure, which lasted all day long. In good time for the evening coach, Miss Charity deposited her housekeeping keys with much ceremony upon the parlour table; took a gracious leave of all the house; and quitted her paternal roof—a blessing for which the Pecksniffian servant was observed by some profane persons to be particularly active in the thanksgiving at church next Sunday.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MR PECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY

The closing words of the last chapter lead naturally to the commencement of this, its successor; for it has to do with a church. With the church, so often mentioned heretofore, in which Tom Pinch played the organ for nothing.

One sultry afternoon, about a week after Miss Charity’s departure for London, Mr Pecksniff being out walking by himself, took it into his head to stray into the churchyard. As he was lingering among the tombstones, endeavouring to extract an available sentiment or two from the epitaphs—for he never lost an opportunity of making up a few moral crackers, to be let off as occasion served—Tom Pinch began to practice. Tom could run down to the church and do so whenever he had time to spare; for it was a simple little organ, provided with wind by the action of the musician’s feet; and he was independent, even of a bellows-blower. Though if Tom had wanted one at any time, there was not a man or boy in all the village, and away to the turnpike (tollman included), but would have blown away for him till he was black in the face.

Mr Pecksniff had no objection to music; not the least. He was tolerant of everything; he often said so. He considered it a vagabond kind of trifling, in general, just suited to Tom’s capacity. But in regard to Tom’s performance upon this same organ, he was remarkably lenient, singularly amiable; for when Tom played it on Sundays, Mr Pecksniff in his unbounded sympathy felt as if he played it himself, and were a benefactor to the congregation. So whenever it was impossible to devise any other means of taking the value of Tom’s wages out of him, Mr Pecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this instrument. For which mark of his consideration Tom was very grateful.

The afternoon was remarkably warm, and Mr Pecksniff had been strolling a long way. He had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but he knew when it had a tranquilizing influence on his soul; and that was the case now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore. He approached the church, and looking through the diamond lattice of a window near the porch, saw Tom, with the curtains in the loft drawn back, playing away with great expression and tenderness.

The church had an inviting air of coolness. The old oak roof supported by cross-beams, the hoary walls, the marble tablets, and the cracked stone pavement, were refreshing to look at. There were leaves of ivy tapping gently at the opposite windows; and the sun poured in through only one; leaving the body of the church in tempting shade. But the most tempting spot of all, was one red-curtained and soft-cushioned pew, wherein the official dignitaries of the place (of whom Mr Pecksniff was the head and chief) enshrined themselves on Sundays. Mr Pecksniff’s seat was in the corner; a remarkably comfortable corner; where his very large Prayer-Book was at that minute making the most of its quarto self upon the desk. He determined to go in and rest.

He entered very softly; in part because it was a church; in part because his tread was always soft; in part because Tom played a solemn tune; in part because he thought he would surprise him when he stopped. Unbolting the door of the high pew of state, he glided in and shut it after him; then sitting in his usual place, and stretching out his legs upon the hassocks, he composed himself to listen to the music.

It is an unaccountable circumstance that he should have felt drowsy there, where the force of association might surely have been enough to keep him wide awake; but he did. He had not been in the snug little corner five minutes before he began to nod. He had not recovered himself one minute before he began to nod again. In the very act of opening his eyes indolently, he nodded again. In the very act of shutting them, he nodded again. So he fell out of one nod into another until at last he ceased to nod at all, and was as fast as the church itself.

He had a consciousness of the organ, long after he fell asleep, though as to its being an organ he had no more idea of that than he had of its being a bull. After a while he began to have at intervals the same dreamy impressions of voices; and awakening to an indolent curiosity upon the subject, opened his eyes.

He was so indolent, that after glancing at the hassocks and the pew, he was already half-way off to sleep again, when it occurred to him that there really were voices in the church; low voices, talking earnestly hard by; while the echoes seemed to mutter responses. He roused himself, and listened.

Before he had listened half a dozen seconds, he became as broad awake as ever he had been in all his life. With eyes, and ears, and mouth, wide open, he moved himself a very little with the utmost caution, and gathering the curtain in his hand, peeped out.

Tom Pinch and Mary. Of course. He had recognized their voices, and already knew the topic they discussed. Looking like the small end of a guillotined man, with his chin on a level with the top of the pew, so that he might duck down immediately in case of either of them turning round, he listened. Listened with such concentrated eagerness, that his very hair and shirt-collar stood bristling up to help him.

‘No,’ cried Tom. ‘No letters have ever reached me, except that one from New York. But don’t be uneasy on that account, for it’s very likely they have gone away to some far-off place, where the posts are neither regular nor frequent. He said in that very letter that it might be so, even in that city to which they thought of travelling—Eden, you know.’

‘It is a great weight upon my mind,’ said Mary.

‘Oh, but you mustn’t let it be,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a true saying that nothing travels so fast as ill news; and if the slightest harm had happened to Martin, you may be sure you would have heard of it long ago. I have often wished to say this to you,’ Tom continued with an embarrassment that became him very well, ‘but you have never given me an opportunity.’

‘I have sometimes been almost afraid,’ said Mary, ‘that you might suppose I hesitated to confide in you, Mr Pinch.’

‘No,’ Tom stammered, ‘I—I am not aware that I ever supposed that. I am sure that if I have, I have checked the thought directly, as an injustice to you. I feel the delicacy of your situation in having to confide in me at all,’ said Tom, ‘but I would risk my life to save you from one day’s uneasiness; indeed I would!’

Poor Tom!

‘I have dreaded sometimes,’ Tom continued, ‘that I might have displeased you by—by having the boldness to try and anticipate your wishes now and then. At other times I have fancied that your kindness prompted you to keep aloof from me.’

‘Indeed!’

‘It was very foolish; very presumptuous and ridiculous, to think so,’ Tom pursued; ‘but I feared you might suppose it possible that I—I—should admire you too much for my own peace; and so denied yourself the slight assistance you would otherwise have accepted from me. If such an idea has ever presented itself to you,’ faltered Tom, ‘pray dismiss it. I am easily made happy; and I shall live contented here long after you and Martin have forgotten me. I am a poor, shy, awkward creature; not at all a man of the world; and you should think no more of me, bless you, than if I were an old friar!’

If friars bear such hearts as thine, Tom, let friars multiply; though they have no such rule in all their stern arithmetic.

‘Dear Mr Pinch!’ said Mary, giving him her hand; ‘I cannot tell you how your kindness moves me. I have never wronged you by the lightest doubt, and have never for an instant ceased to feel that you were all—much more than all—that Martin found you. Without the silent care and friendship I have experienced from you, my life here would have been unhappy. But you have been a good angel to me; filling me with gratitude of heart, hope, and courage.’

‘I am as little like an angel, I am afraid,’ replied Tom, shaking his head, ‘as any stone cherubim among the grave-stones; and I don’t think there are many real angels of that pattern. But I should like to know (if you will tell me) why you have been so very silent about Martin.’

‘Because I have been afraid,’ said Mary, ‘of injuring you.’

‘Of injuring me!’ cried Tom.

‘Of doing you an injury with your employer.’

The gentleman in question dived.

‘With Pecksniff!’ rejoined Tom, with cheerful confidence. ‘Oh dear, he’d never think of us! He’s the best of men. The more at ease you were, the happier he would be. Oh dear, you needn’t be afraid of Pecksniff. He is not a spy.’

Many a man in Mr Pecksniff’s place, if he could have dived through the floor of the pew of state and come out at Calcutta or any inhabited region on the other side of the earth, would have done it instantly. Mr Pecksniff sat down upon a hassock, and listening more attentively than ever, smiled.

Mary seemed to have expressed some dissent in the meanwhile, for Tom went on to say, with honest energy:

‘Well, I don’t know how it is, but it always happens, whenever I express myself in this way to anybody almost, that I find they won’t do justice to Pecksniff. It is one of the most extraordinary circumstances that ever came within my knowledge, but it is so. There’s John Westlock, who used to be a pupil here, one of the best-hearted young men in the world, in all other matters—I really believe John would have Pecksniff flogged at the cart’s tail if he could. And John is not a solitary case, for every pupil we have had in my time has gone away with the same inveterate hatred of him. There was Mark Tapley, too, quite in another station of life,’ said Tom; ‘the mockery he used to make of Pecksniff when he was at the Dragon was shocking. Martin too: Martin was worse than any of ‘em. But I forgot. He prepared you to dislike Pecksniff, of course. So you came with a prejudice, you know, Miss Graham, and are not a fair witness.’

Tom triumphed very much in this discovery, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘you mistake him.’

‘No, no!’ cried Tom. ‘You mistake him. But,’ he added, with a rapid change in his tone, ‘what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is the matter?’

Mr Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, his hair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a bench beside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending over her.

‘What is the matter?’ cried Tom. ‘Have I said anything to hurt you? Has any one said anything to hurt you? Don’t cry. Pray tell me what it is. I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was so surprised and grieved in all my life!’

Mr Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it now for nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.

‘I wouldn’t have told you, Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘if I could have helped it; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that we should be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and to that end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternative is left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I should have wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to the object of my coming.’

Tom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, ‘What else?’ But he said not a word.

‘That person whom you think the best of men,’ said Mary, looking up, and speaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.

‘Lord bless me!’ muttered Tom, staggering back. ‘Wait a moment. That person whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course. Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don’t speak without authority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?’

‘The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, most sordid, most shameless,’ said the trembling girl—trembling with her indignation.

Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.

‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who receiving me in his house as his guest; his unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone I am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had a brother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?’

‘He is a scoundrel!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Whoever he may be, he is a scoundrel.’

Mr Pecksniff dived again.

‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who, when my only friend—a dear and kind one, too—was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was spurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving spirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl about him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every base and wicked purpose, and not for one—not one—that’s true or good?’

‘I say he is a scoundrel!’ answered Tom.

‘But what is he—oh, Mr Pinch, what is he—who, thinking he could compass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with the coward’s argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought so much misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; and if I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes my very constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself and wrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt a head I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruel snares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue and a smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, in his embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,’ pursued the agitated girl, extending it, ‘which I would have struck off, if with it I could lose the shame and degradation of his touch?’

‘I say,’ cried Tom, in great excitement, ‘he is a scoundrel and a villain! I don’t care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and most intolerable villain!’

Covering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which had sustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelming sense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.

Any sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but this especially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He tried to comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homely eloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, though he loved her from his soul with such a self-denying love as woman seldom wins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the rich Indies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover’s name.

When she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man she had described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word and phrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what had passed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of high gratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see and his dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew, and coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch’s Show, who avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she had concluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant and unconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and had thanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in the burial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.

And now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushing upon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, in a moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom’s Pecksniff, had ceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom would have had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in this discovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For, as Tom’s blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so was his restored sight. His Pecksniff could never have worked the wickedness of which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and the Pecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had been doing anything and everything except the right thing, all through his career. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol it was tumbled down headlong, and

Not all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men,

Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.

Legions of Titans couldn’t have got him out of the mud; and serve him right! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass was broken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts were gone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.

Mr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined the purpose of Tom’s ruminations, and was curious to see how he conducted himself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a man demented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over; then he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully with skulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had ever seen, although at other times he held it in unspeakable contempt; then he sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up into the organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed, their music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom drooped his head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.

‘I wouldn’t have cared,’ said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool and looking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, ‘I wouldn’t have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I have tried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and have never been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn’t have minded, Pecksniff,’ Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, ‘if you had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses for that; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone on respecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem! Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, to have had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!’

Mr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, while Tom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause he heard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringing his eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock the door.

Mr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for through the windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, and sometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were a mourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, Mr Pecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that in his restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length he issued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry; where he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he could release himself by merely stepping out.

He was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry to go, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, which prompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the parson’s little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair was rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and arranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but he shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a black and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very much the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging themselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a port-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helped himself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, in a very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise employed.

He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting back the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the churchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked straight home.

‘Is Mr Pinch indoors?’ asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.

‘Just come in, sir.’

‘Just come in, eh?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. ‘And gone upstairs, I suppose?’

‘Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘no. You needn’t call him, Jane. Thank you, Jane. How are your relations, Jane?’

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s in the parlour, reading.’

‘He’s in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very well. Then I think I’ll go and see him, Jane.’

Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!

But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for Mr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with writing materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved; he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man’s side, two tears—not tears like those with which recording angels blot their entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their ink—stole down his meritorious cheeks.

‘What is the matter?’ asked old Martin. ‘Pecksniff, what ails you, man?’

‘I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.’

‘You are deceived!’

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, ‘deceived in the tenderest point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.’

‘Oh! bad, bad, bad!’ said Martin, laying down his book. ‘Very bad! I hope not. Are you certain?’

‘Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. I wouldn’t have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I would have said,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘that the Serpent lied. Such was my faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into the Serpent’s teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am not a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is left me.’

Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear such unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon what subject Mr Pinch’s treachery had been developed.

‘That is almost the worst of all, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, ‘on a subject nearly concerning you. Oh! is it not enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking upward, ‘that these blows must fall on me, but must they also hit my friends!’

‘You alarm me,’ cried the old man, changing colour. ‘I am not so strong as I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!’

‘Cheer up, my noble sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, ‘and we will do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall be righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to discharge, which I owe to society.’

He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. ‘Send Mr Pinch here, if you please, Jane.’

Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected, visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.

The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say ‘You see!’ and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:

‘Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the favour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to me!’

‘The vestry-window, sir?’ cried Tom.

‘You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,’ returned his patron. ‘Yes, Mr Pinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church after a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,’ he emphasised that word, ‘of a dialogue between two parties; and one of them locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave it myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that vestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.’

No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom’s face when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of reproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong emotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying one word, good or bad, withdrew.

‘Pecksniff,’ cried Martin, in a tremble, ‘what does all this mean? You are not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!’

‘No, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, ‘No. But I have a duty to discharge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend, at any cost!’

Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always owed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy neglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose duty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and death, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon’s dock, and throwing but ajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these bad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy homilies to other tarriers for dead men’s shoes, whose duty to society has not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a squire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and the mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth, a corps of yeomanry full-grown!

Mr Pecksniff’s duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The interval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a close conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found the two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above, whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to entreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be spared.

When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr Pecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was his pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little heap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it was his own salary for the current quarter.

‘Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.’

Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the organ-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it as he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom’s; a kind companion to him, many and many a day.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, shaking his head; ‘oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder you can look me in the face!’

Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as stooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt that he should want it soon, ‘I will not dwell upon the past. I will spare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.’

Tom’s was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when he looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:

‘Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.’

‘The present is enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, ‘and the sooner that is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss you without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite justifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of hurry, and I will not do it; for I am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down another penny, ‘perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you, what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.’

Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving of Mr Pecksniff’s sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them in no other way.

‘From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just now, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘between yourself and Miss Graham—I say fragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you, when I was roused by your voices—and from what I saw, I ascertained (I would have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that you, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the sacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate of this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned professions of attachment and proposals of love.’

Tom looked at him steadily.

‘Do you deny it, sir?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and fourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.

‘No, sir,’ replied Tom. ‘I do not.’

‘You do not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. ‘Oblige me by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this receipt. You do not?’

No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having overheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his contempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means of getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He saw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing so and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against Martin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been mistaken in his ‘fragments.’ Deny it! No.

‘You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.

‘Quite correct, sir,’ answered Tom.

‘A person is waiting in the kitchen,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to carry your luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and are strangers from this time.’

Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken gratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom’s gentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff’s in that carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved the compromise of one he loved, he couldn’t have denounced the very shape and figure of the man. Not even then.

‘I will not say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, ‘what a blow this is. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature; how it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure as well as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope, Mr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, that this deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may not impair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, my Pinions. I hope it will not; I don’t think it will. It may be a comfort to you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavour not to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what has passed between us. Farewell!’

Tom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, which he had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearing this, and said:

‘I think you left something in the church, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I am not aware that I did.’

‘This is your double eye-glass, I believe?’ said Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. ‘I am obliged to you. Put it down, if you please.’

‘I found it,’ said Tom, slowly—‘when I went to bolt the vestry-window—in the pew.’

So he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up and down, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it. Going back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, and wondering very much from what part, Tom’s attention was caught by the door of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass. And thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the information that he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead of overhearing fragments of the conversation, he must have rejoiced in every word of it.

‘I am glad he’s gone,’ said Martin, drawing a long breath when Tom had left the room.

‘It is a relief,’ assented Mr Pecksniff. ‘It is a great relief. But having discharged—I hope with tolerable firmness—the duty which I owed to society, I will now, my dear sir, if you will give me leave, retire to shed a few tears in the back garden, as an humble individual.’

Tom went upstairs; cleared his shelf of books; packed them up with his music and an old fiddle in his trunk; got out his clothes (they were not so many that they made his head ache); put them on the top of his books; and went into the workroom for his case of instruments. There was a ragged stool there, with the horsehair all sticking out of the top like a wig: a very Beast of a stool in itself; on which he had taken up his daily seat, year after year, during the whole period of his service. They had grown older and shabbier in company. Pupils had served their time; seasons had come and gone. Tom and the worn-out stool had held together through it all. That part of the room was traditionally called ‘Tom’s Corner.’ It had been assigned to him at first because of its being situated in a strong draught, and a great way from the fire; and he had occupied it ever since. There were portraits of him on the walls, with all his weak points monstrously portrayed. Diabolical sentiments, foreign to his character, were represented as issuing from his mouth in fat balloons. Every pupil had added something, even unto fancy portraits of his father with one eye, and of his mother with a disproportionate nose, and especially of his sister; who always being presented as extremely beautiful, made full amends to Tom for any other jokes. Under less uncommon circumstances, it would have cut Tom to the heart to leave these things and think that he saw them for the last time; but it didn’t now. There was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff; and all his other griefs were swallowed up in that.

So, when he returned into the bedroom, and, having fastened his box and a carpet-bag, put on his walking gaiters, and his great-coat, and his hat, and taken his stick in his hand, looked round it for the last time. Early on summer mornings, and by the light of private candle-ends on winter nights, he had read himself half blind in this same room. He had tried in this same room to learn the fiddle under the bedclothes, but yielding to objections from the other pupils, had reluctantly abandoned the design. At any other time he would have parted from it with a pang, thinking of all he had learned there, of the many hours he had passed there; for the love of his very dreams. But there was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff, and the unreality of Pecksniff extended itself to the chamber, in which, sitting on one particular bed, the thing supposed to be that Great Abstraction had often preached morality with such effect that Tom had felt a moisture in his eyes, while hanging breathless on the words.

The man engaged to bear his box—Tom knew him well: a Dragon man—came stamping up the stairs, and made a roughish bow to Tom (to whom in common times he would have nodded with a grin) as though he were aware of what had happened, and wished him to perceive it made no difference to him. It was clumsily done; he was a mere waterer of horses; but Tom liked the man for it, and felt it more than going away.

Tom would have helped him with the box, but he made no more of it, though it was a heavy one, than an elephant would have made of a castle; just swinging it on his back and bowling downstairs as if, being naturally a heavy sort of fellow, he could carry a box infinitely better than he could go alone. Tom took the carpet-bag, and went downstairs along with him. At the outer door stood Jane, crying with all her might; and on the steps was Mrs Lupin, sobbing bitterly, and putting out her hand for Tom to shake.

‘You’re coming to the Dragon, Mr Pinch?’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no. I shall walk to Salisbury to-night. I couldn’t stay here. For goodness’ sake, don’t make me so unhappy, Mrs Lupin.’

‘But you’ll come to the Dragon, Mr Pinch. If it’s only for tonight. To see me, you know; not as a traveller.’

‘God bless my soul!’ said Tom, wiping his eyes. ‘The kindness of people is enough to break one’s heart! I mean to go to Salisbury to-night, my dear good creature. If you’ll take care of my box for me till I write for it, I shall consider it the greatest kindness you can do me.’

‘I wish,’ cried Mrs Lupin, ‘there were twenty boxes, Mr Pinch, that I might have ‘em all.’

‘Thank’ee,’ said Tom. ‘It’s like you. Good-bye. Good-bye.’

There were several people, young and old, standing about the door, some of whom cried with Mrs Lupin; while others tried to keep up a stout heart, as Tom did; and others were absorbed in admiration of Mr Pecksniff—a man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting at a sheet of paper; and others were divided between that feeling and sympathy with Tom. Mr Pecksniff had appeared on the top of the steps, simultaneously with his old pupil, and while Tom was talking with Mrs Lupin kept his hand stretched out, as though he said ‘Go forth!’ When Tom went forth, and had turned the corner Mr Pecksniff shook his head, shut his eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, shut the door. On which, the best of Tom’s supporters said he must have done some dreadful deed, or such a man as Mr Pecksniff never could have felt like that. If it had been a common quarrel (they observed), he would have said something, but when he didn’t, Mr Pinch must have shocked him dreadfully.

Tom was out of hearing of their shrewd opinions, and plodded on as steadily as he could go, until he came within sight of the turnpike where the tollman’s family had cried out ‘Mr Pinch!’ that frosty morning, when he went to meet young Martin. He had got through the village, and this toll-bar was his last trial; but when the infant toll-takers came screeching out, he had half a mind to run for it, and make a bolt across the country.

‘Why, deary Mr Pinch! oh, deary sir!’ cried the tollman’s wife. ‘What an unlikely time for you to be a-going this way with a bag!’

‘I am going to Salisbury,’ said Tom.

‘Why, goodness, where’s the gig, then?’ cried the tollman’s wife, looking down the road, as if she thought Tom might have been upset without observing it.

‘I haven’t got it,’ said Tom. ‘I—’ he couldn’t evade it; he felt she would have him in the next question, if he got over this one. ‘I have left Mr Pecksniff.’

The tollman—a crusty customer, always smoking solitary pipes in a Windsor chair, inside, set artfully between two little windows that looked up and down the road, so that when he saw anything coming up he might hug himself on having toll to take, and when he saw it going down, might hug himself on having taken it—the tollman was out in an instant.

‘Left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman.

‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘left him.’

The tollman looked at his wife, uncertain whether to ask her if she had anything to suggest, or to order her to mind the children. Astonishment making him surly, he preferred the latter, and sent her into the toll-house with a flea in her ear.

‘You left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman, folding his arms, and spreading his legs. ‘I should as soon have thought of his head leaving him.’

‘Aye!’ said Tom, ‘so should I, yesterday. Good night!’

If a heavy drove of oxen hadn’t come by immediately, the tollman would have gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. As things turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into his confidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and they went to bed—metaphorically—in the dark. But several times that night, when a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver asked the tollkeeper ‘What news?’ he looked at the man by the light of his lantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, and then said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:

‘You’ve heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?’

‘Ah! sure-ly!’

‘And of his young man Mr Pinch, p’raps?’

‘Ah!’

‘They’ve parted.’

After every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into his house again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in great amazement.

But this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his face towards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening was beautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and the rain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wet through, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcome precincts of the city.

He went to the inn where he had waited for Martin, and briefly answering their inquiries after Mr Pecksniff, ordered a bed. He had no heart for tea or supper, meat or drink of any kind, but sat by himself before an empty table in the public room while the bed was getting ready, revolving in his mind all that had happened that eventful day, and wondering what he could or should do for the future. It was a great relief when the chambermaid came in, and said the bed was ready.

It was a low four-poster, shelving downward in the centre like a trough, and the room was crowded with impracticable tables and exploded chests of drawers, full of damp linen. A graphic representation in oil of a remarkably fat ox hung over the fireplace, and the portrait of some former landlord (who might have been the ox’s brother, he was so like him) stared roundly in, at the foot of the bed. A variety of queer smells were partially quenched in the prevailing scent of very old lavender; and the window had not been opened for such a long space of time that it pleaded immemorial usage, and wouldn’t come open now.

These were trifles in themselves, but they added to the strangeness of the place, and did not induce Tom to forget his new position. Pecksniff had gone out of the world—had never been in it—and it was as much as Tom could do to say his prayers without him. But he felt happier afterwards, and went to sleep, and dreamed about him as he Never Was.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TREATS OF TODGER’S AGAIN; AND OF ANOTHER BLIGHTED PLANT BESIDES THE PLANTS UPON THE LEADS

Early on the day next after that on which she bade adieu to the halls of her youth and the scenes of her childhood, Miss Pecksniff, arriving safely at the coach-office in London, was there received, and conducted to her peaceful home beneath the shadow of the Monument, by Mrs Todgers. M. Todgers looked a little worn by cares of gravy and other such solicitudes arising out of her establishment, but displayed her usual earnestness and warmth of manner.

‘And how, my sweet Miss Pecksniff,’ said she, ‘how is your princely pa?’

Miss Pecksniff signified (in confidence) that he contemplated the introduction of a princely ma; and repeated the sentiment that she wasn’t blind, and wasn’t quite a fool, and wouldn’t bear it.

Mrs Todgers was more shocked by the intelligence than any one could have expected. She was quite bitter. She said there was no truth in man and that the warmer he expressed himself, as a general principle, the falser and more treacherous he was. She foresaw with astonishing clearness that the object of Mr Pecksniff’s attachment was designing, worthless, and wicked; and receiving from Charity the fullest confirmation of these views, protested with tears in her eyes that she loved Miss Pecksniff like a sister, and felt her injuries as if they were her own.

‘Your real darling sister, I have not seen her more than once since her marriage,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and then I thought her looking poorly. My sweet Miss Pecksniff, I always thought that you was to be the lady?’

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Cherry, shaking her head. ‘Oh no, Mrs Todgers. Thank you. No! not for any consideration he could offer.’

‘I dare say you are right,’ said Mrs Todgers with a sigh. ‘I feared it all along. But the misery we have had from that match, here among ourselves, in this house, my dear Miss Pecksniff, nobody would believe.’

‘Lor, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Awful, awful!’ repeated Mrs Todgers, with strong emphasis. ‘You recollect our youngest gentleman, my dear?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Cherry.

‘You might have observed,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘how he used to watch your sister; and that a kind of stony dumbness came over him whenever she was in company?’

‘I am sure I never saw anything of the sort,’ said Cherry, in a peevish manner. ‘What nonsense, Mrs Todgers!’

‘My dear,’ returned that lady in a hollow voice, ‘I have seen him again and again, sitting over his pie at dinner, with his spoon a perfect fixture in his mouth, looking at your sister. I have seen him standing in a corner of our drawing-room, gazing at her, in such a lonely, melancholy state, that he was more like a Pump than a man, and might have drawed tears.’

‘I never saw it!’ cried Cherry; ‘that’s all I can say.’

‘But when the marriage took place,’ said Mrs Todgers, proceeding with her subject, ‘when it was in the paper, and was read out here at breakfast, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, I did indeed. The violence of that young man, my dear Miss Pecksniff; the frightful opinions he expressed upon the subject of self-destruction; the extraordinary actions he performed with his tea; the clenching way in which he bit his bread and butter; the manner in which he taunted Mr Jinkins; all combined to form a picture never to be forgotten.’

‘It’s a pity he didn’t destroy himself, I think,’ observed Miss Pecksniff.

‘Himself!’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘it took another turn at night. He was for destroying other people then. There was a little chaffing going on—I hope you don’t consider that a low expression, Miss Pecksniff; it is always in our gentlemen’s mouths—a little chaffing going on, my dear, among ‘em, all in good nature, when suddenly he rose up, foaming with his fury, and but for being held by three would have had Mr Jinkins’s life with a bootjack.’

Miss Pecksniff’s face expressed supreme indifference.

‘And now,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘now he is the meekest of men. You can almost bring the tears into his eyes by looking at him. He sits with me the whole day long on Sundays, talking in such a dismal way that I find it next to impossible to keep my spirits up equal to the accommodation of the boarders. His only comfort is in female society. He takes me half-price to the play, to an extent which I sometimes fear is beyond his means; and I see the tears a-standing in his eyes during the whole performance—particularly if it is anything of a comic nature. The turn I experienced only yesterday,’ said Mrs Todgers putting her hand to her side, ‘when the house-maid threw his bedside carpet out of the window of his room, while I was sitting here, no one can imagine. I thought it was him, and that he had done it at last!’

The contempt with which Miss Charity received this pathetic account of the state to which the youngest gentleman in company was reduced, did not say much for her power of sympathising with that unfortunate character. She treated it with great levity, and went on to inform herself, then and afterwards, whether any other changes had occurred in the commercial boarding-house.

Mr Bailey was gone, and had been succeeded (such is the decay of human greatness!) by an old woman whose name was reported to be Tamaroo—which seemed an impossibility. Indeed it appeared in the fullness of time that the jocular boarders had appropriated the word from an English ballad, in which it is supposed to express the bold and fiery nature of a certain hackney coachman; and that it was bestowed upon Mr Bailey’s successor by reason of her having nothing fiery about her, except an occasional attack of that fire which is called St. Anthony’s. This ancient female had been engaged, in fulfillment of a vow, registered by Mrs Todgers, that no more boys should darken the commercial doors; and she was chiefly remarkable for a total absence of all comprehension upon every subject whatever. She was a perfect Tomb for messages and small parcels; and when dispatched to the Post Office with letters, had been frequently seen endeavouring to insinuate them into casual chinks in private doors, under the delusion that any door with a hole in it would answer the purpose. She was a very little old woman, and always wore a very coarse apron with a bib before and a loop behind, together with bandages on her wrists, which appeared to be afflicted with an everlasting sprain. She was on all occasions chary of opening the street door, and ardent to shut it again; and she waited at table in a bonnet.

This was the only great change over and above the change which had fallen on the youngest gentleman. As for him, he more than corroborated the account of Mrs Todgers; possessing greater sensibility than even she had given him credit for. He entertained some terrible notions of Destiny, among other matters, and talked much about people’s ‘Missions’; upon which he seemed to have some private information not generally attainable, as he knew it had been poor Merry’s mission to crush him in the bud. He was very frail and tearful; for being aware that a shepherd’s mission was to pipe to his flocks, and that a boatswain’s mission was to pipe all hands, and that one man’s mission was to be a paid piper, and another man’s mission was to pay the piper, so he had got it into his head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye. Which he did perpetually.

He often informed Mrs Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that the billows had rolled over him; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed him, and also that the deadly Upas tree of Java had blighted him. His name was Moddle.

Towards this most unhappy Moddle, Miss Pecksniff conducted herself at first with distant haughtiness, being in no humour to be entertained with dirges in honour of her married sister. The poor young gentleman was additionally crushed by this, and remonstrated with Mrs Todgers on the subject.

‘Even she turns from me, Mrs Todgers,’ said Moddle.

‘Then why don’t you try and be a little bit more cheerful, sir?’ retorted Mrs Todgers.

‘Cheerful, Mrs Todgers! cheerful!’ cried the youngest gentleman; ‘when she reminds me of days for ever fled, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Then you had better avoid her for a short time, if she does,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and come to know her again, by degrees. That’s my advice.’

‘But I can’t avoid her,’ replied Moddle, ‘I haven’t strength of mind to do it. Oh, Mrs Todgers, if you knew what a comfort her nose is to me!’

‘Her nose, sir!’ Mrs Todgers cried.

‘Her profile, in general,’ said the youngest gentleman, ‘but particularly her nose. It’s so like;’ here he yielded to a burst of grief. ‘It’s so like hers who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers!’

The observant matron did not fail to report this conversation to Charity, who laughed at the time, but treated Mr Moddle that very evening with increased consideration, and presented her side face to him as much as possible. Mr Moddle was not less sentimental than usual; was rather more so, if anything; but he sat and stared at her with glistening eyes, and seemed grateful.

‘Well, sir!’ said the lady of the Boarding-House next day. ‘You held up your head last night. You’re coming round, I think.’

‘Only because she’s so like her who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers,’ rejoined the youth. ‘When she talks, and when she smiles, I think I’m looking on her brow again, Mrs Todgers.’

This was likewise carried to Charity, who talked and smiled next evening in her most engaging manner, and rallying Mr Moddle on the lowness of his spirits, challenged him to play a rubber at cribbage. Mr Moddle taking up the gauntlet, they played several rubbers for sixpences, and Charity won them all. This may have been partially attributable to the gallantry of the youngest gentleman, but it was certainly referable to the state of his feelings also; for his eyes being frequently dimmed by tears, he thought that aces were tens, and knaves queens, which at times occasioned some confusion in his play.

On the seventh night of cribbage, when Mrs Todgers, sitting by, proposed that instead of gambling they should play for ‘love,’ Mr Moddle was seen to change colour. On the fourteenth night, he kissed Miss Pecksniff’s snuffers, in the passage, when she went upstairs to bed; meaning to have kissed her hand, but missing it.

In short, Mr Moddle began to be impressed with the idea that Miss Pecksniff’s mission was to comfort him; and Miss Pecksniff began to speculate on the probability of its being her mission to become ultimately Mrs Moddle. He was a young gentleman (Miss Pecksniff was not a very young lady) with rising prospects, and ‘almost’ enough to live on. Really it looked very well.

Besides—besides—he had been regarded as devoted to Merry. Merry had joked about him, and had once spoken of it to her sister as a conquest. He was better looking, better shaped, better spoken, better tempered, better mannered than Jonas. He was easy to manage, could be made to consult the humours of his Betrothed, and could be shown off like a lamb when Jonas was a bear. There was the rub!

In the meantime the cribbage went on, and Mrs Todgers went off; for the youngest gentleman, dropping her society, began to take Miss Pecksniff to the play. He also began, as Mrs Todgers said, to slip home ‘in his dinner-times,’ and to get away from ‘the office’ at unholy seasons; and twice, as he informed Mrs Todgers himself, he received anonymous letters, enclosing cards from Furniture Warehouses—clearly the act of that ungentlemanly ruffian Jinkins; only he hadn’t evidence enough to call him out upon. All of which, so Mrs Todgers told Miss Pecksniff, spoke as plain English as the shining sun.

‘My dear Miss Pecksniff, you may depend upon it,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘that he is burning to propose.’

‘My goodness me, why don’t he then?’ cried Cherry.

‘Men are so much more timid than we think ‘em, my dear,’ returned Mrs Todgers. ‘They baulk themselves continually. I saw the words on Todgers’s lips for months and months and months, before he said ‘em.’

Miss Pecksniff submitted that Todgers might not have been a fair specimen.

‘Oh yes, he was. Oh bless you, yes, my dear. I was very particular in those days, I assure you,’ said Mrs Todgers, bridling. ‘No, no. You give Mr Moddle a little encouragement, Miss Pecksniff, if you wish him to speak; and he’ll speak fast enough, depend upon it.’

‘I am sure I don’t know what encouragement he would have, Mrs Todgers,’ returned Charity. ‘He walks with me, and plays cards with me, and he comes and sits alone with me.’

‘Quite right,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘That’s indispensable, my dear.’

‘And he sits very close to me.’

‘Also quite correct,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And he looks at me.’

‘To be sure he does,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And he has his arm upon the back of the chair or sofa, or whatever it is—behind me, you know.’

‘I should think so,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And then he begins to cry!’

Mrs Todgers admitted that he might do better than that; and might undoubtedly profit by the recollection of the great Lord Nelson’s signal at the battle of Trafalgar. Still, she said, he would come round, or, not to mince the matter, would be brought round, if Miss Pecksniff took up a decided position, and plainly showed him that it must be done.

Determining to regulate her conduct by this opinion, the young lady received Mr Moddle, on the earliest subsequent occasion, with an air of constraint; and gradually leading him to inquire, in a dejected manner, why she was so changed, confessed to him that she felt it necessary for their mutual peace and happiness to take a decided step. They had been much together lately, she observed, much together, and had tasted the sweets of a genuine reciprocity of sentiment. She never could forget him, nor could she ever cease to think of him with feelings of the liveliest friendship, but people had begun to talk, the thing had been observed, and it was necessary that they should be nothing more to each other, than any gentleman and lady in society usually are. She was glad she had had the resolution to say thus much before her feelings had been tried too far; they had been greatly tried, she would admit; but though she was weak and silly, she would soon get the better of it, she hoped.

Moddle, who had by this time become in the last degree maudlin, and wept abundantly, inferred from the foregoing avowal, that it was his mission to communicate to others the blight which had fallen on himself; and that, being a kind of unintentional Vampire, he had had Miss Pecksniff assigned to him by the Fates, as Victim Number One. Miss Pecksniff controverting this opinion as sinful, Moddle was goaded on to ask whether she could be contented with a blighted heart; and it appearing on further examination that she could be, plighted his dismal troth, which was accepted and returned. He bore his good fortune with the utmost moderation. Instead of being triumphant, he shed more tears than he had ever been known to shed before; and, sobbing, said:

‘Oh! what a day this has been! I can’t go back to the office this afternoon. Oh, what a trying day this has been! Good Gracious!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

FURTHER PROCEEDINGS IN EDEN, AND A PROCEEDING OUT OF IT. MARTIN MAKES A DISCOVERY OF SOME IMPORTANCE

From Mr Moddle to Eden is an easy and natural transition. Mr Moddle, living in the atmosphere of Miss Pecksniff’s love, dwelt (if he had but known it) in a terrestrial Paradise. The thriving city of Eden was also a terrestrial Paradise, upon the showing of its proprietors. The beautiful Miss Pecksniff might have been poetically described as a something too good for man in his fallen and degraded state. That was exactly the character of the thriving city of Eden, as poetically heightened by Zephaniah Scadder, General Choke, and other worthies; part and parcel of the talons of that great American Eagle, which is always airing itself sky-high in purest aether, and never, no never, never, tumbles down with draggled wings into the mud.

When Mark Tapley, leaving Martin in the architectural and surveying offices, had effectually strengthened and encouraged his own spirits by the contemplation of their joint misfortunes, he proceeded, with new cheerfulness, in search of help; congratulating himself, as he went along, on the enviable position to which he had at last attained.

‘I used to think, sometimes,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘as a desolate island would suit me, but I should only have had myself to provide for there, and being naturally a easy man to manage, there wouldn’t have been much credit in that. Now here I’ve got my partner to take care on, and he’s something like the sort of man for the purpose. I want a man as is always a-sliding off his legs when he ought to be on ‘em. I want a man as is so low down in the school of life that he’s always a-making figures of one in his copy-book, and can’t get no further. I want a man as is his own great coat and cloak, and is always a-wrapping himself up in himself. And I have got him too,’ said Mr Tapley, after a moment’s silence. ‘What a happiness!’

He paused to look round, uncertain to which of the log-houses he should repair.

‘I don’t know which to take,’ he observed; ‘that’s the truth. They’re equally prepossessing outside, and equally commodious, no doubt, within; being fitted up with every convenience that a Alligator, in a state of natur’, could possibly require. Let me see! The citizen as turned out last night, lives under water, in the right hand dog-kennel at the corner. I don’t want to trouble him if I can help it, poor man, for he is a melancholy object; a reg’lar Settler in every respect. There’s house with a winder, but I am afraid of their being proud. I don’t know whether a door ain’t too aristocratic; but here goes for the first one!’

He went up to the nearest cabin, and knocked with his hand. Being desired to enter, he complied.

‘Neighbour,’ said Mark; ‘for I am a neighbour, though you don’t know me; I’ve come a-begging. Hallo! hal—lo! Am I a-bed, and dreaming!’

He made this exclamation on hearing his own name pronounced, and finding himself clasped about the skirts by two little boys, whose faces he had often washed, and whose suppers he had often cooked, on board of that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw.

‘My eyes is wrong!’ said Mark. ‘I don’t believe ‘em. That ain’t my fellow-passenger younder, a-nursing her little girl, who, I am sorry to see, is so delicate; and that ain’t her husband as come to New York to fetch her. Nor these,’ he added, looking down upon the boys, ‘ain’t them two young shavers as was so familiar to me; though they are uncommon like ‘em. That I must confess.’

The woman shed tears, in very joy to see him; the man shook both his hands and would not let them go; the two boys hugged his legs; the sick child in the mother’s arms stretched out her burning little fingers, and muttered, in her hoarse, dry throat, his well-remembered name.

It was the same family, sure enough. Altered by the salubrious air of Eden. But the same.

‘This is a new sort of a morning call,’ said Mark, drawing a long breath. ‘It strikes one all of a heap. Wait a little bit! I’m a-coming round fast. That’ll do! These gentlemen ain’t my friends. Are they on the visiting list of the house?’

The inquiry referred to certain gaunt pigs, who had walked in after him, and were much interested in the heels of the family. As they did not belong to the mansion, they were expelled by the two little boys.

‘I ain’t superstitious about toads,’ said Mark, looking round the room, ‘but if you could prevail upon the two or three I see in company, to step out at the same time, my young friends, I think they’d find the open air refreshing. Not that I at all object to ‘em. A very handsome animal is a toad,’ said Mr Tapley, sitting down upon a stool; ‘very spotted; very like a partickler style of old gentleman about the throat; very bright-eyed, very cool, and very slippy. But one sees ‘em to the best advantage out of doors perhaps.’

While pretending, with such talk as this, to be perfectly at his ease, and to be the most indifferent and careless of men, Mark Tapley had an eye on all around him. The wan and meagre aspect of the family, the changed looks of the poor mother, the fevered child she held in her lap, the air of great despondency and little hope on everything, were plain to him, and made a deep impression on his mind. He saw it all as clearly and as quickly, as with his bodily eyes he saw the rough shelves supported by pegs driven between the logs, of which the house was made; the flour-cask in the corner, serving also for a table; the blankets, spades, and other articles against the walls; the damp that blotched the ground; or the crop of vegetable rottenness in every crevice of the hut.

‘How is it that you have come here?’ asked the man, when their first expressions of surprise were over.

‘Why, we come by the steamer last night,’ replied Mark. ‘Our intention is to make our fortuns with punctuality and dispatch; and to retire upon our property as soon as ever it’s realised. But how are you all? You’re looking noble!’

‘We are but sickly now,’ said the poor woman, bending over her child. ‘But we shall do better when we are seasoned to the place.’

‘There are some here,’ thought Mark ‘whose seasoning will last for ever.’

But he said cheerfully, ‘Do better! To be sure you will. We shall all do better. What we’ve got to do is, to keep up our spirits, and be neighbourly. We shall come all right in the end, never fear. That reminds me, by the bye, that my partner’s all wrong just at present; and that I looked in to beg for him. I wish you’d come and give me your opinion of him, master.’

That must have been a very unreasonable request on the part of Mark Tapley, with which, in their gratitude for his kind offices on board the ship, they would not have complied instantly. The man rose to accompany him without a moment’s delay. Before they went, Mark took the sick child in his arms, and tried to comfort the mother; but the hand of death was on it then, he saw.

They found Martin in the house, lying wrapped up in his blanket on the ground. He was, to all appearance, very ill indeed, and shook and shivered horribly; not as people do from cold, but in a frightful kind of spasm or convulsion, that racked his whole body. Mark’s friend pronounced his disease an aggravated kind of fever, accompanied with ague; which was very common in those parts, and which he predicted would be worse to-morrow, and for many more to-morrows. He had had it himself off and on, he said, for a couple of years or so; but he was thankful that, while so many he had known had died about him, he had escaped with life.

‘And with not too much of that,’ thought Mark, surveying his emaciated form. ‘Eden for ever!’

They had some medicine in their chest; and this man of sad experience showed Mark how and when to administer it, and how he could best alleviate the sufferings of Martin. His attentions did not stop there; for he was backwards and forwards constantly, and rendered Mark good service in all his brisk attempts to make their situation more endurable. Hope or comfort for the future he could not bestow. The season was a sickly one; the settlement a grave. His child died that night; and Mark, keeping the secret from Martin, helped to bury it, beneath a tree, next day.

With all his various duties of attendance upon Martin (who became the more exacting in his claims, the worse he grew), Mark worked out of doors, early and late; and with the assistance of his friend and others, laboured to do something with their land. Not that he had the least strength of heart or hope, or steady purpose in so doing, beyond the habitual cheerfulness of his disposition, and his amazing power of self-sustainment; for within himself, he looked on their condition as beyond all hope, and, in his own words, ‘came out strong’ in consequence.

‘As to coming out as strong as I could wish, sir,’ he confided to Martin in a leisure moment; that is to say, one evening, while he was washing the linen of the establishment, after a hard day’s work, ‘that I give up. It’s a piece of good fortune as never is to happen to me, I see!’

‘Would you wish for circumstances stronger than these?’ Martin retorted with a groan, from underneath his blanket.

‘Why, only see how easy they might have been stronger, sir,’ said Mark, ‘if it wasn’t for the envy of that uncommon fortun of mine, which is always after me, and tripping me up. The night we landed here, I thought things did look pretty jolly. I won’t deny it. I thought they did look pretty jolly.’

‘How do they look now?’ groaned Martin.

‘Ah!’ said Mark, ‘Ah, to be sure. That’s the question. How do they look now? On the very first morning of my going out, what do I do? Stumble on a family I know, who are constantly assisting of us in all sorts of ways, from that time to this! That won’t do, you know; that ain’t what I’d a right to expect. If I had stumbled on a serpent and got bit; or stumbled on a first-rate patriot, and got bowie-knifed, or stumbled on a lot of Sympathisers with inverted shirt-collars, and got made a lion of; I might have distinguished myself, and earned some credit. As it is, the great object of my voyage is knocked on the head. So it would be, wherever I went. How do you feel to-night, sir?’

‘Worse than ever,’ said poor Martin.

‘That’s something,’ returned Mark, ‘but not enough. Nothing but being very bad myself, and jolly to the last, will ever do me justice.’

‘In Heaven’s name, don’t talk of that,’ said Martin with a thrill of terror. ‘What should I do, Mark, if you were taken ill!’

Mr Tapley’s spirits appeared to be stimulated by this remark, although it was not a very flattering one. He proceeded with his washing in a brighter mood; and observed ‘that his glass was arising.’

‘There’s one good thing in this place, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, scrubbing away at the linen, ‘as disposes me to be jolly; and that is that it’s a reg’lar little United States in itself. There’s two or three American settlers left; and they coolly comes over one, even here, sir, as if it was the wholesomest and loveliest spot in the world. But they’re like the cock that went and hid himself to save his life, and was found out by the noise he made. They can’t help crowing. They was born to do it, and do it they must, whatever comes of it.’

Glancing from his work out at the door as he said these words, Mark’s eyes encountered a lean person in a blue frock and a straw hat, with a short black pipe in his mouth, and a great hickory stick studded all over with knots, in his hand; who smoking and chewing as he came along, and spitting frequently, recorded his progress by a train of decomposed tobacco on the ground.

‘Here’s one on ‘em,’ cried Mark, ‘Hannibal Chollop.’

‘Don’t let him in,’ said Martin, feebly.

‘He won’t want any letting in,’ replied Mark. ‘He’ll come in, sir.’ Which turned out to be quite true, for he did. His face was almost as hard and knobby as his stick; and so were his hands. His head was like an old black hearth-broom. He sat down on the chest with his hat on; and crossing his legs and looking up at Mark, said, without removing his pipe:

‘Well, Mr Co.! and how do you git along, sir?’

It may be necessary to observe that Mr Tapley had gravely introduced himself to all strangers, by that name.

‘Pretty well, sir; pretty well,’ said Mark.

‘If this ain’t Mr Chuzzlewit, ain’t it!’ exclaimed the visitor ‘How do you git along, sir?’

Martin shook his head, and drew the blanket over it involuntarily; for he felt that Hannibal was going to spit; and his eye, as the song says, was upon him.

‘You need not regard me, sir,’ observed Mr Chollop, complacently. ‘I am fever-proof, and likewise agur.’

‘Mine was a more selfish motive,’ said Martin, looking out again. ‘I was afraid you were going to—’

‘I can calc’late my distance, sir,’ returned Mr Chollop, ‘to an inch.’

With a proof of which happy faculty he immediately favoured him.

‘I re-quire, sir,’ said Hannibal, ‘two foot clear in a circ’lar di-rection, and can engage my-self toe keep within it. I have gone ten foot, in a circ’lar di-rection, but that was for a wager.’

‘I hope you won it, sir,’ said Mark.

‘Well, sir, I realised the stakes,’ said Chollop. ‘Yes, sir.’

He was silent for a time, during which he was actively engaged in the formation of a magic circle round the chest on which he sat. When it was completed, he began to talk again.

‘How do you like our country, sir?’ he inquired, looking at Martin.

‘Not at all,’ was the invalid’s reply.

Chollop continued to smoke without the least appearance of emotion, until he felt disposed to speak again. That time at length arriving, he took his pipe from his mouth, and said:

‘I am not surprised to hear you say so. It re-quires An elevation, and A preparation of the intellect. The mind of man must be prepared for Freedom, Mr Co.’

He addressed himself to Mark; because he saw that Martin, who wished him to go, being already half-mad with feverish irritation, which the droning voice of this new horror rendered almost insupportable, had closed his eyes, and turned on his uneasy bed.

‘A little bodily preparation wouldn’t be amiss, either, would it, sir,’ said Mark, ‘in the case of a blessed old swamp like this?’

‘Do you con-sider this a swamp, sir?’ inquired Chollop gravely.

‘Why yes, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I haven’t a doubt about it myself.’

‘The sentiment is quite Europian,’ said the major, ‘and does not surprise me; what would your English millions say to such a swamp in England, sir?’

‘They’d say it was an uncommon nasty one, I should think, said Mark; ‘and that they would rather be inoculated for fever in some other way.’

‘Europian!’ remarked Chollop, with sardonic pity. ‘Quite Europian!’

And there he sat. Silent and cool, as if the house were his; smoking away like a factory chimney.

Mr Chollop was, of course, one of the most remarkable men in the country; but he really was a notorious person besides. He was usually described by his friends, in the South and West, as ‘a splendid sample of our na-tive raw material, sir,’ and was much esteemed for his devotion to rational Liberty; for the better propagation whereof he usually carried a brace of revolving pistols in his coat pocket, with seven barrels a-piece. He also carried, amongst other trinkets, a sword-stick, which he called his ‘Tickler.’ and a great knife, which (for he was a man of a pleasant turn of humour) he called ‘Ripper,’ in allusion to its usefulness as a means of ventilating the stomach of any adversary in a close contest. He had used these weapons with distinguished effect in several instances, all duly chronicled in the newspapers; and was greatly beloved for the gallant manner in which he had ‘jobbed out’ the eye of one gentleman, as he was in the act of knocking at his own street-door.

Mr Chollop was a man of a roving disposition; and, in any less advanced community, might have been mistaken for a violent vagabond. But his fine qualities being perfectly understood and appreciated in those regions where his lot was cast, and where he had many kindred spirits to consort with, he may be regarded as having been born under a fortunate star, which is not always the case with a man so much before the age in which he lives. Preferring, with a view to the gratification of his tickling and ripping fancies, to dwell upon the outskirts of society, and in the more remote towns and cities, he was in the habit of emigrating from place to place, and establishing in each some business—usually a newspaper—which he presently sold; for the most part closing the bargain by challenging, stabbing, pistolling, or gouging the new editor, before he had quite taken possession of the property.

He had come to Eden on a speculation of this kind, but had abandoned it, and was about to leave. He always introduced himself to strangers as a worshipper of Freedom; was the consistent advocate of Lynch law, and slavery; and invariably recommended, both in print and speech, the ‘tarring and feathering’ of any unpopular person who differed from himself. He called this ‘planting the standard of civilization in the wilder gardens of My country.’

There is little doubt that Chollop would have planted this standard in Eden at Mark’s expense, in return for his plainness of speech (for the genuine Freedom is dumb, save when she vaunts herself), but for the utter desolation and decay prevailing in the settlement, and his own approaching departure from it. As it was, he contented himself with showing Mark one of the revolving-pistols, and asking him what he thought of that weapon.

‘It ain’t long since I shot a man down with that, sir, in the State of Illinoy,’ observed Chollop.

‘Did you, indeed!’ said Mark, without the smallest agitation. ‘Very free of you. And very independent!’

‘I shot him down, sir,’ pursued Chollop, ‘for asserting in the Spartan Portico, a tri-weekly journal, that the ancient Athenians went a-head of the present Locofoco Ticket.’

‘And what’s that?’ asked Mark.

‘Europian not to know,’ said Chollop, smoking placidly. ‘Europian quite!’

After a short devotion to the interests of the magic circle, he resumed the conversation by observing:

‘You won’t half feel yourself at home in Eden, now?’

‘No,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t.’

‘You miss the imposts of your country. You miss the house dues?’ observed Chollop.

‘And the houses—rather,’ said Mark.

‘No window dues here, sir,’ observed Chollop.

‘And no windows to put ‘em on,’ said Mark.

‘No stakes, no dungeons, no blocks, no racks, no scaffolds, no thumbscrews, no pikes, no pillories,’ said Chollop.

‘Nothing but rewolwers and bowie-knives,’ returned Mark. ‘And what are they? Not worth mentioning!’

The man who had met them on the night of their arrival came crawling up at this juncture, and looked in at the door.

‘Well, sir,’ said Chollop. ‘How do you git along?’

He had considerable difficulty in getting along at all, and said as much in reply.

‘Mr Co. And me, sir,’ observed Chollop, ‘are disputating a piece. He ought to be slicked up pretty smart to disputate between the Old World and the New, I do expect?’

‘Well!’ returned the miserable shadow. ‘So he had.’

‘I was merely observing, sir,’ said Mark, addressing this new visitor, ‘that I looked upon the city in which we have the honour to live, as being swampy. What’s your sentiments?’

‘I opinionate it’s moist perhaps, at certain times,’ returned the man.

‘But not as moist as England, sir?’ cried Chollop, with a fierce expression in his face.

‘Oh! Not as moist as England; let alone its Institutions,’ said the man.

‘I should hope there ain’t a swamp in all Americay, as don’t whip that small island into mush and molasses,’ observed Chollop, decisively. ‘You bought slick, straight, and right away, of Scadder, sir?’ to Mark.

He answered in the affirmative. Mr Chollop winked at the other citizen.

‘Scadder is a smart man, sir? He is a rising man? He is a man as will come up’ards, right side up, sir?’ Mr Chollop winked again at the other citizen.

‘He should have his right side very high up, if I had my way,’ said Mark. ‘As high up as the top of a good tall gallows, perhaps.’

Mr Chollop was so delighted at the smartness of his excellent countryman having been too much for the Britisher, and at the Britisher’s resenting it, that he could contain himself no longer, and broke forth in a shout of delight. But the strangest exposition of this ruling passion was in the other—the pestilence-stricken, broken, miserable shadow of a man—who derived so much entertainment from the circumstance that he seemed to forget his own ruin in thinking of it, and laughed outright when he said ‘that Scadder was a smart man, and had draw’d a lot of British capital that way, as sure as sun-up.’

After a full enjoyment of this joke, Mr Hannibal Chollop sat smoking and improving the circle, without making any attempts either to converse or to take leave; apparently labouring under the not uncommon delusion that for a free and enlightened citizen of the United States to convert another man’s house into a spittoon for two or three hours together, was a delicate attention, full of interest and politeness, of which nobody could ever tire. At last he rose.

‘I am a-going easy,’ he observed.

Mark entreated him to take particular care of himself.

‘Afore I go,’ he said sternly, ‘I have got a leetle word to say to you. You are darnation ‘cute, you are.’

Mark thanked him for the compliment.

‘But you are much too ‘cute to last. I can’t con-ceive of any spotted Painter in the bush, as ever was so riddled through and through as you will be, I bet.’

‘What for?’ asked Mark.

‘We must be cracked up, sir,’ retorted Chollop, in a tone of menace. ‘You are not now in A despotic land. We are a model to the airth, and must be jist cracked-up, I tell you.’

‘What! I speak too free, do I?’ cried Mark.

‘I have draw’d upon A man, and fired upon A man for less,’ said Chollop, frowning. ‘I have know’d strong men obleeged to make themselves uncommon skase for less. I have know’d men Lynched for less, and beaten into punkin’-sarse for less, by an enlightened people. We are the intellect and virtue of the airth, the cream of human natur’, and the flower Of moral force. Our backs is easy ris. We must be cracked-up, or they rises, and we snarls. We shows our teeth, I tell you, fierce. You’d better crack us up, you had!’

After the delivery of this caution, Mr Chollop departed; with Ripper, Tickler, and the revolvers, all ready for action on the shortest notice.

‘Come out from under the blanket, sir,’ said Mark, ‘he’s gone. What’s this!’ he added softly; kneeling down to look into his partner’s face, and taking his hot hand. ‘What’s come of all that chattering and swaggering? He’s wandering in his mind to-night, and don’t know me!’

Martin indeed was dangerously ill; very near his death. He lay in that state many days, during which time Mark’s poor friends, regardless of themselves, attended him. Mark, fatigued in mind and body; working all the day and sitting up at night; worn with hard living and the unaccustomed toil of his new life; surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances of every kind; never complained or yielded in the least degree. If ever he had thought Martin selfish or inconsiderate, or had deemed him energetic only by fits and starts, and then too passive for their desperate fortunes, he now forgot it all. He remembered nothing but the better qualities of his fellow-wanderer, and was devoted to him, heart and hand.

Many weeks elapsed before Martin was strong enough to move about with the help of a stick and Mark’s arm; and even then his recovery, for want of wholesome air and proper nourishment, was very slow. He was yet in a feeble and weak condition, when the misfourtune he had so much dreaded fell upon them. Mark was taken ill.

Mark fought against it; but the malady fought harder, and his efforts were in vain.

‘Floored for the present, sir,’ he said one morning, sinking back upon his bed; ‘but jolly!’

Floored indeed, and by a heavy blow! As any one but Martin might have known beforehand.

If Mark’s friends had been kind to Martin (and they had been very), they were twenty times kinder to Mark. And now it was Martin’s turn to work, and sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long nights, to every sound in the gloomy wilderness; and hear poor Mr Tapley, in his wandering fancy, playing at skittles in the Dragon, making love-remonstrances to Mrs Lupin, getting his sea-legs on board the Screw, travelling with old Tom Pinch on English roads, and burning stumps of trees in Eden, all at once.

But whenever Martin gave him drink or medicine, or tended him in any way, or came into the house returning from some drudgery without, the patient Mr Tapley brightened up and cried: ‘I’m jolly, sir; ‘I’m jolly!’

Now, when Martin began to think of this, and to look at Mark as he lay there; never reproaching him by so much as an expression of regret; never murmuring; always striving to be manful and staunch; he began to think, how was it that this man who had had so few advantages, was so much better than he who had had so many? And attendance upon a sick bed, but especially the sick bed of one whom we have been accustomed to see in full activity and vigour, being a great breeder of reflection, he began to ask himself in what they differed.

He was assisted in coming to a conclusion on this head by the frequent presence of Mark’s friend, their fellow-passenger across the ocean, which suggested to him that in regard to having aided her, for example, they had differed very much. Somehow he coupled Tom Pinch with this train of reflection; and thinking that Tom would be very likely to have struck up the same sort of acquaintance under similar circumstances, began to think in what respects two people so extremely different were like each other, and were unlike him. At first sight there was nothing very distressing in these meditations, but they did undoubtedly distress him for all that.

Martin’s nature was a frank and generous one; but he had been bred up in his grandfather’s house; and it will usually be found that the meaner domestic vices propagate themselves to be their own antagonists. Selfishness does this especially; so do suspicion, cunning, stealth, and covetous propensities. Martin had unconsciously reasoned as a child, ‘My guardian takes so much thought of himself, that unless I do the like by myself, I shall be forgotten.’ So he had grown selfish.

But he had never known it. If any one had taxed him with the vice, he would have indignantly repelled the accusation, and conceived himself unworthily aspersed. He never would have known it, but that being newly risen from a bed of dangerous sickness, to watch by such another couch, he felt how nearly Self had dropped into the grave, and what a poor dependent, miserable thing it was.

It was natural for him to reflect—he had months to do it in—upon his own escape, and Mark’s extremity. This led him to consider which of them could be the better spared, and why? Then the curtain slowly rose a very little way; and Self, Self, Self, was shown below.

He asked himself, besides, when dreading Mark’s decease (as all men do and must, at such a time), whether he had done his duty by him, and had deserved and made a good response to his fidelity and zeal. No. Short as their companionship had been, he felt in many, many instances, that there was blame against himself; and still inquiring why, the curtain slowly rose a little more, and Self, Self, Self, dilated on the scene.

It was long before he fixed the knowledge of himself so firmly in his mind that he could thoroughly discern the truth; but in the hideous solitude of that most hideous place, with Hope so far removed, Ambition quenched, and Death beside him rattling at the very door, reflection came, as in a plague-beleaguered town; and so he felt and knew the failing of his life, and saw distinctly what an ugly spot it was.

Eden was a hard school to learn so hard a lesson in; but there were teachers in the swamp and thicket, and the pestilential air, who had a searching method of their own.

He made a solemn resolution that when his strength returned he would not dispute the point or resist the conviction, but would look upon it as an established fact, that selfishness was in his breast, and must be rooted out. He was so doubtful (and with justice) of his own character, that he determined not to say one word of vain regret or good resolve to Mark, but steadily to keep his purpose before his own eyes solely; and there was not a jot of pride in this; nothing but humility and steadfastness; the best armour he could wear. So low had Eden brought him down. So high had Eden raised him up.

After a long and lingering illness (in certain forlorn stages of which, when too far gone to speak, he had feebly written ‘jolly!’ on a slate), Mark showed some symptoms of returning health. They came and went, and flickered for a time; but he began to mend at last decidedly; and after that continued to improve from day to day.

As soon as he was well enough to talk without fatigue, Martin consulted him upon a project he had in his mind, and which a few months back he would have carried into execution without troubling anybody’s head but his own.

‘Ours is a desperate case,’ said Martin. ‘Plainly. The place is deserted; its failure must have become known; and selling what we have bought to any one, for anything, is hopeless, even if it were honest. We left home on a mad enterprise, and have failed. The only hope left us, the only one end for which we have now to try, is to quit this settlement for ever, and get back to England. Anyhow! by any means! only to get back there, Mark.’

‘That’s all, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, with a significant stress upon the words; ‘only that!’

‘Now, upon this side of the water,’ said Martin, ‘we have but one friend who can help us, and that is Mr Bevan.’

‘I thought of him when you was ill,’ said Mark.

‘But for the time that would be lost, I would even write to my grandfather,’ Martin went on to say, ‘and implore him for money to free us from this trap into which we were so cruelly decoyed. Shall I try Mr Bevan first?’

‘He’s a very pleasant sort of a gentleman,’ said Mark. ‘I think so.’

‘The few goods we brought here, and in which we spent our money, would produce something if sold,’ resumed Martin; ‘and whatever they realise shall be paid him instantly. But they can’t be sold here.’

‘There’s nobody but corpses to buy ‘em,’ said Mr Tapley, shaking his head with a rueful air, ‘and pigs.’

‘Shall I tell him so, and only ask him for money enough to enable us by the cheapest means to reach New York, or any port from which we may hope to get a passage home, by serving in any capacity? Explaining to him at the same time how I am connected, and that I will endeavour to repay him, even through my grandfather, immediately on our arrival in England?’

‘Why to be sure,’ said Mark: ‘he can only say no, and he may say yes. If you don’t mind trying him, sir—’

‘Mind!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘I am to blame for coming here, and I would do anything to get away. I grieve to think of the past. If I had taken your opinion sooner, Mark, we never should have been here, I am certain.’

Mr Tapley was very much surprised at this admission, but protested, with great vehemence, that they would have been there all the same; and that he had set his heart upon coming to Eden, from the first word he had ever heard of it.

Martin then read him a letter to Mr Bevan, which he had already prepared. It was frankly and ingenuously written, and described their situation without the least concealment; plainly stated the miseries they had undergone; and preferred their request in modest but straightforward terms. Mark highly commended it; and they determined to dispatch it by the next steamboat going the right way, that might call to take in wood at Eden—where there was plenty of wood to spare. Not knowing how to address Mr Bevan at his own place of abode, Martin superscribed it to the care of the memorable Mr Norris of New York, and wrote upon the cover an entreaty that it might be forwarded without delay.

More than a week elapsed before a boat appeared; but at length they were awakened very early one morning by the high-pressure snorting of the ‘Esau Slodge;’ named after one of the most remarkable men in the country, who had been very eminent somewhere. Hurrying down to the landing-place, they got it safe on board; and waiting anxiously to see the boat depart, stopped up the gangway; an instance of neglect which caused the ‘Capting’ of the Esau Slodge to ‘wish he might be sifted fine as flour, and whittled small as chips; that if they didn’t come off that there fixing right smart too, he’d spill ‘em in the drink;’ whereby the Capting metaphorically said he’d throw them in the river.

They were not likely to receive an answer for eight or ten weeks at the earliest. In the meantime they devoted such strength as they had to the attempted improvement of their land; to clearing some of it, and preparing it for useful purposes. Monstrously defective as their farming was, still it was better than their neighbours’; for Mark had some practical knowledge of such matters, and Martin learned of him; whereas the other settlers who remained upon the putrid swamp (a mere handful, and those withered by disease), appeared to have wandered there with the idea that husbandry was the natural gift of all mankind. They helped each other after their own manner in these struggles, and in all others; but they worked as hopelessly and sadly as a gang of convicts in a penal settlement.

Often at night when Mark and Martin were alone, and lying down to sleep, they spoke of home, familiar places, houses, roads, and people whom they knew; sometimes in the lively hope of seeing them again, and sometimes with a sorrowful tranquillity, as if that hope were dead. It was a source of great amazement to Mark Tapley to find, pervading all these conversations, a singular alteration in Martin.

‘I don’t know what to make of him,’ he thought one night, ‘he ain’t what I supposed. He don’t think of himself half as much. I’ll try him again. Asleep, sir?’

‘No, Mark.’

‘Thinking of home, sir?’

‘Yes, Mark.’

‘So was I, sir. I was wondering how Mr Pinch and Mr Pecksniff gets on now.’

‘Poor Tom!’ said Martin, thoughtfully.

‘Weak-minded man, sir,’ observed Mr Tapley. ‘Plays the organ for nothing, sir. Takes no care of himself?’

‘I wish he took a little more, indeed,’ said Martin. ‘Though I don’t know why I should. We shouldn’t like him half as well, perhaps.’

‘He gets put upon, sir,’ hinted Mark.

‘Yes!’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I know that, Mark.’

He spoke so regretfully that his partner abandoned the theme, and was silent for a short time until he had thought of another.

‘Ah, sir!’ said Mark, with a sigh. ‘Dear me! You’ve ventured a good deal for a young lady’s love!’

‘I tell you what. I’m not so sure of that, Mark,’ was the reply; so hastily and energetically spoken, that Martin sat up in his bed to give it. ‘I begin to be far from clear upon it. You may depend upon it she is very unhappy. She has sacrificed her peace of mind; she has endangered her interests very much; she can’t run away from those who are jealous of her, and opposed to her, as I have done. She has to endure, Mark; to endure without the possibility of action, poor girl! I begin to think that she has more to bear than ever I had. Upon my soul I do!’

Mr Tapley opened his eyes wide in the dark; but did not interrupt.

‘And I’ll tell you a secret, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘since we are upon this subject. That ring—’

‘Which ring, sir?’ Mark inquired, opening his eyes still wider.

‘That ring she gave me when we parted, Mark. She bought it; bought it; knowing I was poor and proud (Heaven help me! Proud!) and wanted money.’

‘Who says so, sir?’ asked Mark.

‘I say so. I know it. I thought of it, my good fellow, hundreds of times, while you were lying ill. And like a beast, I took it from her hand, and wore it on my own, and never dreamed of this even at the moment when I parted with it, when some faint glimmering of the truth might surely have possessed me! But it’s late,’ said Martin, checking himself, ‘and you are weak and tired, I know. You only talk to cheer me up. Good night! God bless you, Mark!’

‘God bless you, sir! But I’m reg’larly defrauded,’ thought Mr Tapley, turning round with a happy face. ‘It’s a swindle. I never entered for this sort of service. There’ll be no credit in being jolly with him!’

The time wore on, and other steamboats coming from the point on which their hopes were fixed, arrived to take in wood; but still no answer to the letter. Rain, heat, foul slime, and noxious vapour, with all the ills and filthy things they bred, prevailed. The earth, the air, the vegetation, and the water that they drank, all teemed with deadly properties. Their fellow-passenger had lost two children long before; and buried now her last. Such things are much too common to be widely known or cared for. Smart citizens grow rich, and friendless victims smart and die, and are forgotten. That is all.

At last a boat came panting up the ugly river, and stopped at Eden. Mark was waiting at the wood hut when it came, and had a letter handed to him from on board. He bore it off to Martin. They looked at one another, trembling.

‘It feels heavy,’ faltered Martin. And opening it a little roll of dollar-notes fell out upon the ground.

What either of them said, or did, or felt, at first, neither of them knew. All Mark could ever tell was, that he was at the river’s bank again out of breath, before the boat had gone, inquiring when it would retrace its track and put in there.

The answer was, in ten or twelve days; notwithstanding which they began to get their goods together and to tie them up that very night. When this stage of excitement was passed, each of them believed (they found this out, in talking of it afterwards) that he would surely die before the boat returned.

They lived, however, and it came, after the lapse of three long crawling weeks. At sunrise, on an autumn day, they stood upon her deck.

‘Courage! We shall meet again!’ cried Martin, waving his hand to two thin figures on the bank. ‘In the Old World!’

‘Or in the next one,’ added Mark below his breath. ‘To see them standing side by side, so quiet, is a’most the worst of all!’

They looked at one another as the vessel moved away, and then looked backward at the spot from which it hurried fast. The log-house, with the open door, and drooping trees about it; the stagnant morning mist, and red sun, dimly seen beyond; the vapour rising up from land and river; the quick stream making the loathsome banks it washed more flat and dull; how often they returned in dreams! How often it was happiness to wake and find them Shadows that had vanished!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

IN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS MOVE HOMEWARD, AND ENCOUNTER SOME DISTINGUISHED CHARACTERS UPON THE WAY

Among the passengers on board the steamboat, there was a faint gentleman sitting on a low camp-stool, with his legs on a high barrel of flour, as if he were looking at the prospect with his ankles, who attracted their attention speedily.

He had straight black hair, parted up the middle of his head and hanging down upon his coat; a little fringe of hair upon his chin; wore no neckcloth; a white hat; a suit of black, long in the sleeves and short in the legs; soiled brown stockings and laced shoes. His complexion, naturally muddy, was rendered muddier by too strict an economy of soap and water; and the same observation will apply to the washable part of his attire, which he might have changed with comfort to himself and gratification to his friends. He was about five and thirty; was crushed and jammed up in a heap, under the shade of a large green cotton umbrella; and ruminated over his tobacco-plug like a cow.

He was not singular, to be sure, in these respects; for every gentleman on board appeared to have had a difference with his laundress and to have left off washing himself in early youth. Every gentleman, too, was perfectly stopped up with tight plugging, and was dislocated in the greater part of his joints. But about this gentleman there was a peculiar air of sagacity and wisdom, which convinced Martin that he was no common character; and this turned out to be the case.

‘How do you do sir?’ said a voice in Martin’s ear

‘How do you do sir?’ said Martin.

It was a tall thin gentleman who spoke to him, with a carpet-cap on, and a long loose coat of green baize, ornamented about the pockets with black velvet.

‘You air from Europe, sir?’

‘I am,’ said Martin.

‘You air fortunate, sir.’

Martin thought so too; but he soon discovered that the gentleman and he attached different meanings to this remark.

‘You air fortunate, sir, in having an opportunity of beholding our Elijah Pogram, sir.’

‘Your Elijahpogram!’ said Martin, thinking it was all one word, and a building of some sort.

‘Yes sir.’

Martin tried to look as if he understood him, but he couldn’t make it out.

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated the gentleman, ‘our Elijah Pogram, sir, is, at this minute, identically settin’ by the engine biler.’

The gentleman under the umbrella put his right forefinger to his eyebrow, as if he were revolving schemes of state.

‘That is Elijah Pogram, is it?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other. ‘That is Elijah Pogram.’

‘Dear me!’ said Martin. ‘I am astonished.’ But he had not the least idea who this Elijah Pogram was; having never heard the name in all his life.

‘If the biler of this vessel was Toe bust, sir,’ said his new acquaintance, ‘and Toe bust now, this would be a festival day in the calendar of despotism; pretty nigh equallin’, sir, in its effects upon the human race, our Fourth of glorious July. Yes, sir, that is the Honourable Elijah Pogram, Member of Congress; one of the master-minds of our country, sir. There is a brow, sir, there!’

‘Quite remarkable,’ said Martin.

‘Yes, sir. Our own immortal Chiggle, sir, is said to have observed, when he made the celebrated Pogram statter in marble, which rose so much con-test and preju-dice in Europe, that the brow was more than mortal. This was before the Pogram Defiance, and was, therefore, a pre-diction, cruel smart.’

‘What is the Pogram Defiance?’ asked Martin, thinking, perhaps, it was the sign of a public-house.

‘An o-ration, sir,’ returned his friend.

‘Oh! to be sure,’ cried Martin. ‘What am I thinking of! It defied—’

‘It defied the world, sir,’ said the other, gravely. ‘Defied the world in general to com-pete with our country upon any hook; and devellop’d our internal resources for making war upon the universal airth. You would like to know Elijah Pogram, sir?’

‘If you please,’ said Martin.

‘Mr Pogram,’ said the stranger—Mr Pogram having overheard every word of the dialogue—‘this is a gentleman from Europe, sir; from England, sir. But gen’rous ene-mies may meet upon the neutral sile of private life, I think.’

The languid Mr Pogram shook hands with Martin, like a clock-work figure that was just running down. But he made amends by chewing like one that was just wound up.

‘Mr Pogram,’ said the introducer, ‘is a public servant, sir. When Congress is recessed, he makes himself acquainted with those free United States, of which he is the gifted son.’

It occurred to Martin that if the Honourable Elijah Pogram had stayed at home, and sent his shoes upon a tour, they would have answered the same purpose; for they were the only part of him in a situation to see anything.

In course of time, however, Mr Pogram rose; and having ejected certain plugging consequences which would have impeded his articulation, took up a position where there was something to lean against, and began to talk to Martin; shading himself with the green umbrella all the time.

As he began with the words, ‘How do you like—?’ Martin took him up and said:

‘The country, I presume?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram. A knot of passengers gathered round to hear what followed; and Martin heard his friend say, as he whispered to another friend, and rubbed his hands, ‘Pogram will smash him into sky-blue fits, I know!’

‘Why,’ said Martin, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I have learned by experience, that you take an unfair advantage of a stranger, when you ask that question. You don’t mean it to be answered, except in one way. Now, I don’t choose to answer it in that way, for I cannot honestly answer it in that way. And therefore, I would rather not answer it at all.’

But Mr Pogram was going to make a great speech in the next session about foreign relations, and was going to write strong articles on the subject; and as he greatly favoured the free and independent custom (a very harmless and agreeable one) of procuring information of any sort in any kind of confidence, and afterwards perverting it publicly in any manner that happened to suit him, he had determined to get at Martin’s opinions somehow or other. For if he could have got nothing out of him, he would have had to invent it for him, and that would have been laborious. He made a mental note of his answer, and went in again.

‘You are from Eden, sir? How did you like Eden?’

Martin said what he thought of that part of the country, in pretty strong terms.

‘It is strange,’ said Pogram, looking round upon the group, ‘this hatred of our country, and her Institutions! This national antipathy is deeply rooted in the British mind!’

‘Good Heaven, sir,’ cried Martin. ‘Is the Eden Land Corporation, with Mr Scadder at its head, and all the misery it has worked, at its door, an Institution of America? A part of any form of government that ever was known or heard of?’

‘I con-sider the cause of this to be,’ said Pogram, looking round again and taking himself up where Martin had interrupted him, ‘partly jealousy and pre-judice, and partly the nat’ral unfitness of the British people to appreciate the ex-alted Institutions of our native land. I expect, sir,’ turning to Martin again, ‘that a gentleman named Chollop happened in upon you during your lo-cation in the town of Eden?’

‘Yes,’ answered Martin; ‘but my friend can answer this better than I can, for I was very ill at the time. Mark! The gentleman is speaking of Mr Chollop.’

‘Oh. Yes, sir. Yes. I see him,’ observed Mark.

‘A splendid example of our na-tive raw material, sir?’ said Pogram, interrogatively.

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried Mark.

The Honourable Elijah Pogram glanced at his friends as though he would have said, ‘Observe this! See what follows!’ and they rendered tribute to the Pogram genius by a gentle murmur.

‘Our fellow-countryman is a model of a man, quite fresh from Natur’s mould!’ said Pogram, with enthusiasm. ‘He is a true-born child of this free hemisphere! Verdant as the mountains of our country; bright and flowing as our mineral Licks; unspiled by withering conventionalities as air our broad and boundless Perearers! Rough he may be. So air our Barrs. Wild he may be. So air our Buffalers. But he is a child of Natur’, and a child of Freedom; and his boastful answer to the Despot and the Tyrant is, that his bright home is in the Settin Sun.’

Part of this referred to Chollop, and part to a Western postmaster, who, being a public defaulter not very long before (a character not at all uncommon in America), had been removed from office; and on whose behalf Mr Pogram (he voted for Pogram) had thundered the last sentence from his seat in Congress, at the head of an unpopular President. It told brilliantly; for the bystanders were delighted, and one of them said to Martin, ‘that he guessed he had now seen something of the eloquential aspect of our country, and was chawed up pritty small.’

Mr Pogram waited until his hearers were calm again, before he said to Mark:

‘You do not seem to coincide, sir?’

‘Why,’ said Mark, ‘I didn’t like him much; and that’s the truth, sir. I thought he was a bully; and I didn’t admire his carryin’ them murderous little persuaders, and being so ready to use ‘em.’

‘It’s singler!’ said Pogram, lifting his umbrella high enough to look all round from under it. ‘It’s strange! You observe the settled opposition to our Institutions which pervades the British mind!’

‘What an extraordinary people you are!’ cried Martin. ‘Are Mr Chollop and the class he represents, an Institution here? Are pistols with revolving barrels, sword-sticks, bowie-knives, and such things, Institutions on which you pride yourselves? Are bloody duels, brutal combats, savage assaults, shooting down and stabbing in the streets, your Institutions! Why, I shall hear next that Dishonour and Fraud are among the Institutions of the great republic!’

The moment the words passed his lips, the Honourable Elijah Pogram looked round again.

‘This morbid hatred of our Institutions,’ he observed, ‘is quite a study for the psychological observer. He’s alludin’ to Repudiation now!’

‘Oh! you may make anything an Institution if you like,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘and I confess you had me there, for you certainly have made that one. But the greater part of these things are one Institution with us, and we call it by the generic name of Old Bailey!’

The bell being rung for dinner at this moment, everybody ran away into the cabin, whither the Honourable Elijah Pogram fled with such precipitation that he forgot his umbrella was up, and fixed it so tightly in the cabin door that it could neither be let down nor got out. For a minute or so this accident created a perfect rebellion among the hungry passengers behind, who, seeing the dishes, and hearing the knives and forks at work, well knew what would happen unless they got there instantly, and were nearly mad; while several virtuous citizens at the table were in deadly peril of choking themselves in their unnatural efforts to get rid of all the meat before these others came.

They carried the umbrella by storm, however, and rushed in at the breach. The Honourable Elijah Pogram and Martin found themselves, after a severe struggle, side by side, as they might have come together in the pit of a London theatre; and for four whole minutes afterwards, Pogram was snapping up great blocks of everything he could get hold of, like a raven. When he had taken this unusually protracted dinner, he began to talk to Martin; and begged him not to have the least delicacy in speaking with perfect freedom to him, for he was a calm philosopher. Which Martin was extremely glad to hear; for he had begun to speculate on Elijah being a disciple of that other school of republican philosophy, whose noble sentiments are carved with knives upon a pupil’s body, and written, not with pen and ink, but tar and feathers.

‘What do you think of my countrymen who are present, sir?’ inquired Elijah Pogram.

‘Oh! very pleasant,’ said Martin.

They were a very pleasant party. No man had spoken a word; every one had been intent, as usual, on his own private gorging; and the greater part of the company were decidedly dirty feeders.

The Honourable Elijah Pogram looked at Martin as if he thought ‘You don’t mean that, I know!’ and he was soon confirmed in this opinion.

Sitting opposite to them was a gentleman in a high state of tobacco, who wore quite a little beard, composed of the overflowing of that weed, as they had dried about his mouth and chin; so common an ornament that it would scarcely have attracted Martin’s observation, but that this good citizen, burning to assert his equality against all comers, sucked his knife for some moments, and made a cut with it at the butter, just as Martin was in the act of taking some. There was a juiciness about the deed that might have sickened a scavenger.

When Elijah Pogram (to whom this was an every-day incident) saw that Martin put the plate away, and took no butter, he was quite delighted, and said,

‘Well! The morbid hatred of you British to the Institutions of our country is as-tonishing!’

‘Upon my life!’ cried Martin, in his turn. ‘This is the most wonderful community that ever existed. A man deliberately makes a hog of himself, and that’s an Institution!’

‘We have no time to ac-quire forms, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram.

‘Acquire!’ cried Martin. ‘But it’s not a question of acquiring anything. It’s a question of losing the natural politeness of a savage, and that instinctive good breeding which admonishes one man not to offend and disgust another. Don’t you think that man over the way, for instance, naturally knows better, but considers it a very fine and independent thing to be a brute in small matters?’

‘He is a na-tive of our country, and is nat’rally bright and spry, of course,’ said Mr Pogram.

‘Now, observe what this comes to, Mr Pogram,’ pursued Martin. ‘The mass of your countrymen begin by stubbornly neglecting little social observances, which have nothing to do with gentility, custom, usage, government, or country, but are acts of common, decent, natural, human politeness. You abet them in this, by resenting all attacks upon their social offences as if they were a beautiful national feature. From disregarding small obligations they come in regular course to disregard great ones; and so refuse to pay their debts. What they may do, or what they may refuse to do next, I don’t know; but any man may see if he will, that it will be something following in natural succession, and a part of one great growth, which is rotten at the root.’

The mind of Mr Pogram was too philosophical to see this; so they went on deck again, where, resuming his former post, he chewed until he was in a lethargic state, amounting to insensibility.

After a weary voyage of several days, they came again to that same wharf where Mark had been so nearly left behind, on the night of starting for Eden. Captain Kedgick, the landlord, was standing there, and was greatly surprised to see them coming from the boat.

‘Why, what the ‘tarnal!’ cried the Captain. ‘Well! I do admire at this, I do!’

‘We can stay at your house until to-morrow, Captain, I suppose?’ said Martin.

‘I reckon you can stay there for a twelvemonth if you like,’ retorted Kedgick coolly. ‘But our people won’t best like your coming back.’

‘Won’t like it, Captain Kedgick!’ said Martin.

‘They did expect you was a-going to settle,’ Kedgick answered, as he shook his head. ‘They’ve been took in, you can’t deny!’

‘What do you mean?’ cried Martin.

‘You didn’t ought to have received ‘em,’ said the Captain. ‘No you didn’t!’

‘My good friend,’ returned Martin, ‘did I want to receive them? Was it any act of mine? Didn’t you tell me they would rile up, and that I should be flayed like a wild cat—and threaten all kinds of vengeance, if I didn’t receive them?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ returned the Captain. ‘But when our people’s frills is out, they’re starched up pretty stiff, I tell you!’

With that, he fell into the rear to walk with Mark, while Martin and Elijah Pogram went on to the National.

‘We’ve come back alive, you see!’ said Mark.

‘It ain’t the thing I did expect,’ the Captain grumbled. ‘A man ain’t got no right to be a public man, unless he meets the public views. Our fashionable people wouldn’t have attended his le-vee, if they had know’d it.’

Nothing mollified the Captain, who persisted in taking it very ill that they had not both died in Eden. The boarders at the National felt strongly on the subject too; but it happened by good fortune that they had not much time to think about this grievance, for it was suddenly determined to pounce upon the Honourable Elijah Pogram, and give him a le-vee forthwith.

As the general evening meal of the house was over before the arrival of the boat, Martin, Mark, and Pogram were taking tea and fixings at the public table by themselves, when the deputation entered to announce this honour; consisting of six gentlemen boarders and a very shrill boy.

‘Sir!’ said the spokesman.

‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.

The spokesman thus reminded of the shrill boy’s presence, introduced him. ‘Doctor Ginery Dunkle, sir. A gentleman of great poetical elements. He has recently jined us here, sir, and is an acquisition to us, sir, I do assure you. Yes, sir. Mr Jodd, sir. Mr Izzard, sir. Mr Julius Bib, sir.’

‘Julius Washington Merryweather Bib,’ said the gentleman himself to himself.

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Excuse me. Mr Julius Washington Merryweather Bib, sir; a gentleman in the lumber line, sir, and much esteemed. Colonel Groper, sir. Pro-fessor Piper, sir. My own name, sir, is Oscar Buffum.’

Each man took one slide forward as he was named; butted at the Honourable Elijah Pogram with his head; shook hands, and slid back again. The introductions being completed, the spokesman resumed.

‘Sir!’

‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.

‘Perhaps,’ said the spokesman, with a hopeless look, ‘you will be so good, Dr. Ginery Dunkle, as to charge yourself with the execution of our little office, sir?’

As there was nothing the shrill boy desired more, he immediately stepped forward.

‘Mr Pogram! Sir! A handful of your fellow-citizens, sir, hearing of your arrival at the National Hotel, and feeling the patriotic character of your public services, wish, sir, to have the gratification of beholding you, and mixing with you, sir; and unbending with you, sir, in those moments which—’

‘Air,’ suggested Buffum.

‘Which air so peculiarly the lot, sir, of our great and happy country.’

‘Hear!’ cried Colonel Grouper, in a loud voice. ‘Good! Hear him! Good!’

‘And therefore, sir,’ pursued the Doctor, ‘they request; as A mark Of their respect; the honour of your company at a little le-Vee, sir, in the ladies’ ordinary, at eight o’clock.’

Mr Pogram bowed, and said:

‘Fellow countrymen!’

‘Good!’ cried the Colonel. ‘Hear, him! Good!’

Mr Pogram bowed to the Colonel individually, and then resumed.

‘Your approbation of My labours in the common cause goes to My heart. At all times and in all places; in the ladies’ ordinary, My friends, and in the Battle Field—’

‘Good, very good! Hear him! Hear him!’ said the Colonel.

‘The name of Pogram will be proud to jine you. And may it, My friends, be written on My tomb, “He was a member of the Congress of our common country, and was ac-Tive in his trust.”’

‘The Com-mittee, sir,’ said the shrill boy, ‘will wait upon you at five minutes afore eight. I take My leave, sir!’

Mr Pogram shook hands with him, and everybody else, once more; and when they came back again at five minutes before eight, they said, one by one, in a melancholy voice, ‘How do you do, sir?’ and shook hands with Mr Pogram all over again, as if he had been abroad for a twelvemonth in the meantime, and they met, now, at a funeral.

But by this time Mr Pogram had freshened himself up, and had composed his hair and features after the Pogram statue, so that any one with half an eye might cry out, ‘There he is! as he delivered the Defiance!’ The Committee were embellished also; and when they entered the ladies’ ordinary in a body, there was much clapping of hands from ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by cries of ‘Pogram! Pogram!’ and some standing up on chairs to see him.

The object of the popular caress looked round the room as he walked up it, and smiled; at the same time observing to the shrill boy, that he knew something of the beauty of the daughters of their common country, but had never seen it in such lustre and perfection as at that moment. Which the shrill boy put in the paper next day; to Elijah Pogram’s great surprise.

‘We will re-quest you, sir, if you please,’ said Buffum, laying hands on Mr Pogram as if he were taking his measure for a coat, ‘to stand up with your back agin the wall right in the furthest corner, that there may be more room for our fellow citizens. If you could set your back right slap agin that curtain-peg, sir, keeping your left leg everlastingly behind the stove, we should be fixed quite slick.’

Mr Pogram did as he was told, and wedged himself into such a little corner that the Pogram statue wouldn’t have known him.

The entertainments of the evening then began. Gentlemen brought ladies up, and brought themselves up, and brought each other up; and asked Elijah Pogram what he thought of this political question, and what he thought of that; and looked at him, and looked at one another, and seemed very unhappy indeed. The ladies on the chairs looked at Elijah Pogram through their glasses, and said audibly, ‘I wish he’d speak. Why don’t he speak? Oh, do ask him to speak!’ And Elijah Pogram looked sometimes at the ladies and sometimes elsewhere, delivering senatorial opinions, as he was asked for them. But the great end and object of the meeting seemed to be, not to let Elijah Pogram out of the corner on any account; so there they kept him, hard and fast.

A great bustle at the door, in the course of the evening, announced the arrival of some remarkable person; and immediately afterwards an elderly gentleman, much excited, was seen to precipitate himself upon the crowd, and battle his way towards the Honourable Elijah Pogram. Martin, who had found a snug place of observation in a distant corner, where he stood with Mark beside him (for he did not so often forget him now as formerly, though he still did sometimes), thought he knew this gentleman, but had no doubt of it, when he cried as loud as he could, with his eyes starting out of his head:

‘Sir, Mrs Hominy!’

‘Lord bless that woman, Mark. She has turned up again!’

‘Here she comes, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley. ‘Pogram knows her. A public character! Always got her eye upon her country, sir! If that there lady’s husband is of my opinion, what a jolly old gentleman he must be!’

A lane was made; and Mrs Hominy, with the aristocratic stalk, the pocket handkerchief, the clasped hands, and the classical cap, came slowly up it, in a procession of one. Mr Pogram testified emotions of delight on seeing her, and a general hush prevailed. For it was known that when a woman like Mrs Hominy encountered a man like Pogram, something interesting must be said.

Their first salutations were exchanged in a voice too low to reach the impatient ears of the throng; but they soon became audible, for Mrs Hominy felt her position, and knew what was expected of her.

Mrs H. was hard upon him at first; and put him through a rigid catechism in reference to a certain vote he had given, which she had found it necessary, as the mother of the modern Gracchi, to deprecate in a line by itself, set up expressly for the purpose in German text. But Mr Pogram evading it by a well-timed allusion to the star-spangled banner, which, it appeared, had the remarkable peculiarity of flouting the breeze whenever it was hoisted where the wind blew, she forgave him. They now enlarged on certain questions of tariff, commercial treaty, boundary, importation and exportation with great effect. And Mrs Hominy not only talked, as the saying is, like a book, but actually did talk her own books, word for word.

‘My! what is this!’ cried Mrs Hominy, opening a little note which was handed her by her excited gentleman-usher. ‘Do tell! oh, well, now! on’y think!’

And then she read aloud, as follows:

‘Two literary ladies present their compliments to the mother of the modern Gracchi, and claim her kind introduction, as their talented countrywoman, to the honourable (and distinguished) Elijah Pogram, whom the two L. L.‘s have often contemplated in the speaking marble of the soul-subduing Chiggle. On a verbal intimation from the mother of the M. G., that she will comply with the request of the two L. L.‘s, they will have the immediate pleasure of joining the galaxy assembled to do honour to the patriotic conduct of a Pogram. It may be another bond of union between the two L. L.‘s and the mother of the M. G. to observe, that the two L. L.‘s are Transcendental.’

Mrs Hominy promptly rose, and proceeded to the door, whence she returned, after a minute’s interval, with the two L. L.‘s, whom she led, through the lane in the crowd, with all that stateliness of deportment which was so remarkably her own, up to the great Elijah Pogram. It was (as the shrill boy cried out in an ecstasy) quite the Last Scene from Coriolanus. One of the L. L.‘s wore a brown wig of uncommon size. Sticking on the forehead of the other, by invisible means, was a massive cameo, in size and shape like the raspberry tart which is ordinarily sold for a penny, representing on its front the Capitol at Washington.

‘Miss Toppit, and Miss Codger!’ said Mrs Hominy.

‘Codger’s the lady so often mentioned in the English newspapers I should think, sir,’ whispered Mark. ‘The oldest inhabitant as never remembers anything.’

‘To be presented to a Pogram,’ said Miss Codger, ‘by a Hominy, indeed, a thrilling moment is it in its impressiveness on what we call our feelings. But why we call them so, or why impressed they are, or if impressed they are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is, oh gasping one! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle to which we give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, light abandoned, much too vast to enter on, at this unlooked-for crisis.’

‘Mind and matter,’ said the lady in the wig, ‘glide swift into the vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination. To hear it, sweet it is. But then, outlaughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the Grotesque, “What ho! arrest for me that Agency. Go, bring it here!” And so the vision fadeth.’

After this, they both took Mr Pogram by the hand, and pressed it to their lips, as a patriotic palm. That homage paid, the mother of the modern Gracchi called for chairs, and the three literary ladies went to work in earnest, to bring poor Pogram out, and make him show himself in all his brilliant colours.

How Pogram got out of his depth instantly, and how the three L. L.‘s were never in theirs, is a piece of history not worth recording. Suffice it, that being all four out of their depths, and all unable to swim, they splashed up words in all directions, and floundered about famously. On the whole, it was considered to have been the severest mental exercise ever heard in the National Hotel. Tears stood in the shrill boy’s eyes several times; and the whole company observed that their heads ached with the effort—as well they might.

When it at last became necessary to release Elijah Pogram from the corner, and the Committee saw him safely back again to the next room, they were fervent in their admiration.

‘Which,’ said Mr Buffum, ‘must have vent, or it will bust. Toe you, Mr Pogram, I am grateful. Toe-wards you, sir, I am inspired with lofty veneration, and with deep e-mo-tion. The sentiment Toe which I would propose to give ex-pression, sir, is this: “May you ever be as firm, sir, as your marble statter! May it ever be as great a terror Toe its ene-mies as you.”’

There is some reason to suppose that it was rather terrible to its friends; being a statue of the Elevated or Goblin School, in which the Honourable Elijah Pogram was represented as in a very high wind, with his hair all standing on end, and his nostrils blown wide open. But Mr Pogram thanked his friend and countryman for the aspiration to which he had given utterance, and the Committee, after another solemn shaking of hands, retired to bed, except the Doctor; who immediately repaired to the newspaper-office, and there wrote a short poem suggested by the events of the evening, beginning with fourteen stars, and headed, ‘A Fragment. Suggested by witnessing the Honourable Elijah Pogram engaged in a philosophical disputation with three of Columbia’s fairest daughters. By Doctor Ginery Dunkle. Of Troy.’

If Pogram was as glad to get to bed as Martin was, he must have been well rewarded for his labours. They started off again next day (Martin and Mark previously disposing of their goods to the storekeepers of whom they had purchased them, for anything they would bring), and were fellow travellers to within a short distance of New York. When Pogram was about to leave them he grew thoughtful, and after pondering for some time, took Martin aside.

‘We air going to part, sir,’ said Pogram.

‘Pray don’t distress yourself,’ said Martin; ‘we must bear it.’

‘It ain’t that, sir,’ returned Pogram, ‘not at all. But I should wish you to accept a copy of My oration.’

‘Thank you,’ said Martin, ‘you are very good. I shall be most happy.’

‘It ain’t quite that, sir, neither,’ resumed Pogram; ‘air you bold enough to introduce a copy into your country?’

‘Certainly,’ said Martin. ‘Why not?’

‘Its sentiments air strong, sir,’ hinted Pogram, darkly.

‘That makes no difference,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll take a dozen if you like.’

‘No, sir,’ retorted Pogram. ‘Not A dozen. That is more than I require. If you are content to run the hazard, sir, here is one for your Lord Chancellor,’ producing it, ‘and one for Your principal Secretary of State. I should wish them to see it, sir, as expressing what my opinions air. That they may not plead ignorance at a future time. But don’t get into danger, sir, on my account!’

‘There is not the least danger, I assure you,’ said Martin. So he put the pamphlets in his pocket, and they parted.

Mr Bevan had written in his letter that, at a certain time, which fell out happily just then, he would be at a certain hotel in the city, anxiously expecting to see them. To this place they repaired without a moment’s delay. They had the satisfaction of finding him within; and of being received by their good friend, with his own warmth and heartiness.

‘I am truly sorry and ashamed,’ said Martin, ‘to have begged of you. But look at us. See what we are, and judge to what we are reduced!’

‘So far from claiming to have done you any service,’ returned the other, ‘I reproach myself with having been, unwittingly, the original cause of your misfortunes. I no more supposed you would go to Eden on such representations as you received; or, indeed, that you would do anything but be dispossessed, by the readiest means, of your idea that fortunes were so easily made here; than I thought of going to Eden myself.’

‘The fact is, I closed with the thing in a mad and sanguine manner,’ said Martin, ‘and the less said about it the better for me. Mark, here, hadn’t a voice in the matter.’

‘Well! but he hadn’t a voice in any other matter, had he?’ returned Mr Bevan; laughing with an air that showed his understanding of Mark and Martin too.

‘Not a very powerful one, I am afraid,’ said Martin with a blush. ‘But live and learn, Mr Bevan! Nearly die and learn; we learn the quicker.’

‘Now,’ said their friend, ‘about your plans. You mean to return home at once?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ returned Martin hastily, for he turned pale at the thought of any other suggestion. ‘That is your opinion too, I hope?’

‘Unquestionably. For I don’t know why you ever came here; though it’s not such an unusual case, I am sorry to say, that we need go any farther into that. You don’t know that the ship in which you came over with our friend General Fladdock, is in port, of course?’

‘Indeed!’ said Martin.

‘Yes. And is advertised to sail to-morrow.’

This was tempting news, but tantalising too; for Martin knew that his getting any employment on board a ship of that class was hopeless. The money in his pocket would not pay one-fourth of the sum he had already borrowed, and if it had been enough for their passage-money, he could hardly have resolved to spend it. He explained this to Mr Bevan, and stated what their project was.

‘Why, that’s as wild as Eden every bit,’ returned his friend. ‘You must take your passage like a Christian; at least, as like a Christian as a fore-cabin passenger can; and owe me a few more dollars than you intend. If Mark will go down to the ship and see what passengers there are, and finds that you can go in her without being actually suffocated, my advice is, go! You and I will look about us in the meantime (we won’t call at the Norris’s unless you like), and we will all three dine together in the afternoon.’

Martin had nothing to express but gratitude, and so it was arranged. But he went out of the room after Mark, and advised him to take their passage in the Screw, though they lay upon the bare deck; which Mr Tapley, who needed no entreaty on the subject readily promised to do.

When he and Martin met again, and were alone, he was in high spirits, and evidently had something to communicate, in which he gloried very much.

‘I’ve done Mr Bevan, sir,’ said Mark.

‘Done Mr Bevan!’ repeated Martin.

‘The cook of the Screw went and got married yesterday, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

Martin looked at him for farther explanation.

‘And when I got on board, and the word was passed that it was me,’ said Mark, ‘the mate he comes and asks me whether I’d engage to take this said cook’s place upon the passage home. “For you’re used to it,” he says; “you were always a-cooking for everybody on your passage out.” And so I was,’ said Mark, ‘although I never cooked before, I’ll take my oath.’

‘What did you say?’ demanded Martin.

‘Say!’ cried Mark. ‘That I’d take anything I could get. “If that’s so,” says the mate, “why, bring a glass of rum;” which they brought according. And my wages, sir,’ said Mark in high glee, ‘pays your passage; and I’ve put the rolling-pin in your berth to take it (it’s the easy one up in the corner); and there we are, Rule Britannia, and Britons strike home!’

‘There never was such a good fellow as you are!’ cried Martin seizing him by the hand. ‘But what do you mean by “doing” Mr Bevan, Mark?’

‘Why, don’t you see?’ said Mark. ‘We don’t tell him, you know. We take his money, but we don’t spend it, and we don’t keep it. What we do is, write him a little note, explaining this engagement, and roll it up, and leave it at the bar, to be given to him after we are gone. Don’t you see?’

Martin’s delight in this idea was not inferior to Mark’s. It was all done as he proposed. They passed a cheerful evening; slept at the hotel; left the letter as arranged; and went off to the ship betimes next morning, with such light hearts as the weight of their past miseries engendered.

‘Good-bye! a hundred thousand times good-bye!’ said Martin to their friend. ‘How shall I remember all your kindness! How shall I ever thank you!’

‘If you ever become a rich man, or a powerful one,’ returned his friend, ‘you shall try to make your Government more careful of its subjects when they roam abroad to live. Tell it what you know of emigration in your own case, and impress upon it how much suffering may be prevented with a little pains!’

Cheerily, lads, cheerily! Anchor weighed. Ship in full sail. Her sturdy bowsprit pointing true to England. America a cloud upon the sea behind them!

‘Why, Cook! what are you thinking of so steadily?’ said Martin.

‘Why, I was a-thinking, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that if I was a painter and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?’

‘Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose.’

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘That wouldn’t do for me, sir. I should want to draw it like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging; like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a ostrich, for its putting its head in the mud, and thinking nobody sees it—’

‘And like a Phoenix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!’ said Martin. ‘Well, Mark. Let us hope so.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES THE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE

It was mid-day, and high water in the English port for which the Screw was bound, when, borne in gallantly upon the fullness of the tide, she let go her anchor in the river.

Bright as the scene was; fresh, and full of motion; airy, free, and sparkling; it was nothing to the life and exultation in the breasts of the two travellers, at sight of the old churches, roofs, and darkened chimney stacks of Home. The distant roar that swelled up hoarsely from the busy streets, was music in their ears; the lines of people gazing from the wharves, were friends held dear; the canopy of smoke that overhung the town was brighter and more beautiful to them than if the richest silks of Persia had been waving in the air. And though the water going on its glistening track, turned, ever and again, aside to dance and sparkle round great ships, and heave them up; and leaped from off the blades of oars, a shower of diving diamonds; and wantoned with the idle boats, and swiftly passed, in many a sportive chase, through obdurate old iron rings, set deep into the stone-work of the quays; not even it was half so buoyant, and so restless, as their fluttering hearts, when yearning to set foot, once more, on native ground.

A year had passed since those same spires and roofs had faded from their eyes. It seemed to them, a dozen years. Some trifling changes, here and there, they called to mind; and wondered that they were so few and slight. In health and fortune, prospect and resource, they came back poorer men than they had gone away. But it was home. And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.

Being set ashore, with very little money in their pockets, and no definite plan of operation in their heads, they sought out a cheap tavern, where they regaled upon a smoking steak, and certain flowing mugs of beer, as only men just landed from the sea can revel in the generous dainties of the earth. When they had feasted, as two grateful-tempered giants might have done, they stirred the fire, drew back the glowing curtain from the window, and making each a sofa for himself, by union of the great unwieldy chairs, gazed blissfully into the street.

Even the street was made a fairy street, by being half hidden in an atmosphere of steak, and strong, stout, stand-up English beer. For on the window-glass hung such a mist, that Mr Tapley was obliged to rise and wipe it with his handkerchief, before the passengers appeared like common mortals. And even then, a spiral little cloud went curling up from their two glasses of hot grog, which nearly hid them from each other.

It was one of those unaccountable little rooms which are never seen anywhere but in a tavern, and are supposed to have got into taverns by reason of the facilities afforded to the architect for getting drunk while engaged in their construction. It had more corners in it than the brain of an obstinate man; was full of mad closets, into which nothing could be put that was not specially invented and made for that purpose; had mysterious shelvings and bulkheads, and indications of staircases in the ceiling; and was elaborately provided with a bell that rung in the room itself, about two feet from the handle, and had no connection whatever with any other part of the establishment. It was a little below the pavement, and abutted close upon it; so that passengers grated against the window-panes with their buttons, and scraped it with their baskets; and fearful boys suddenly coming between a thoughtful guest and the light, derided him, or put out their tongues as if he were a physician; or made white knobs on the ends of their noses by flattening the same against the glass, and vanished awfully, like spectres.

Martin and Mark sat looking at the people as they passed, debating every now and then what their first step should be.

‘We want to see Miss Mary, of course,’ said Mark.

‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘But I don’t know where she is. Not having had the heart to write in our distress—you yourself thought silence most advisable—and consequently, never having heard from her since we left New York the first time, I don’t know where she is, my good fellow.’

‘My opinion is, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that what we’ve got to do is to travel straight to the Dragon. There’s no need for you to go there, where you’re known, unless you like. You may stop ten mile short of it. I’ll go on. Mrs Lupin will tell me all the news. Mr Pinch will give me every information that we want; and right glad Mr Pinch will be to do it. My proposal is: To set off walking this afternoon. To stop when we are tired. To get a lift when we can. To walk when we can’t. To do it at once, and do it cheap.’

‘Unless we do it cheap, we shall have some difficulty in doing it at all,’ said Martin, pulling out the bank, and telling it over in his hand.

‘The greater reason for losing no time, sir,’ replied Mark. ‘Whereas, when you’ve seen the young lady; and know what state of mind the old gentleman’s in, and all about it; then you’ll know what to do next.’

‘No doubt,’ said Martin. ‘You are quite right.’

They were raising their glasses to their lips, when their hands stopped midway, and their gaze was arrested by a figure which slowly, very slowly, and reflectively, passed the window at that moment.

Mr Pecksniff. Placid, calm, but proud. Honestly proud. Dressed with peculiar care, smiling with even more than usual blandness, pondering on the beauties of his art with a mild abstraction from all sordid thoughts, and gently travelling across the disc, as if he were a figure in a magic lantern.

As Mr Pecksniff passed, a person coming in the opposite direction stopped to look after him with great interest and respect, almost with veneration; and the landlord bouncing out of the house, as if he had seen him too, joined this person, and spoke to him, and shook his head gravely, and looked after Mr Pecksniff likewise.

Martin and Mark sat staring at each other, as if they could not believe it; but there stood the landlord, and the other man still. In spite of the indignation with which this glimpse of Mr Pecksniff had inspired him, Martin could not help laughing heartily. Neither could Mark.

‘We must inquire into this!’ said Martin. ‘Ask the landlord in, Mark.’

Mr Tapley retired for that purpose, and immediately returned with their large-headed host in safe convoy.

‘Pray, landlord!’ said Martin, ‘who is that gentleman who passed just now, and whom you were looking after?’

The landlord poked the fire as if, in his desire to make the most of his answer, he had become indifferent even to the price of coals; and putting his hands in his pockets, said, after inflating himself to give still further effect to his reply:

‘That, gentlemen, is the great Mr Pecksniff! The celebrated architect, gentlemen!’

He looked from one to the other while he said it, as if he were ready to assist the first man who might be overcome by the intelligence.

‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen.’ said the landlord, ‘has come down here, to help to lay the first stone of a new and splendid public building.’

‘Is it to be built from his designs?’ asked Martin.

‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen,’ returned the landlord, who seemed to have an unspeakable delight in the repetition of these words, ‘carried off the First Premium, and will erect the building.’

‘Who lays the stone?’ asked Martin.

‘Our member has come down express,’ returned the landlord. ‘No scrubs would do for no such a purpose. Nothing less would satisfy our Directors than our member in the House of Commons, who is returned upon the Gentlemanly Interest.’

‘Which interest is that?’ asked Martin.

‘What, don’t you know!’ returned the landlord.

It was quite clear the landlord didn’t. They always told him at election time, that it was the Gentlemanly side, and he immediately put on his top-boots, and voted for it.

‘When does the ceremony take place?’ asked Martin.

‘This day,’ replied the landlord. Then pulling out his watch, he added, impressively, ‘almost this minute.’

Martin hastily inquired whether there was any possibility of getting in to witness it; and finding that there would be no objection to the admittance of any decent person, unless indeed the ground were full, hurried off with Mark, as hard as they could go.

They were fortunate enough to squeeze themselves into a famous corner on the ground, where they could see all that passed, without much dread of being beheld by Mr Pecksniff in return. They were not a minute too soon, for as they were in the act of congratulating each other, a great noise was heard at some distance, and everybody looked towards the gate. Several ladies prepared their pocket handkerchiefs for waving; and a stray teacher belonging to the charity school being much cheered by mistake, was immensely groaned at when detected.

‘Perhaps he has Tom Pinch with him,’ Martin whispered Mr Tapley.

‘It would be rather too much of a treat for him, wouldn’t it, sir?’ whispered Mr Tapley in return.

There was no time to discuss the probabilities either way, for the charity school, in clean linen, came filing in two and two, so much to the self-approval of all the people present who didn’t subscribe to it, that many of them shed tears. A band of music followed, led by a conscientious drummer who never left off. Then came a great many gentlemen with wands in their hands, and bows on their breasts, whose share in the proceedings did not appear to be distinctly laid down, and who trod upon each other, and blocked up the entry for a considerable period. These were followed by the Mayor and Corporation, all clustering round the member for the Gentlemanly Interest; who had the great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect on his right hand, and conversed with him familiarly as they came along. Then the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen their hats, and the charity children shrieked, and the member for the Gentlemanly Interest bowed.

Silence being restored, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest rubbed his hands, and wagged his head, and looked about him pleasantly; and there was nothing this member did, at which some lady or other did not burst into an ecstatic waving of her pocket handkerchief. When he looked up at the stone, they said how graceful! when he peeped into the hole, they said how condescending! when he chatted with the Mayor, they said how easy! when he folded his arms they cried with one accord, how statesman-like!

Mr Pecksniff was observed too, closely. When he talked to the Mayor, they said, Oh, really, what a courtly man he was! When he laid his hand upon the mason’s shoulder, giving him directions, how pleasant his demeanour to the working classes; just the sort of man who made their toil a pleasure to them, poor dear souls!

But now a silver trowel was brought; and when the member for the Gentlemanly Interest, tucking up his coat-sleeve, did a little sleight of hand with the mortar, the air was rent, so loud was the applause. The workman-like manner in which he did it was amazing. No one could conceive where such a gentlemanly creature could have picked the knowledge up.

When he had made a kind of dirt-pie under the direction of the mason, they brought a little vase containing coins, the which the member for the Gentlemanly Interest jingled, as if he were going to conjure. Whereat they said how droll, how cheerful, what a flow of spirits! This put into its place, an ancient scholar read the inscription, which was in Latin; not in English; that would never do. It gave great satisfaction; especially every time there was a good long substantive in the third declension, ablative case, with an adjective to match; at which periods the assembly became very tender, and were much affected.

And now the stone was lowered down into its place, amidst the shouting of the concourse. When it was firmly fixed, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest struck upon it thrice with the handle of the trowel, as if inquiring, with a touch of humour, whether anybody was at home. Mr Pecksniff then unrolled his Plans (prodigious plans they were), and people gathered round to look at and admire them.

Martin, who had been fretting himself—quite unnecessarily, as Mark thought—during the whole of these proceedings, could no longer restrain his impatience; but stepping forward among several others, looked straight over the shoulder of the unconscious Mr Pecksniff, at the designs and plans he had unrolled. He returned to Mark, boiling with rage.

‘Why, what’s the matter, sir?’ cried Mark.

‘Matter! This is my building.’

‘Your building, sir!’ said Mark.

‘My grammar-school. I invented it. I did it all. He has only put four windows in, the villain, and spoilt it!’

Mark could hardly believe it at first, but being assured that it was really so, actually held him to prevent his interference foolishly, until his temporary heat was past. In the meantime, the member addressed the company on the gratifying deed which he had just performed.

He said that since he had sat in Parliament to represent the Gentlemanly Interest of that town; and he might add, the Lady Interest, he hoped, besides (pocket handkerchiefs); it had been his pleasant duty to come among them, and to raise his voice on their behalf in Another Place (pocket handkerchiefs and laughter), often. But he had never come among them, and had never raised his voice, with half such pure, such deep, such unalloyed delight, as now. ‘The present occasion,’ he said, ‘will ever be memorable to me; not only for the reasons I have assigned, but because it has afforded me an opportunity of becoming personally known to a gentleman—’

Here he pointed the trowel at Mr Pecksniff, who was greeted with vociferous cheering, and laid his hand upon his heart.

‘To a gentleman who, I am happy to believe, will reap both distinction and profit from this field; whose fame had previously penetrated to me—as to whose ears has it not!—but whose intellectual countenance I never had the distinguished honour to behold until this day, and whose intellectual conversation I had never before the improving pleasure to enjoy.’

Everybody seemed very glad of this, and applauded more than ever.

‘But I hope my Honourable Friend,’ said the Gentlemanly member—of course he added “if he will allow me to call him so,” and of course Mr Pecksniff bowed—‘will give me many opportunities of cultivating the knowledge of him; and that I may have the extraordinary gratification of reflecting in after-time that I laid on this day two first stones, both belonging to structures which shall last my life!’

Great cheering again. All this time, Martin was cursing Mr Pecksniff up hill and down dale.

‘My friends!’ said Mr Pecksniff, in reply. ‘My duty is to build, not speak; to act, not talk; to deal with marble, stone, and brick; not language. I am very much affected. God bless you!’

This address, pumped out apparently from Mr Pecksniff’s very heart, brought the enthusiasm to its highest pitch. The pocket handkerchiefs were waved again; the charity children were admonished to grow up Pecksniffs, every boy among them; the Corporation, gentlemen with wands, member for the Gentlemanly Interest, all cheered for Mr Pecksniff. Three cheers for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff, gentlemen, if you please! One more, gentlemen, for Mr Pecksniff, and let it be a good one to finish with!

In short, Mr Pecksniff was supposed to have done a great work and was very kindly, courteously, and generously rewarded. When the procession moved away, and Martin and Mark were left almost alone upon the ground, his merits and a desire to acknowledge them formed the common topic. He was only second to the Gentlemanly member.

‘Compare the fellow’s situation to-day with ours!’ said Martin bitterly.

‘Lord bless you, sir!’ cried Mark, ‘what’s the use? Some architects are clever at making foundations, and some architects are clever at building on ‘em when they’re made. But it’ll all come right in the end, sir; it’ll all come right!’

‘And in the meantime—’ began Martin.

‘In the meantime, as you say, sir, we have a deal to do, and far to go. So sharp’s the word, and Jolly!’

‘You are the best master in the world, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘and I will not be a bad scholar if I can help it, I am resolved! So come! Best foot foremost, old fellow!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

TOM PINCH DEPARTS TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE. WHAT HE FINDS AT STARTING

Oh! What a different town Salisbury was in Tom Pinch’s eyes to be sure, when the substantial Pecksniff of his heart melted away into an idle dream! He possessed the same faith in the wonderful shops, the same intensified appreciation of the mystery and wickedness of the place; made the same exalted estimate of its wealth, population, and resources; and yet it was not the old city nor anything like it. He walked into the market while they were getting breakfast ready for him at the Inn; and though it was the same market as of old, crowded by the same buyers and sellers; brisk with the same business; noisy with the same confusion of tongues and cluttering of fowls in coops; fair with the same display of rolls of butter, newly made, set forth in linen cloths of dazzling whiteness; green with the same fresh show of dewy vegetables; dainty with the same array in higglers’ baskets of small shaving-glasses, laces, braces, trouser-straps, and hardware; savoury with the same unstinted show of delicate pigs’ feet, and pies made precious by the pork that once had walked upon them; still it was strangely changed to Tom. For, in the centre of the market-place, he missed a statue he had set up there as in all other places of his personal resort; and it looked cold and bare without that ornament.

The change lay no deeper than this, for Tom was far from being sage enough to know, that, having been disappointed in one man, it would have been a strictly rational and eminently wise proceeding to have revenged himself upon mankind in general, by mistrusting them one and all. Indeed this piece of justice, though it is upheld by the authority of divers profound poets and honourable men, bears a nearer resemblance to the justice of that good Vizier in the Thousand-and-one Nights, who issues orders for the destruction of all the Porters in Bagdad because one of that unfortunate fraternity is supposed to have misconducted himself, than to any logical, not to say Christian, system of conduct, known to the world in later times.

Tom had so long been used to steep the Pecksniff of his fancy in his tea, and spread him out upon his toast, and take him as a relish with his beer, that he made but a poor breakfast on the first morning after his expulsion. Nor did he much improve his appetite for dinner by seriously considering his own affairs, and taking counsel thereon with his friend the organist’s assistant.

The organist’s assistant gave it as his decided opinion that whatever Tom did, he must go to London; for there was no place like it. Which may be true in the main, though hardly, perhaps, in itself, a sufficient reason for Tom’s going there.

But Tom had thought of London before, and had coupled with it thoughts of his sister, and of his old friend John Westlock, whose advice he naturally felt disposed to seek in this important crisis of his fortunes. To London, therefore, he resolved to go; and he went away to the coach-office at once, to secure his place. The coach being already full, he was obliged to postpone his departure until the next night; but even this circumstance had its bright side as well as its dark one, for though it threatened to reduce his poor purse with unexpected country charges, it afforded him an opportunity of writing to Mrs Lupin and appointing his box to be brought to the old finger-post at the old time; which would enable him to take that treasure with him to the metropolis, and save the expense of its carriage. ‘So,’ said Tom, comforting himself, ‘it’s very nearly as broad as it’s long.’

And it cannot be denied that, when he had made up his mind to even this extent, he felt an unaccustomed sense of freedom—a vague and indistinct impression of holiday-making—which was very luxurious. He had his moments of depression and anxiety, and they were, with good reason, pretty numerous; but still, it was wonderfully pleasant to reflect that he was his own master, and could plan and scheme for himself. It was startling, thrilling, vast, difficult to understand; it was a stupendous truth, teeming with responsibility and self-distrust; but in spite of all his cares, it gave a curious relish to the viands at the Inn, and interposed a dreamy haze between him and his prospects, in which they sometimes showed to magical advantage.

In this unsettled state of mind, Tom went once more to bed in the low four-poster, to the same immovable surprise of the effigies of the former landlord and the fat ox; and in this condition, passed the whole of the succeeding day. When the coach came round at last with ‘London’ blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half disposed to run away. But he didn’t do it; for he took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four greys, felt as if he were another grey himself, or, at all events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendour of his situation.

And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself sitting next that coachman; for of all the swells that ever flourished a whip professionally, he might have been elected emperor. He didn’t handle his gloves like another man, but put them on—even when he was standing on the pavement, quite detached from the coach—as if the four greys were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It was the same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which nothing but an unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom of the road, could ever have made him perfect in. Valuable little parcels were brought to him with particular instructions, and he pitched them into this hat, and stuck it on again; as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such an event as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an accident could befall it. The guard, too! Seventy breezy miles a day were written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter; his conversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a down-hill turnpike road; he was all pace. A waggon couldn’t have moved slowly, with that guard and his key-bugle on the top of it.

These were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon the box, and looked about him. Such a coachman, and such a guard, never could have existed between Salisbury and any other place. The coach was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated London coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a devil of a life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the Cathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere, making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open country-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its last glad parting legacy.

It was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with the weight upon his mind which arose out of the immensity and uncertainty of London, Tom could not resist the captivating sense of rapid motion through the pleasant air. The four greys skimmed along, as if they liked it quite as well as Tom did; the bugle was in as high spirits as the greys; the coachman chimed in sometimes with his voice; the wheels hummed cheerfully in unison; the brass work on the harness was an orchestra of little bells; and thus, as they went clinking, jingling, rattling smoothly on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the leaders’ coupling-reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great instrument of music.

Yoho, past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns, and people going home from work. Yoho, past donkey-chaises, drawn aside into the ditch, and empty carts with rampant horses, whipped up at a bound upon the little watercourse, and held by struggling carters close to the five-barred gate, until the coach had passed the narrow turning in the road. Yoho, by churches dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks, with rustic burial-grounds about them, where the graves are green, and daisies sleep—for it is evening—on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho, past streams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes grow; past paddock-fences, farms, and rick-yards; past last year’s stacks, cut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light, like ruined gables, old and brown. Yoho, down the pebbly dip, and through the merry water-splash and up at a canter to the level road again. Yoho! Yoho!

Was the box there, when they came up to the old finger-post? The box! Was Mrs Lupin herself? Had she turned out magnificently as a hostess should, in her own chaise-cart, and was she sitting in a mahogany chair, driving her own horse Dragon (who ought to have been called Dumpling), and looking lovely? Did the stage-coach pull up beside her, shaving her very wheel, and even while the guard helped her man up with the trunk, did he send the glad echoes of his bugle careering down the chimneys of the distant Pecksniff, as if the coach expressed its exultation in the rescue of Tom Pinch?

‘This is kind indeed!’ said Tom, bending down to shake hands with her. ‘I didn’t mean to give you this trouble.’

‘Trouble, Mr Pinch!’ cried the hostess of the Dragon.

‘Well! It’s a pleasure to you, I know,’ said Tom, squeezing her hand heartily. ‘Is there any news?’

The hostess shook her head.

‘Say you saw me,’ said Tom, ‘and that I was very bold and cheerful, and not a bit down-hearted; and that I entreated her to be the same, for all is certain to come right at last. Good-bye!’

‘You’ll write when you get settled, Mr Pinch?’ said Mrs Lupin.

‘When I get settled!’ cried Tom, with an involuntary opening of his eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll write when I get settled. Perhaps I had better write before, because I may find that it takes a little time to settle myself; not having too much money, and having only one friend. I shall give your love to the friend, by the way. You were always great with Mr Westlock, you know. Good-bye!’

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs Lupin, hastily producing a basket with a long bottle sticking out of it. ‘Take this. Good-bye!’ ‘Do you want me to carry it to London for you?’ cried Tom. She was already turning the chaise-cart round.

‘No, no,’ said Mrs Lupin. ‘It’s only a little something for refreshment on the road. Sit fast, Jack. Drive on, sir. All right! Good-bye!’

She was a quarter of a mile off, before Tom collected himself; and then he was waving his hand lustily; and so was she.

‘And that’s the last of the old finger-post,’ thought Tom, straining his eyes, ‘where I have so often stood to see this very coach go by, and where I have parted with so many companions! I used to compare this coach to some great monster that appeared at certain times to bear my friends away into the world. And now it’s bearing me away, to seek my fortune, Heaven knows where and how!’

It made Tom melancholy to picture himself walking up the lane and back to Pecksniff’s as of old; and being melancholy, he looked downwards at the basket on his knee, which he had for the moment forgotten.

‘She is the kindest and most considerate creature in the world,’ thought Tom. ‘Now I know that she particularly told that man of hers not to look at me, on purpose to prevent my throwing him a shilling! I had it ready for him all the time, and he never once looked towards me; whereas that man naturally, (for I know him very well,) would have done nothing but grin and stare. Upon my word, the kindness of people perfectly melts me.’

Here he caught the coachman’s eye. The coachman winked. ‘Remarkable fine woman for her time of life,’ said the coachman.

‘I quite agree with you,’ returned Tom. ‘So she is.’

‘Finer than many a young ‘un, I mean to say,’ observed the coachman. ‘Eh?’

‘Than many a young one,’ Tom assented.

‘I don’t care for ‘em myself when they’re too young,’ remarked the coachman.

This was a matter of taste, which Tom did not feel himself called upon to discuss.

‘You’ll seldom find ‘em possessing correct opinions about refreshment, for instance, when they’re too young, you know,’ said the coachman; ‘a woman must have arrived at maturity, before her mind’s equal to coming provided with a basket like that.’

‘Perhaps you would like to know what it contains?’ said Tom, smiling.

As the coachman only laughed, and as Tom was curious himself, he unpacked it, and put the articles, one by one, upon the footboard. A cold roast fowl, a packet of ham in slices, a crusty loaf, a piece of cheese, a paper of biscuits, half a dozen apples, a knife, some butter, a screw of salt, and a bottle of old sherry. There was a letter besides, which Tom put in his pocket.

The coachman was so earnest in his approval of Mrs Lupin’s provident habits, and congratulated Torn so warmly on his good fortune, that Tom felt it necessary, for the lady’s sake, to explain that the basket was a strictly Platonic basket, and had merely been presented to him in the way of friendship. When he had made the statement with perfect gravity; for he felt it incumbent on him to disabuse the mind of this lax rover of any incorrect impressions on the subject; he signified that he would be happy to share the gifts with him, and proposed that they should attack the basket in a spirit of good fellowship at any time in the course of the night which the coachman’s experience and knowledge of the road might suggest, as being best adapted to the purpose. From this time they chatted so pleasantly together, that although Tom knew infinitely more of unicorns than horses, the coachman informed his friend the guard at the end of the next stage, ‘that rum as the box-seat looked, he was as good a one to go, in pint of conversation, as ever he’d wish to sit by.’

Yoho, among the gathering shades; making of no account the deep reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness, all the same, as if the light of London fifty miles away, were quite enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho, beside the village green, where cricket-players linger yet, and every little indentation made in the fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or player’s foot, sheds out its perfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last team with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys pursue them. Now, with a clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadowy road, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold. Yoho!

Yoho, behind there, stop that bugle for a moment! Come creeping over to the front, along the coach-roof, guard, and make one at this basket! Not that we slacken in our pace the while, not we; we rather put the bits of blood upon their metal, for the greater glory of the snack. Ah! It is long since this bottle of old wine was brought into contact with the mellow breath of night, you may depend, and rare good stuff it is to wet a bugler’s whistle with. Only try it. Don’t be afraid of turning up your finger, Bill, another pull! Now, take your breath, and try the bugle, Bill. There’s music! There’s a tone!’ over the hills and far away,’ indeed. Yoho! The skittish mare is all alive to-night. Yoho! Yoho!

See the bright moon! High up before we know it; making the earth reflect the objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees, low cottages, church steeples, blighted stumps and flourishing young slips, have all grown vain upon the sudden, and mean to contemplate their own fair images till morning. The poplars yonder rustle that their quivering leaves may see themselves upon the ground. Not so the oak; trembling does not become him; and he watches himself in his stout old burly steadfastness, without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate, ill-poised upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed swings to and fro before its glass, like some fantastic dowager; while our own ghostly likeness travels on, Yoho! Yoho! through ditch and brake, upon the ploughed land and the smooth, along the steep hillside and steeper wall, as if it were a phantom-Hunter.

Clouds too! And a mist upon the Hollow! Not a dull fog that hides it, but a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our eyes of modest admiration gives a new charm to the beauties it is spread before; as real gauze has done ere now, and would again, so please you, though we were the Pope. Yoho! Why now we travel like the Moon herself. Hiding this minute in a grove of trees; next minute in a patch of vapour; emerging now upon our broad clear course; withdrawing now, but always dashing on, our journey is a counter-part of hers. Yoho! A match against the Moon!

The beauty of the night is hardly felt, when Day comes rushing up. Yoho! Two stages, and the country roads are almost changed to a continuous street. Yoho, past market-gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents, terraces, and squares; past waggons, coaches, carts; past early workmen, late stragglers, drunken men, and sober carriers of loads; past brick and mortar in its every shape; and in among the rattling pavements, where a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve! Yoho, down countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old Innyard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down quite stunned and giddy, is in London!

‘Five minutes before the time, too!’ said the driver, as he received his fee of Tom.

‘Upon my word,’ said Tom, ‘I should not have minded very much, if we had been five hours after it; for at this early hour I don’t know where to go, or what to do with myself.’

‘Don’t they expect you then?’ inquired the driver.

‘Who?’ said Tom.

‘Why them,’ returned the driver.

His mind was so clearly running on the assumption of Tom’s having come to town to see an extensive circle of anxious relations and friends, that it would have been pretty hard work to undeceive him. Tom did not try. He cheerfully evaded the subject, and going into the Inn, fell fast asleep before a fire in one of the public rooms opening from the yard. When he awoke, the people in the house were all astir, so he washed and dressed himself; to his great refreshment after the journey; and, it being by that time eight o’clock, went forth at once to see his old friend John.

John Westlock lived in Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn, which was within a quarter of an hour’s walk of Tom’s starting-point, but seemed a long way off, by reason of his going two or three miles out of the straight road to make a short cut. When at last he arrived outside John’s door, two stories up, he stood faltering with his hand upon the knocker, and trembled from head to foot. For he was rendered very nervous by the thought of having to relate what had fallen out between himself and Pecksniff; and he had a misgiving that John would exult fearfully in the disclosure.

‘But it must be made,’ thought Tom, ‘sooner or later; and I had better get it over.’

Rat tat.

‘I am afraid that’s not a London knock,’ thought Tom. ‘It didn’t sound bold. Perhaps that’s the reason why nobody answers the door.’

It is quite certain that nobody came, and that Tom stood looking at the knocker; wondering whereabouts in the neighbourhood a certain gentleman resided, who was roaring out to somebody ‘Come in!’ with all his might.

‘Bless my soul!’ thought Tom at last. ‘Perhaps he lives here, and is calling to me. I never thought of that. Can I open the door from the outside, I wonder. Yes, to be sure I can.’

To be sure he could, by turning the handle; and to be sure when he did turn it the same voice came rushing out, crying ‘Why don’t you come in? Come in, do you hear? What are you standing there for?’—quite violently.

Tom stepped from the little passage into the room from which these sounds proceeded, and had barely caught a glimpse of a gentleman in a dressing-gown and slippers (with his boots beside him ready to put on), sitting at his breakfast with a newspaper in his hand, when the said gentleman, at the imminent hazard of oversetting his tea-table, made a plunge at Tom, and hugged him.

‘Why, Tom, my boy!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Tom!’

‘How glad I am to see you, Mr Westlock!’ said Tom Pinch, shaking both his hands, and trembling more than ever. ‘How kind you are!’

‘Mr Westlock!’ repeated John, ‘what do you mean by that, Pinch? You have not forgotten my Christian name, I suppose?’

‘No, John, no. I have not forgotten,’ said Thomas Pinch. ‘Good gracious me, how kind you are!’

‘I never saw such a fellow in all my life!’ cried John. ‘What do you mean by saying that over and over again? What did you expect me to be, I wonder! Here, sit down, Tom, and be a reasonable creature. How are you, my boy? I am delighted to see you!’

‘And I am delighted to see you,’ said Tom.

‘It’s mutual, of course,’ returned John. ‘It always was, I hope. If I had known you had been coming, Tom, I would have had something for breakfast. I would rather have such a surprise than the best breakfast in the world, myself; but yours is another case, and I have no doubt you are as hungry as a hunter. You must make out as well as you can, Tom, and we’ll recompense ourselves at dinner-time. You take sugar, I know; I recollect the sugar at Pecksniff’s. Ha, ha, ha! How is Pecksniff? When did you come to town? do begin at something or other, Tom. There are only scraps here, but they are not at all bad. Boar’s Head potted. Try it, Tom. Make a beginning whatever you do. What an old Blade you are! I am delighted to see you.’

While he delivered himself of these words in a state of great commotion, John was constantly running backwards and forwards to and from the closet, bringing out all sorts of things in pots, scooping extraordinary quantities of tea out of the caddy, dropping French rolls into his boots, pouring hot water over the butter, and making a variety of similar mistakes without disconcerting himself in the least.

‘There!’ said John, sitting down for the fiftieth time, and instantly starting up again to make some other addition to the breakfast. ‘Now we are as well off as we are likely to be till dinner. And now let us have the news, Tom. Imprimis, how’s Pecksniff?’

‘I don’t know how he is,’ was Tom’s grave answer.

John Westlock put the teapot down, and looked at him, in astonishment.

‘I don’t know how he is,’ said Thomas Pinch; ‘and, saving that I wish him no ill, I don’t care. I have left him, John. I have left him for ever.’

‘Voluntarily?’

‘Why, no, for he dismissed me. But I had first found out that I was mistaken in him; and I could not have remained with him under any circumstances. I grieve to say that you were right in your estimate of his character. It may be a ridiculous weakness, John, but it has been very painful and bitter to me to find this out, I do assure you.’

Tom had no need to direct that appealing look towards his friend, in mild and gentle deprecation of his answering with a laugh. John Westlock would as soon have thought of striking him down upon the floor.

‘It was all a dream of mine,’ said Tom, ‘and it is over. I’ll tell you how it happened, at some other time. Bear with my folly, John. I do not, just now, like to think or speak about it.’

‘I swear to you, Tom,’ returned his friend, with great earnestness of manner, after remaining silent for a few moments, ‘that when I see, as I do now, how deeply you feel this, I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry that you have made the discovery at last. I reproach myself with the thought that I ever jested on the subject; I ought to have known better.’

‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, extending his hand, ‘it is very generous and gallant in you to receive me and my disclosure in this spirit; it makes me blush to think that I should have felt a moment’s uneasiness as I came along. You can’t think what a weight is lifted off my mind,’ said Tom, taking up his knife and fork again, and looking very cheerful. ‘I shall punish the Boar’s Head dreadfully.’

The host, thus reminded of his duties, instantly betook himself to piling up all kinds of irreconcilable and contradictory viands in Tom’s plate, and a very capital breakfast Tom made, and very much the better for it Tom felt.

‘That’s all right,’ said John, after contemplating his visitor’s proceedings with infinite satisfaction. ‘Now, about our plans. You are going to stay with me, of course. Where’s your box?’

‘It’s at the Inn,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t intend—’

‘Never mind what you didn’t intend,’ John Westlock interposed. ‘What you did intend is more to the purpose. You intended, in coming here, to ask my advice, did you not, Tom?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And to take it when I gave it to you?’

‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, smiling, ‘if it were good advice, which, being yours, I have no doubt it will be.’

‘Very well. Then don’t be an obstinate old humbug in the outset, Tom, or I shall shut up shop and dispense none of that invaluable commodity. You are on a visit to me. I wish I had an organ for you, Tom!’

‘So do the gentlemen downstairs, and the gentlemen overhead I have no doubt,’ was Tom’s reply.

‘Let me see. In the first place, you will wish to see your sister this morning,’ pursued his friend, ‘and of course you will like to go there alone. I’ll walk part of the way with you; and see about a little business of my own, and meet you here again in the afternoon. Put that in your pocket, Tom. It’s only the key of the door. If you come home first you’ll want it.’

‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘quartering one’s self upon a friend in this way—’

‘Why, there are two keys,’ interposed John Westlock. ‘I can’t open the door with them both at once, can I? What a ridiculous fellow you are, Tom? Nothing particular you’d like for dinner, is there?’

‘Oh dear no,’ said Tom.

‘Very well, then you may as well leave it to me. Have a glass of cherry brandy, Tom?’

‘Not a drop! What remarkable chambers these are!’ said Pinch ‘there’s everything in ‘em!’

‘Bless your soul, Tom, nothing but a few little bachelor contrivances! the sort of impromptu arrangements that might have suggested themselves to Philip Quarll or Robinson Crusoe, that’s all. What do you say? Shall we walk?’

‘By all means,’ cried Tom. ‘As soon as you like.’

Accordingly John Westlock took the French rolls out of his boots, and put his boots on, and dressed himself; giving Tom the paper to read in the meanwhile. When he returned, equipped for walking, he found Tom in a brown study, with the paper in his hand.

‘Dreaming, Tom?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘No. I have been looking over the advertising sheet, thinking there might be something in it which would be likely to suit me. But, as I often think, the strange thing seems to be that nobody is suited. Here are all kinds of employers wanting all sorts of servants, and all sorts of servants wanting all kinds of employers, and they never seem to come together. Here is a gentleman in a public office in a position of temporary difficulty, who wants to borrow five hundred pounds; and in the very next advertisement here is another gentleman who has got exactly that sum to lend. But he’ll never lend it to him, John, you’ll find! Here is a lady possessing a moderate independence, who wants to board and lodge with a quiet, cheerful family; and here is a family describing themselves in those very words, “a quiet, cheerful family,” who want exactly such a lady to come and live with them. But she’ll never go, John! Neither do any of these single gentlemen who want an airy bedroom, with the occasional use of a parlour, ever appear to come to terms with these other people who live in a rural situation remarkable for its bracing atmosphere, within five minutes’ walk of the Royal Exchange. Even those letters of the alphabet who are always running away from their friends and being entreated at the tops of columns to come back, never do come back, if we may judge from the number of times they are asked to do it and don’t. It really seems,’ said Tom, relinquishing the paper with a thoughtful sigh, ‘as if people had the same gratification in printing their complaints as in making them known by word of mouth; as if they found it a comfort and consolation to proclaim “I want such and such a thing, and I can’t get it, and I don’t expect I ever shall!”’

John Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many years had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so little of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He was particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have those streets pointed out to him which were appropriated to the slaughter of countrymen; and was quite disappointed to find, after half-an-hour’s walking, that he hadn’t had his pocket picked. But on John Westlock’s inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and pointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he was much delighted.

His friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell and having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy brass-and-copper founder’s, left him to make his visit. Arriving before the great bell-handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared.

‘Pray does Miss Pinch live here?’ said Tom.

‘Miss Pinch is governess here,’ replied the porter.

At the same time he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have said, ‘You are a nice man, you are; where did you come from?’

‘It’s the same young lady,’ said Tom. ‘It’s quite right. Is she at home?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ rejoined the porter.

‘Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain?’ said Tom. He had quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility of such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter’s mind at all.

The fact was that the porter in answering the gate-bell had, according to usage, rung the house-bell (for it is as well to do these things in the Baronial style while you are about it), and that there the functions of his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and not to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be developed by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called out from the door steps:

‘Hollo, there! wot are you up to? This way, young man!’

‘Oh!’ said Tom, hurrying towards him. ‘I didn’t observe that there was anybody else. Pray is Miss Pinch at home?’

‘She’s in,’ replied the footman. As much as to say to Tom: ‘But if you think she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place you had better abandon that idea.’

‘I wish to see her, if you please,’ said Tom.

The footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention caught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so warm an interest that his gaze was rivetted on the bird until it was quite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in, and showed him into a parlour.

‘Hany neem?’ said the young man, pausing languidly at the door.

It was a good thought; because without providing the stranger, in case he should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for knocking him down, it implied this young man’s estimate of his quality, and relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of rating him in secret as a nameless and obscure individual.

‘Say her brother, if you please,’ said Tom.

‘Mother?’ drawled the footman.

‘Brother,’ repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. ‘And if you will say, in the first instance, a gentleman, and then say her brother, I shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in London, and I do not wish to startle her.’

The young man’s interest in Tom’s observations had ceased long before this time, but he kindly waited until now; when, shutting the door, he withdrew.

‘Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘This is very disrespectful and uncivil behaviour. I hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently treated.’

His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining room. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or in indignant reprimand of some offender; and gathering strength occasionally, broke out into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it appeared to Tom, that the footman announced him; for an abrupt and unnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing before the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused these sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door opened, and his sister ran into his arms.

‘Why, bless my soul!’ said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when they had tenderly embraced each other, ‘how altered you are Ruth! I should scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere else, I declare! You are so improved,’ said Tom, with inexpressible delight; ‘you are so womanly; you are so—positively, you know, you are so handsome!’

‘If you think so Tom—’

‘Oh, but everybody must think so, you know,’ said Tom, gently smoothing down her hair. ‘It’s matter of fact; not opinion. But what’s the matter?’ said Tom, looking at her more intently, ‘how flushed you are! and you have been crying.’

‘No, I have not, Tom.’

‘Nonsense,’ said her brother stoutly. ‘That’s a story. Don’t tell me! I know better. What is it, dear? I’m not with Mr Pecksniff now. I am going to try and settle myself in London; and if you are not happy here (as I very much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving me with the kindest and most affectionate intention) you shall not remain here.’

Oh! Tom’s blood was rising; mind that! Perhaps the Boar’s Head had something to do with it, but certainly the footman had. So had the sight of his pretty sister—a great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good deal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing. He began to think, ‘there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps,’ and by all the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in a most unusual tingle all at once!

‘We will talk about it, Tom,’ said Ruth, giving him another kiss to pacify him. ‘I am afraid I cannot stay here.’

‘Cannot!’ replied Tom. ‘Why then, you shall not, my love. Heyday! You are not an object of charity! Upon my word!’

Tom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a message from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him before he went, and with Miss Pinch also.

‘Show the way,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll wait upon him at once.’

Accordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of altercation had proceeded; and there they found a middle-aged gentleman, with a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady, with what may be termed an excisable face, or one in which starch and vinegar were decidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss Pinch, whom Mrs Todgers, on a previous occasion, had called a syrup, and who was now weeping and sobbing spitefully.

‘My brother, sir,’ said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. ‘You really are Miss Pinch’s brother, I presume? You will excuse my asking. I don’t observe any resemblance.’

‘Miss Pinch has a brother, I know,’ observed the lady.

‘Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother, when she ought to be engaged upon my education,’ sobbed the pupil.

‘Sophia! Hold your tongue!’ observed the gentleman. ‘Sit down, if you please,’ addressing Tom.

Tom sat down, looking from one face to another, in mute surprise.

‘Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch,’ pursued the gentleman, looking slightly over his shoulder.

Tom interrupted him here, by rising to place a chair for his sister. Having done which he sat down again.

‘I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister to-day, sir,’ resumed the brass-and-copper founder. ‘For although I do not approve, as a principle, of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity of a governess, receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well timed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with your sister.’

‘We are very much dissatisfied with her,’ observed the lady.

‘I’d never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death for it!’ sobbed the pupil.

‘Sophia!’ cried her father. ‘Hold your tongue!’

‘Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is?’ asked Tom.

‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I will. I don’t recognize it as a right; but I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding respect. It has been a constant source of difference between us. Although she has been in this family for some time, and although the young lady who is now present has almost, as it were, grown up under her tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has been perfectly unable to command my daughter’s respect, or to win my daughter’s confidence. Now,’ said the gentleman, allowing the palm of his hand to fall gravely down upon the table: ‘I maintain that there is something radically wrong in that! You, as her brother, may be disposed to deny it—’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am not at all disposed to deny it. I am sure that there is something radically wrong; radically monstrous, in that.’

‘Good Heavens!’ cried the gentleman, looking round the room with dignity, ‘what do I find to be the case! what results obtrude themselves upon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of Miss Pinch! What are my feelings as a father, when, after my desire (repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to deny) that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, genteel in her deportment, as becomes her station in life, and politely distant to her inferiors in society, I find her, only this very morning, addressing Miss Pinch herself as a beggar!’

‘A beggarly thing,’ observed the lady, in correction.

‘Which is worse,’ said the gentleman, triumphantly; ‘which is worse. A beggarly thing. A low, coarse, despicable expression!’

‘Most despicable,’ cried Tom. ‘I am glad to find that there is a just appreciation of it here.’

‘So just, sir,’ said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more impressive. ‘So just, that, but for my knowing Miss Pinch to be an unprotected young person, an orphan, and without friends, I would, as I assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character, a few minutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that moment and from that time.’

‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, rising from his seat; for he was now unable to contain himself any longer; ‘don’t allow such considerations as those to influence you, pray. They don’t exist, sir. She is not unprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!’

‘Oh, a pretty family!’ cried the lady. ‘Oh, he’s her brother! There’s no doubt about that!’

‘As little doubt, madam,’ said Tom, ‘as that the young lady yonder is the child of your teaching, and not my sister’s. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!’

‘When you say, young man,’ interposed the brass-and-copper founder, haughtily, ‘with that impertinence which is natural to you, and which I therefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my eldest daughter, has been educated by any one but Miss Pinch, you—I needn’t proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used to it.’

‘Sir!’ cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time. ‘If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do understand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing yourself in answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his children to respect what he degrades.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the gentleman. ‘Cant! cant! The common cant!’

‘The common story, sir!’ said Tom; ‘the story of a common mind. Your governess cannot win the confidence and respect of your children, forsooth! Let her begin by winning yours, and see what happens then.’

‘Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear?’ said the gentleman.

‘I trust she is,’ said Tom, forestalling the reply. ‘I have no doubt she is. In the meantime I address myself to you, sir. You made your statement to me, sir; you required to see me for that purpose; and I have a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent,’ said Tom, which was quite true, ‘though I can scarcely say as much for you, in your manner of addressing yourself to me. And I wish, on my sister’s behalf, to state the simple truth.’

‘You may state anything you like, young man,’ returned the gentleman, affecting to yawn. ‘My dear, Miss Pinch’s money.’

‘When you tell me,’ resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for keeping himself quiet, ‘that my sister has no innate power of commanding the respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so; and that she has. She is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature to command respect, as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house, how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?’

‘Pretty well! Upon my word,’ exclaimed the gentleman, ‘this is pretty well!’

‘It is very ill, sir,’ said Tom. ‘It is very bad and mean, and wrong and cruel. Respect! I believe young people are quick enough to observe and imitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects, and everybody slights? And very partial they must grow—oh, very partial!—to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in those same tasks has brought their governess! Respect! Put anything the most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which you place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!’

‘You speak with extreme impertinence, young man,’ observed the gentleman.

‘I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt for such a course of treatment, and for all who practice it,’ said Tom. ‘Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly and humble, when you are for ever telling her the same thing yourself in fifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very porter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers? As to your suspicion and distrust of her; even of her word; if she is not above their reach, you have no right to employ her.’

‘No right!’ cried the brass-and-copper founder.

‘Distinctly not,’ Tom answered. ‘If you imagine that the payment of an annual sum of money gives it to you, you immensely exaggerate its power and value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case. You may be punctual in that to half a second on the clock, and yet be Bankrupt. I have nothing more to say,’ said Tom, much flushed and flustered, now that it was over, ‘except to crave permission to stand in your garden until my sister is ready.’

Not waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out.

Before he had well begun to cool, his sister joined him. She was crying; and Tom could not bear that any one about the house should see her doing that.

‘They will think you are sorry to go,’ said Tom. ‘You are not sorry to go?’

‘No, Tom, no. I have been anxious to go for a very long time.’

‘Very well, then! Don’t cry!’ said Tom.

‘I am so sorry for you, dear,’ sobbed Tom’s sister.

‘But you ought to be glad on my account,’ said Tom. ‘I shall be twice as happy with you for a companion. Hold up your head. There! Now we go out as we ought. Not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in ourselves.’

The idea of Tom and his sister blustering, under any circumstances, was a splendid absurdity. But Tom was very far from feeling it to be so, in his excitement; and passed out at the gate with such severe determination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again.

It was not until they had walked some short distance, and Tom found himself getting cooler and more collected, that he was quite restored to himself by an inquiry from his sister, who said in her pleasant little voice:

‘Where are we going, Tom?’

‘Dear me!’ said Tom, stopping, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you—don’t you live anywhere, dear?’ asked Tom’s sister looking wistfully in his face.

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Not at present. Not exactly. I only arrived this morning. We must have some lodgings.’

He didn’t tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John, and could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom one was a young lady; for he knew that would make her uncomfortable, and would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him. Neither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John, and told him of this change in his arrangements; for he was delicate of seeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his friend. Therefore he said again, ‘We must have some lodgings, of course;’ and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect Directory and Guide-Book to all the lodgings in London.

‘Where shall we go and look for ‘em?’ said Tom. ‘What do you think?’

Tom’s sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she squeezed her little purse into his coat-pocket, and folding the little hand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she clasped his arm, said nothing.

‘It ought to be a cheap neighbourhood,’ said Tom, ‘and not too far from London. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place?’

‘I should think it was an excellent place, Tom.’

‘It used to be called Merry Islington, once upon a time,’ said Tom. ‘Perhaps it’s merry now; if so, it’s all the better. Eh?’

‘If it’s not too dear,’ said Tom’s sister.

‘Of course, if it’s not too dear,’ assented Tom. ‘Well, where is Islington? We can’t do better than go there, I should think. Let’s go.’

Tom’s sister would have gone anywhere with him; so they walked off, arm in arm, as comfortably as possible. Finding, presently, that Islington was not in that neighbourhood, Tom made inquiries respecting a public conveyance thither; which they soon obtained. As they rode along they were very full of conversation indeed, Tom relating what had happened to him, and Tom’s sister relating what had happened to her, and both finding a great deal more to say than time to say it in; for they had only just begun to talk, in comparison with what they had to tell each other, when they reached their journey’s end.

‘Now,’ said Tom, ‘we must first look out for some very unpretending streets, and then look out for bills in the windows.’

So they walked off again, quite as happily as if they had just stepped out of a snug little house of their own, to look for lodgings on account of somebody else. Tom’s simplicity was unabated, Heaven knows; but now that he had somebody to rely upon him, he was stimulated to rely a little more upon himself, and was, in his own opinion, quite a desperate fellow.

After roaming up and down for hours, looking at some scores of lodgings, they began to find it rather fatiguing, especially as they saw none which were at all adapted to their purpose. At length, however, in a singular little old-fashioned house, up a blind street, they discovered two small bedrooms and a triangular parlour, which promised to suit them well enough. Their desiring to take possession immediately was a suspicious circumstance, but even this was surmounted by the payment of their first week’s rent, and a reference to John Westlock, Esquire, Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn.

Ah! It was a goodly sight, when this important point was settled, to behold Tom and his sister trotting round to the baker’s, and the butcher’s, and the grocer’s, with a kind of dreadful delight in the unaccustomed cares of housekeeping; taking secret counsel together as they gave their small orders, and distracted by the least suggestion on the part of the shopkeeper! When they got back to the triangular parlour, and Tom’s sister, bustling to and fro, busy about a thousand pleasant nothings, stopped every now and then to give old Tom a kiss or smile upon him, Tom rubbed his hands as if all Islington were his.

It was late in the afternoon now, though, and high time for Tom to keep his appointment. So, after agreeing with his sister that in consideration of not having dined, they would venture on the extravagance of chops for supper at nine, he walked out again to narrate these marvellous occurrences to John.

‘I am quite a family man all at once,’ thought Tom. ‘If I can only get something to do, how comfortable Ruth and I may be! Ah, that if! But it’s of no use to despond. I can but do that, when I have tried everything and failed; and even then it won’t serve me much. Upon my word,’ thought Tom, quickening his pace, ‘I don’t know what John will think has become of me. He’ll begin to be afraid I have strayed into one of those streets where the countrymen are murdered; and that I have been made meat pies of, or some such horrible thing.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

TOM PINCH, GOING ASTRAY, FINDS THAT HE IS NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT PREDICAMENT. HE RETALIATES UPON A FALLEN FOE

Tom’s evil genius did not lead him into the dens of any of those preparers of cannibalic pastry, who are represented in many standard country legends as doing a lively retail business in the Metropolis; nor did it mark him out as the prey of ring-droppers, pea and thimble-riggers, duffers, touters, or any of those bloodless sharpers, who are, perhaps, a little better known to the Police. He fell into conversation with no gentleman who took him into a public-house, where there happened to be another gentleman who swore he had more money than any gentleman, and very soon proved he had more money than one gentleman by taking his away from him; neither did he fall into any other of the numerous man-traps which are set up without notice, in the public grounds of this city. But he lost his way. He very soon did that; and in trying to find it again he lost it more and more.

Now, Tom, in his guileless distrust of London, thought himself very knowing in coming to the determination that he would not ask to be directed to Furnival’s Inn, if he could help it; unless, indeed, he should happen to find himself near the Mint, or the Bank of England; in which case he would step in, and ask a civil question or two, confiding in the perfect respectability of the concern. So on he went, looking up all the streets he came near, and going up half of them; and thus, by dint of not being true to Goswell Street, and filing off into Aldermanbury, and bewildering himself in Barbican, and being constant to the wrong point of the compass in London Wall, and then getting himself crosswise into Thames Street, by an instinct that would have been marvellous if he had had the least desire or reason to go there, he found himself, at last, hard by the Monument.

The Man in the Monument was quite as mysterious a being to Tom as the Man in the Moon. It immediately occurred to him that the lonely creature who held himself aloof from all mankind in that pillar like some old hermit was the very man of whom to ask his way. Cold, he might be; little sympathy he had, perhaps, with human passion—the column seemed too tall for that; but if Truth didn’t live in the base of the Monument, notwithstanding Pope’s couplet about the outside of it, where in London (thought Tom) was she likely to be found!

Coming close below the pillar, it was a great encouragement to Tom to find that the Man in the Monument had simple tastes; that stony and artificial as his residence was, he still preserved some rustic recollections; that he liked plants, hung up bird-cages, was not wholly cut off from fresh groundsel, and kept young trees in tubs. The Man in the Monument, himself, was sitting outside the door—his own door: the Monument-door: what a grand idea!—and was actually yawning, as if there were no Monument to stop his mouth, and give him a perpetual interest in his own existence.

Tom was advancing towards this remarkable creature, to inquire the way to Furnival’s Inn, when two people came to see the Monument. They were a gentleman and a lady; and the gentleman said, ‘How much a-piece?’

The Man in the Monument replied, ‘A Tanner.’

It seemed a low expression, compared with the Monument.

The gentleman put a shilling into his hand, and the Man in the Monument opened a dark little door. When the gentleman and lady had passed out of view, he shut it again, and came slowly back to his chair.

He sat down and laughed.

‘They don’t know what a many steps there is!’ he said. ‘It’s worth twice the money to stop here. Oh, my eye!’

The Man in the Monument was a Cynic; a worldly man! Tom couldn’t ask his way of him. He was prepared to put no confidence in anything he said.

‘My gracious!’ cried a well-known voice behind Mr Pinch. ‘Why, to be sure it is!’

At the same time he was poked in the back by a parasol. Turning round to inquire into this salute, he beheld the eldest daughter of his late patron.

‘Miss Pecksniff!’ said Tom.

‘Why, my goodness, Mr Pinch!’ cried Cherry. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have rather wandered from my way,’ said Tom. ‘I—’

‘I hope you have run away,’ said Charity. ‘It would be quite spirited and proper if you had, when my Papa so far forgets himself.’

‘I have left him,’ returned Tom. ‘But it was perfectly understood on both sides. It was not done clandestinely.’

‘Is he married?’ asked Cherry, with a spasmodic shake of her chin.

‘No, not yet,’ said Tom, colouring; ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t think he is likely to be, if—if Miss Graham is the object of his passion.’

‘Tcha, Mr Pinch!’ cried Charity, with sharp impatience, ‘you’re very easily deceived. You don’t know the arts of which such a creature is capable. Oh! it’s a wicked world.’

‘You are not married?’ Tom hinted, to divert the conversation.

‘N—no!’ said Cherry, tracing out one particular paving-stone in Monument Yard with the end of her parasol. ‘I—but really it’s quite impossible to explain. Won’t you walk in?’

‘You live here, then?’ said Tom

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, pointing with her parasol to Todgers’s; ‘I reside with this lady, at present.’

The great stress on the two last words suggested to Tom that he was expected to say something in reference to them. So he said.

‘Only at present! Are you going home again soon?’

‘No, Mr Pinch,’ returned Charity. ‘No, thank you. No! A mother-in-law who is younger than—I mean to say, who is as nearly as possible about the same age as one’s self, would not quite suit my spirit. Not quite!’ said Cherry, with a spiteful shiver.

‘I thought from your saying “at present”’—Tom observed.

‘Really, upon my word! I had no idea you would press me so very closely on the subject, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, blushing, ‘or I should not have been so foolish as to allude to—oh really!—won’t you walk in?’

Tom mentioned, to excuse himself, that he had an appointment in Furnival’s Inn, and that coming from Islington he had taken a few wrong turnings, and arrived at the Monument instead. Miss Pecksniff simpered very much when he asked her if she knew the way to Furnival’s Inn, and at length found courage to reply.

‘A gentleman who is a friend of mine, or at least who is not exactly a friend so much as a sort of acquaintance—Oh upon my word, I hardly know what I say, Mr Pinch; you mustn’t suppose there is any engagement between us; or at least if there is, that it is at all a settled thing as yet—is going to Furnival’s Inn immediately, I believe upon a little business, and I am sure he would be very glad to accompany you, so as to prevent your going wrong again. You had better walk in. You will very likely find my sister Merry here,’ she said with a curious toss of her head, and anything but an agreeable smile.

‘Then, I think, I’ll endeavour to find my way alone,’ said Tom, ‘for I fear she would not be very glad to see me. That unfortunate occurrence, in relation to which you and I had some amicable words together, in private, is not likely to have impressed her with any friendly feeling towards me. Though it really was not my fault.’

‘She has never heard of that, you may depend,’ said Cherry, gathering up the corners of her mouth, and nodding at Tom. ‘I am far from sure that she would bear you any mighty ill will for it, if she had.’

‘You don’t say so?’ cried Tom, who was really concerned by this insinuation.

‘I say nothing,’ said Charity. ‘If I had not already known what shocking things treachery and deceit are in themselves, Mr Pinch, I might perhaps have learnt it from the success they meet with—from the success they meet with.’ Here she smiled as before. ‘But I don’t say anything. On the contrary, I should scorn it. You had better walk in!’

There was something hidden here, which piqued Tom’s interest and troubled his tender heart. When, in a moment’s irresolution, he looked at Charity, he could not but observe a struggle in her face between a sense of triumph and a sense of shame; nor could he but remark how, meeting even his eyes, which she cared so little for, she turned away her own, for all the splenetic defiance in her manner.

An uneasy thought entered Tom’s head; a shadowy misgiving that the altered relations between himself and Pecksniff were somehow to involve an altered knowledge on his part of other people, and were to give him an insight into much of which he had had no previous suspicion. And yet he put no definite construction upon Charity’s proceedings. He certainly had no idea that as he had been the audience and spectator of her mortification, she grasped with eager delight at any opportunity of reproaching her sister with his presence in her far deeper misery; for he knew nothing of it, and only pictured that sister as the same giddy, careless, trivial creature she always had been, with the same slight estimation of himself which she had never been at the least pains to conceal. In short, he had merely a confused impression that Miss Pecksniff was not quite sisterly or kind; and being curious to set it right, accompanied her as she desired.

The house-door being opened, she went in before Tom, requesting him to follow her; and led the way to the parlour door.

‘Oh, Merry!’ she said, looking in, ‘I am so glad you have not gone home. Who do you think I have met in the street, and brought to see you! Mr Pinch! There. Now you are surprised, I am sure!’

Not more surprised than Tom was, when he looked upon her. Not so much. Not half so much.

‘Mr Pinch has left Papa, my dear,’ said Cherry, ‘and his prospects are quite flourishing. I have promised that Augustus, who is going that way, shall escort him to the place he wants. Augustus, my child, where are you?’

With these words Miss Pecksniff screamed her way out of the parlour, calling on Augustus Moddle to appear; and left Tom Pinch alone with her sister.

If she had always been his kindest friend; if she had treated him through all his servitude with such consideration as was never yet received by struggling man; if she had lightened every moment of those many years, and had ever spared and never wounded him; his honest heart could not have swelled before her with a deeper pity, or a purer freedom from all base remembrance than it did then.

‘My gracious me! You are really the last person in the world I should have thought of seeing, I am sure!’

Tom was sorry to hear her speaking in her old manner. He had not expected that. Yet he did not feel it a contradiction that he should be sorry to see her so unlike her old self, and sorry at the same time to hear her speaking in her old manner. The two things seemed quite natural.

‘I wonder you find any gratification in coming to see me. I can’t think what put it in your head. I never had much in seeing you. There was no love lost between us, Mr Pinch, at any time, I think.’

Her bonnet lay beside her on the sofa, and she was very busy with the ribbons as she spoke. Much too busy to be conscious of the work her fingers did.

‘We never quarrelled,’ said Tom.—Tom was right in that, for one person can no more quarrel without an adversary, than one person can play at chess, or fight a duel. ‘I hoped you would be glad to shake hands with an old friend. Don’t let us rake up bygones,’ said Tom. ‘If I ever offended you, forgive me.’

She looked at him for a moment; dropped her bonnet from her hands; spread them before her altered face, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Mr Pinch!’ she said, ‘although I never used you well, I did believe your nature was forgiving. I did not think you could be cruel.’

She spoke as little like her old self now, for certain, as Tom could possibly have wished. But she seemed to be appealing to him reproachfully, and he did not understand her.

‘I seldom showed it—never—I know that. But I had that belief in you, that if I had been asked to name the person in the world least likely to retort upon me, I would have named you, confidently.’

‘Would have named me!’ Tom repeated.

‘Yes,’ she said with energy, ‘and I have often thought so.’

After a moment’s reflection, Tom sat himself upon a chair beside her.

‘Do you believe,’ said Tom, ‘oh, can you think, that what I said just now, I said with any but the true and plain intention which my words professed? I mean it, in the spirit and the letter. If I ever offended you, forgive me; I may have done so, many times. You never injured or offended me. How, then, could I possibly retort, if even I were stern and bad enough to wish to do it!’

After a little while she thanked him, through her tears and sobs, and told him she had never been at once so sorry and so comforted, since she left home. Still she wept bitterly; and it was the greater pain to Tom to see her weeping, from her standing in especial need, just then, of sympathy and tenderness.

‘Come, come!’ said Tom, ‘you used to be as cheerful as the day was long.’

‘Ah! used!’ she cried, in such a tone as rent Tom’s heart.

‘And will be again,’ said Tom.

‘No, never more. No, never, never more. If you should talk with old Mr Chuzzlewit, at any time,’ she added, looking hurriedly into his face—‘I sometimes thought he liked you, but suppressed it—will you promise me to tell him that you saw me here, and that I said I bore in mind the time we talked together in the churchyard?’

Tom promised that he would.

‘Many times since then, when I have wished I had been carried there before that day, I have recalled his words. I wish that he should know how true they were, although the least acknowledgment to that effect has never passed my lips and never will.’

Tom promised this, conditionally too. He did not tell her how improbable it was that he and the old man would ever meet again, because he thought it might disturb her more.

‘If he should ever know this, through your means, dear Mr Pinch,’ said Mercy, ‘tell him that I sent the message, not for myself, but that he might be more forbearing and more patient, and more trustful to some other person, in some other time of need. Tell him that if he could know how my heart trembled in the balance that day, and what a very little would have turned the scale, his own would bleed with pity for me.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom, ‘I will.’

‘When I appeared to him the most unworthy of his help, I was—I know I was, for I have often, often, thought about it since—the most inclined to yield to what he showed me. Oh! if he had relented but a little more; if he had thrown himself in my way for but one other quarter of an hour; if he had extended his compassion for a vain, unthinking, miserable girl, in but the least degree; he might, and I believe he would, have saved her! Tell him that I don’t blame him, but am grateful for the effort that he made; but ask him for the love of God, and youth, and in merciful consideration for the struggle which an ill-advised and unwakened nature makes to hide the strength it thinks its weakness—ask him never, never, to forget this, when he deals with one again!’

Although Tom did not hold the clue to her full meaning, he could guess it pretty nearly. Touched to the quick, he took her hand and said, or meant to say, some words of consolation. She felt and understood them, whether they were spoken or no. He was not quite certain, afterwards, but that she had tried to kneel down at his feet, and bless him.

He found that he was not alone in the room when she had left it. Mrs Todgers was there, shaking her head. Tom had never seen Mrs Todgers, it is needless to say, but he had a perception of her being the lady of the house; and he saw some genuine compassion in her eyes, that won his good opinion.

‘Ah, sir! You are an old friend, I see,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Yes,’ said Tom.

‘And yet,’ quoth Mrs Todgers, shutting the door softly, ‘she hasn’t told you what her troubles are, I’m certain.’

Tom was struck by these words, for they were quite true. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘she has not.’

‘And never would,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘if you saw her daily. She never makes the least complaint to me, or utters a single word of explanation or reproach. But I know,’ said Mrs Todgers, drawing in her breath, ‘I know!’

Tom nodded sorrowfully, ‘So do I.’

‘I fully believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, taking her pocket-handkerchief from the flat reticule, ‘that nobody can tell one half of what that poor young creature has to undergo. But though she comes here, constantly, to ease her poor full heart without his knowing it; and saying, “Mrs Todgers, I am very low to-day; I think that I shall soon be dead,” sits crying in my room until the fit is past; I know no more from her. And, I believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, putting back her handkerchief again, ‘that she considers me a good friend too.’

Mrs Todgers might have said her best friend. Commercial gentlemen and gravy had tried Mrs Todgers’s temper; the main chance—it was such a very small one in her case, that she might have been excused for looking sharp after it, lest it should entirely vanish from her sight—had taken a firm hold on Mrs Todgers’s attention. But in some odd nook in Mrs Todgers’s breast, up a great many steps, and in a corner easy to be overlooked, there was a secret door, with ‘Woman’ written on the spring, which, at a touch from Mercy’s hand, had flown wide open, and admitted her for shelter.

When boarding-house accounts are balanced with all other ledgers, and the books of the Recording Angel are made up for ever, perhaps there may be seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs Todgers, which shall make thee beautiful!

She was growing beautiful so rapidly in Tom’s eyes; for he saw that she was poor, and that this good had sprung up in her from among the sordid strivings of her life; that she might have been a very Venus in a minute more, if Miss Pecksniff had not entered with her friend.

‘Mr Thomas Pinch!’ said Charity, performing the ceremony of introduction with evident pride. ‘Mr Moddle. Where’s my sister?’

‘Gone, Miss Pecksniff,’ Mrs Todgers answered. ‘She had appointed to be home.’

‘Ah!’ said Charity, looking at Tom. ‘Oh, dear me!’

‘She’s greatly altered since she’s been Anoth—since she’s been married, Mrs Todgers!’ observed Moddle.

‘My dear Augustus!’ said Miss Pecksniff, in a low voice. ‘I verily believe you have said that fifty thousand times, in my hearing. What a Prose you are!’

This was succeeded by some trifling love passages, which appeared to originate with, if not to be wholly carried on by Miss Pecksniff. At any rate, Mr Moddle was much slower in his responses than is customary with young lovers, and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite oppressive.

He did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets, but sighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of cheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy.

‘Joy!’ cried Moddle. ‘Ha, ha!’

‘What an extraordinary young man!’ thought Tom.

‘The Scorner has not set his seal upon you. you care what becomes of you?’ said Moddle.

Tom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some interest.

‘I don’t,’ said Mr Moddle. ‘The Elements may have me when they please. I’m ready.’

Tom inferred from these, and other expressions of the same nature, that he was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course; which was such a gloomy one, that he felt a load removed from his mind when they parted company at the gate of Furnival’s Inn.

It was now a couple of hours past John Westlock’s dinner-time; and he was walking up and down the room, quite anxious for Tom’s safety. The table was spread; the wine was carefully decanted; and the dinner smelt delicious.

‘Why, Tom, old boy, where on earth have you been? Your box is here. Get your boots off instantly, and sit down!’

‘I am sorry to say I can’t stay, John,’ replied Tom Pinch, who was breathless with the haste he had made in running up the stairs.

‘Can’t stay!’

‘If you’ll go on with your dinner,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll tell you my reason the while. I mustn’t eat myself, or I shall have no appetite for the chops.’

‘There are no chops here, my food fellow.’

‘No. But there are at Islington,’ said Tom.

John Westlock was perfectly confounded by this reply, and vowed he would not touch a morsel until Tom had explained himself fully. So Tom sat down, and told him all; to which he listened with the greatest interest.

He knew Tom too well, and respected his delicacy too much, to ask him why he had taken these measures without communicating with him first. He quite concurred in the expediency of Tom’s immediately returning to his sister, as he knew so little of the place in which he had left her, and good-humouredly proposed to ride back with him in a cab, in which he might convey his box. Tom’s proposition that he should sup with them that night, he flatly rejected, but made an appointment with him for the morrow. ‘And now Tom,’ he said, as they rode along, ‘I have a question to ask you to which I expect a manly and straightforward answer. Do you want any money? I am pretty sure you do.’

‘I don’t indeed,’ said Tom.

‘I believe you are deceiving me.’

‘No. With many thanks to you, I am quite in earnest,’ Tom replied. ‘My sister has some money, and so have I. If I had nothing else, John, I have a five-pound note, which that good creature, Mrs Lupin, of the Dragon, handed up to me outside the coach, in a letter begging me to borrow it; and then drove off as hard as she could go.’

‘And a blessing on every dimple in her handsome face, say I!’ cried John, ‘though why you should give her the preference over me, I don’t know. Never mind. I bide my time, Tom.’

‘And I hope you’ll continue to bide it,’ returned Tom, gayly. ‘For I owe you more, already, in a hundred other ways, than I can ever hope to pay.’

They parted at the door of Tom’s new residence. John Westlock, sitting in the cab, and, catching a glimpse of a blooming little busy creature darting out to kiss Tom and to help him with his box, would not have had the least objection to change places with him.

Well! she was a cheerful little thing; and had a quaint, bright quietness about her that was infinitely pleasant. Surely she was the best sauce for chops ever invented. The potatoes seemed to take a pleasure in sending up their grateful steam before her; the froth upon the pint of porter pouted to attract her notice. But it was all in vain. She saw nothing but Tom. Tom was the first and last thing in the world.

As she sat opposite to Tom at supper, fingering one of Tom’s pet tunes upon the table-cloth, and smiling in his face, he had never been so happy in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SECRET SERVICE

In walking from the city with his sentimental friend, Tom Pinch had looked into the face, and brushed against the threadbare sleeve, of Mr Nadgett, man of mystery to the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company. Mr Nadgett naturally passed away from Tom’s remembrance as he passed out of his view; for he didn’t know him, and had never heard his name.

As there are a vast number of people in the huge metropolis of England who rise up every morning not knowing where their heads will rest at night, so there are a multitude who shooting arrows over houses as their daily business, never know on whom they fall. Mr Nadgett might have passed Tom Pinch ten thousand times; might even have been quite familiar with his face, his name, pursuits, and character; yet never once have dreamed that Tom had any interest in any act or mystery of his. Tom might have done the like by him of course. But the same private man out of all the men alive, was in the mind of each at the same moment; was prominently connected though in a different manner, with the day’s adventures of both; and formed, when they passed each other in the street, the one absorbing topic of their thoughts.

Why Tom had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his mind requires no explanation. Why Mr Nadgett should have had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his, is quite another thing.

But, somehow or other, that amiable and worthy orphan had become a part of the mystery of Mr Nadgett’s existence. Mr Nadgett took an interest in his lightest proceedings; and it never flagged or wavered. He watched him in and out of the Assurance Office, where he was now formally installed as a Director; he dogged his footsteps in the streets; he stood listening when he talked; he sat in coffee-rooms entering his name in the great pocket-book, over and over again; he wrote letters to himself about him constantly; and, when he found them in his pocket, put them in the fire, with such distrust and caution that he would bend down to watch the crumpled tinder while it floated upwards, as if his mind misgave him, that the mystery it had contained might come out at the chimney-pot.

And yet all this was quite a secret. Mr Nadgett kept it to himself, and kept it close. Jonas had no more idea that Mr Nadgett’s eyes were fixed on him, than he had that he was living under the daily inspection and report of a whole order of Jesuits. Indeed Mr Nadgett’s eyes were seldom fixed on any other objects than the ground, the clock, or the fire; but every button on his coat might have been an eye, he saw so much.

The secret manner of the man disarmed suspicion in this wise; suggesting, not that he was watching any one, but that he thought some other man was watching him. He went about so stealthily, and kept himself so wrapped up in himself, that the whole object of his life appeared to be, to avoid notice and preserve his own mystery. Jonas sometimes saw him in the street, hovering in the outer office, waiting at the door for the man who never came, or slinking off with his immovable face and drooping head, and the one beaver glove dangling before him; but he would as soon have thought of the cross upon the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral taking note of what he did, or slowly winding a great net about his feet, as of Nadgett’s being engaged in such an occupation.

Mr Nadgett made a mysterious change about this time in his mysterious life: for whereas he had, until now, been first seen every morning coming down Cornhill, so exactly like the Nadgett of the day before as to occasion a popular belief that he never went to bed or took his clothes off, he was now first seen in Holborn, coming out of Kingsgate Street; and it was soon discovered that he actually went every morning to a barber’s shop in that street to get shaved; and that the barber’s name was Sweedlepipe. He seemed to make appointments with the man who never came, to meet him at this barber’s; for he would frequently take long spells of waiting in the shop, and would ask for pen and ink, and pull out his pocket-book, and be very busy over it for an hour at a time. Mrs Gamp and Mr Sweedlepipe had many deep discoursings on the subject of this mysterious customer; but they usually agreed that he had speculated too much and was keeping out of the way.

He must have appointed the man who never kept his word, to meet him at another new place too; for one day he was found, for the first time, by the waiter at the Mourning Coach-Horse, the House-of-call for Undertakers, down in the City there, making figures with a pipe-stem in the sawdust of a clean spittoon; and declining to call for anything, on the ground of expecting a gentleman presently. As the gentleman was not honourable enough to keep his engagement, he came again next day, with his pocket-book in such a state of distention that he was regarded in the bar as a man of large property. After that, he repeated his visits every day, and had so much writing to do, that he made nothing of emptying a capacious leaden inkstand in two sittings. Although he never talked much, still, by being there among the regular customers, he made their acquaintance, and in course of time became quite intimate with Mr Tacker, Mr Mould’s foreman; and even with Mr Mould himself, who openly said he was a long-headed man, a dry one, a salt fish, a deep file, a rasper; and made him the subject of many other flattering encomiums.

At the same time, too, he told the people at the Assurance Office, in his own mysterious way, that there was something wrong (secretly wrong, of course) in his liver, and that he feared he must put himself under the doctor’s hands. He was delivered over to Jobling upon this representation; and though Jobling could not find out where his liver was wrong, wrong Mr Nadgett said it was; observing that it was his own liver, and he hoped he ought to know. Accordingly, he became Mr Jobling’s patient; and detailing his symptoms in his slow and secret way, was in and out of that gentleman’s room a dozen times a day.

As he pursued all these occupations at once; and all steadily; and all secretly; and never slackened in his watchfulness of everything that Mr Jonas said and did, and left unsaid and undone; it is not improbable that they were, secretly, essential parts of some great scheme which Mr Nadgett had on foot.

It was on the morning of this very day on which so much had happened to Tom Pinch, that Nadgett suddenly appeared before Mr Montague’s house in Pall Mall—he always made his appearance as if he had that moment come up a trap—when the clocks were striking nine. He rang the bell in a covert under-handed way, as though it were a treasonable act; and passed in at the door, the moment it was opened wide enough to receive his body. That done, he shut it immediately with his own hands.

Mr Bailey, taking up his name without delay, returned with a request that he would follow him into his master’s chamber. The chairman of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board was dressing, and received him as a business person who was often backwards and forwards, and was received at all times for his business’ sake.

‘Well, Mr Nadgett?’

Mr Nadgett put his hat upon the ground and coughed. The boy having withdrawn and shut the door, he went to it softly, examined the handle, and returned to within a pace or two of the chair in which Mr Montague sat.

‘Any news, Mr Nadgett?’

‘I think we have some news at last, sir.’

‘I am happy to hear it. I began to fear you were off the scent, Mr Nadgett.’

‘No, sir. It grows cold occasionally. It will sometimes. We can’t help that.’

‘You are truth itself, Mr Nadgett. Do you report a great success?’

‘That depends upon your judgment and construction of it,’ was his answer, as he put on his spectacles.

‘What do you think of it yourself? Have you pleased yourself?’

Mr Nadgett rubbed his hands slowly, stroked his chin, looked round the room, and said, ‘Yes, yes, I think it’s a good case. I am disposed to think it’s a good case. Will you go into it at once?’

‘By all means.’

Mr Nadgett picked out a certain chair from among the rest, and having planted it in a particular spot, as carefully as if he had been going to vault over it, placed another chair in front of it; leaving room for his own legs between them. He then sat down in chair number two, and laid his pocket-book, very carefully, on chair number one. He then untied the pocket-book, and hung the string over the back of chair number one. He then drew both the chairs a little nearer Mr Montague, and opening the pocket-book spread out its contents. Finally he selected a certain memorandum from the rest, and held it out to his employer, who, during the whole of these preliminary ceremonies, had been making violent efforts to conceal his impatience.

‘I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of making notes, my excellent friend,’ said Tigg Montague with a ghastly smile. ‘I wish you would consent to give me their purport by word of mouth.’

‘I don’t like word of mouth,’ said Mr Nadgett gravely. ‘We never know who’s listening.’

Mr Montague was going to retort, when Nadgett handed him the paper, and said, with quiet exultation in his tone, ‘We’ll begin at the beginning, and take that one first, if you please, sir.’

The chairman cast his eyes upon it, coldly, and with a smile which did not render any great homage to the slow and methodical habits of his spy. But he had not read half-a-dozen lines when the expression of his face began to change, and before he had finished the perusal of the paper, it was full of grave and serious attention.

‘Number Two,’ said Mr Nadgett, handing him another, and receiving back the first. ‘Read Number Two, sir, if you please. There is more interest as you go on.’

Tigg Montague leaned backward in his chair, and cast upon his emissary such a look of vacant wonder (not unmingled with alarm), that Mr Nadgett considered it necessary to repeat the request he had already twice preferred; with the view to recalling his attention to the point in hand. Profiting by the hint, Mr Montague went on with Number Two, and afterwards with Numbers Three, and Four, and Five, and so on.

These documents were all in Mr Nadgett’s writing, and were apparently a series of memoranda, jotted down from time to time upon the backs of old letters, or any scrap of paper that came first to hand. Loose straggling scrawls they were, and of very uninviting exterior; but they had weighty purpose in them, if the chairman’s face were any index to the character of their contents.

The progress of Mr Nadgett’s secret satisfaction arising out of the effect they made, kept pace with the emotions of the reader. At first, Mr Nadgett sat with his spectacles low down upon his nose, looking over them at his employer, and nervously rubbing his hands. After a little while, he changed his posture in his chair for one of greater ease, and leisurely perused the next document he held ready as if an occasional glance at his employer’s face were now enough and all occasion for anxiety or doubt were gone. And finally he rose and looked out of the window, where he stood with a triumphant air until Tigg Montague had finished.

‘And this is the last, Mr Nadgett!’ said that gentleman, drawing a long breath.

‘That, sir, is the last.’

‘You are a wonderful man, Mr Nadgett!’

‘I think it is a pretty good case,’ he returned as he gathered up his papers. ‘It cost some trouble, sir.’

‘The trouble shall be well rewarded, Mr Nadgett.’ Nadgett bowed. ‘There is a deeper impression of Somebody’s Hoof here, than I had expected, Mr Nadgett. I may congratulate myself upon your being such a good hand at a secret.’

‘Oh! nothing has an interest to me that’s not a secret,’ replied Nadgett, as he tied the string about his pocket-book, and put it up. ‘It always takes away any pleasure I may have had in this inquiry even to make it known to you.’

‘A most invaluable constitution,’ Tigg retorted. ‘A great gift for a gentleman employed as you are, Mr Nadgett. Much better than discretion; though you possess that quality also in an eminent degree. I think I heard a double knock. Will you put your head out of window, and tell me whether there is anybody at the door?’

Mr Nadgett softly raised the sash, and peered out from the very corner, as a man might who was looking down into a street from whence a brisk discharge of musketry might be expected at any moment. Drawing in his head with equal caution, he observed, not altering his voice or manner:

‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit!’

‘I thought so,’ Tigg retorted.

‘Shall I go?’

‘I think you had better. Stay though! No! remain here, Mr Nadgett, if you please.’

It was remarkable how pale and flurried he had become in an instant. There was nothing to account for it. His eye had fallen on his razors; but what of them!

Mr Chuzzlewit was announced.

‘Show him up directly. Nadgett! don’t you leave us alone together. Mind you don’t, now! By the Lord!’ he added in a whisper to himself: ‘We don’t know what may happen.’

Saying this, he hurriedly took up a couple of hair-brushes, and began to exercise them on his own head, as if his toilet had not been interrupted. Mr Nadgett withdrew to the stove, in which there was a small fire for the convenience of heating curling-irons; and taking advantage of so favourable an opportunity for drying his pocket-handkerchief, produced it without loss of time. There he stood, during the whole interview, holding it before the bars, and sometimes, but not often, glancing over his shoulder.

‘My dear Chuzzlewit!’ cried Montague, as Jonas entered. ‘You rise with the lark. Though you go to bed with the nightingale, you rise with the lark. You have superhuman energy, my dear Chuzzlewit!’

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, with an air of langour and ill-humour, as he took a chair, ‘I should be very glad not to get up with the lark, if I could help it. But I am a light sleeper; and it’s better to be up than lying awake, counting the dismal old church-clocks, in bed.’

‘A light sleeper!’ cried his friend. ‘Now, what is a light sleeper? I often hear the expression, but upon my life I have not the least conception what a light sleeper is.’

‘Hallo!’ said Jonas, ‘Who’s that? Oh, old what’s-his-name: looking (as usual) as if he wanted to skulk up the chimney.’

‘Ha, ha! I have no doubt he does.’

‘Well! He’s not wanted here, I suppose,’ said Jonas. ‘He may go, mayn’t he?’

‘Oh, let him stay, let him stay!’ said Tigg. ‘He’s a mere piece of furniture. He has been making his report, and is waiting for further orders. He has been told,’ said Tigg, raising his voice, ‘not to lose sight of certain friends of ours, or to think that he has done with them by any means. He understands his business.’

‘He need,’ replied Jonas; ‘for of all the precious old dummies in appearance that I ever saw, he’s about the worst. He’s afraid of me, I think.’

‘It’s my belief,’ said Tigg, ‘that you are Poison to him. Nadgett! give me that towel!’

He had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start. But Nadgett brought it quickly; and, having lingered for a moment, fell back upon his old post by the fire.

‘You see, my dear fellow,’ resumed Tigg, ‘you are too—what’s the matter with your lips? How white they are!’

‘I took some vinegar just now,’ said Jonas. ‘I had oysters for my breakfast. Where are they white?’ he added, muttering an oath, and rubbing them upon his handkerchief. ‘I don’t believe they are white.’

‘Now I look again, they are not,’ replied his friend. ‘They are coming right again.’

‘Say what you were going to say,’ cried Jonas angrily, ‘and let my face be! As long as I can show my teeth when I want to (and I can do that pretty well), the colour of my lips is not material.’

‘Quite true,’ said Tigg. ‘I was only going to say that you are too quick and active for our friend. He is too shy to cope with such a man as you, but does his duty well. Oh, very well! But what is a light sleeper?’

‘Hang a light sleeper!’ exclaimed Jonas pettishly.

‘No, no,’ interrupted Tigg. ‘No. We’ll not do that.’

‘A light sleeper ain’t a heavy one,’ said Jonas in his sulky way; ‘don’t sleep much, and don’t sleep well, and don’t sleep sound.’

‘And dreams,’ said Tigg, ‘and cries out in an ugly manner; and when the candle burns down in the night, is in an agony; and all that sort of thing. I see!’

They were silent for a little time. Then Jonas spoke:

‘Now we’ve done with child’s talk, I want to have a word with you. I want to have a word with you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not satisfied with the state of affairs.’

‘Not satisfied!’ cried Tigg. ‘The money comes in well.’

‘The money comes in well enough,’ retorted Jonas, ‘but it don’t come out well enough. It can’t be got at easily enough. I haven’t sufficient power; it is all in your hands. Ecod! what with one of your by-laws, and another of your by-laws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes in that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights, and other people’s rights who are only you again, there are no rights left for me. Everybody else’s rights are my wrongs. What’s the use of my having a voice if it’s always drowned? I might as well be dumb, and it would be much less aggravating. I’m not a-going to stand that, you know.’

‘No!’ said Tigg in an insinuating tone.

‘No!’ returned Jonas, ‘I’m not indeed. I’ll play old Gooseberry with the office, and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure, if you try any of your tricks with me.’

‘I give you my honour—’ Montague began.

‘Oh! confound your honour,’ interrupted Jonas, who became more coarse and quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of Mr Montague’s intention; ‘I want a little more control over the money. You may have all the honour, if you like; I’ll never bring you to book for that. But I’m not a-going to stand it, as it is now. If you should take it into your honourable head to go abroad with the bank, I don’t see much to prevent you. Well! That won’t do. I’ve had some very good dinners here, but they’d come too dear on such terms; and therefore, that won’t do.’

‘I am unfortunate to find you in this humour,’ said Tigg, with a remarkable kind of smile; ‘for I was going to propose to you—for your own advantage; solely for your own advantage—that you should venture a little more with us.’

‘Was you, by G—?’ said Jonas, with a short laugh.

‘Yes. And to suggest,’ pursued Montague, ‘that surely you have friends; indeed, I know you have; who would answer our purpose admirably, and whom we should be delighted to receive.’

‘How kind of you! You’d be delighted to receive ‘em, would you?’ said Jonas, bantering.

‘I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends, observe!’

‘Exactly,’ said Jonas; ‘as my friends, of course. You’ll be very much delighted when you get ‘em, I have no doubt. And it’ll be all to my advantage, won’t it?’

‘It will be very much to your advantage,’ answered Montague poising a brush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. ‘It will be very much to your advantage, I assure you.’

‘And you can tell me how,’ said Jonas, ‘can’t you?’

‘Shall I tell you how?’ returned the other.

‘I think you had better,’ said Jonas. ‘Strange things have been done in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to take care of myself.’

‘Chuzzlewit!’ replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his knees, and looking full into his face. ‘Strange things have been done, and are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other ways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend, is a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the knowledge of very strange events.’

He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his ear.

From red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last he laid his hand upon the whisperer’s mouth, appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.

He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject, crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.

His companion leisurely resumed his dressing, and completed it, glancing sometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never speaking once.

‘You’ll not object,’ he said, when he was quite equipped, ‘to venture further with us, Chuzzlewit, my friend?’

His pale lips faintly stammered out a ‘No.’

‘Well said! That’s like yourself. Do you know I was thinking yesterday that your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great sagacity in money matters, as no doubt you are, would join us, if the thing were well presented to him. He has money?’

‘Yes, he has money.’

‘Shall I leave Mr Pecksniff to you? Will you undertake for Mr Pecksniff.’

‘I’ll try. I’ll do my best.’

‘A thousand thanks,’ replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder. ‘Shall we walk downstairs? Mr Nadgett! Follow us, if you please.’

They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to Montague; whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped, and having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts came crowding on his mind even at that early time, of one terrible chance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; he no more thought that the slinking figure half-a-dozen stairs behind him was his pursuing Fate, than that the other figure at his side was his Good Angel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE PINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM

Pleasant little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth! No doll’s house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress, than little Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular parlour and the two small bedrooms.

To be Tom’s housekeeper. What dignity! Housekeeping, upon the commonest terms, associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and kinds; but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of the little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar; and out of the two little damp cupboards down by the fireplace, where the very black beetles got mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their backs by envious mildew; and jingle them upon a ring before Tom’s eyes when he came down to breakfast! Well might she, laughing musically, put them up in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride! For it was such a grand novelty to be mistress of anything, that if she had been the most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might have pleaded just that much for her excuse, and have been honourably acquitted.

So far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very way of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when she asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered out ‘chops’ as a reasonably good suggestion after their last night’s successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her desperately.

‘I don’t know, Tom,’ said his sister, blushing, ‘I am not quite confident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried, Tom.’

‘In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so much as a beef-steak pudding!’ cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the greater force to this reply.

‘Yes, dear, that’s excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite right the first time,’ his sister faltered; ‘if it should happen not to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or something of that sort, you’ll not be vexed, Tom, will you?’

The serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked at her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at her own expense, would have enchanted you.

‘Why,’ said Tom ‘this is capital. It gives us a new, and quite an uncommon interest in the dinner. We put into a lottery for a beefsteak pudding, and it is impossible to say what we may get. We may make some wonderful discovery, perhaps, and produce such a dish as never was known before.’

‘I shall not be at all surprised if we do, Tom,’ returned his sister, still laughing merrily, ‘or if it should prove to be such a dish as we shall not feel very anxious to produce again; but the meat must come out of the saucepan at last, somehow or other, you know. We can’t cook it into nothing at all; that’s a great comfort. So if you like to venture, I will.’

‘I have not the least doubt,’ rejoined Tom, ‘that it will come out an excellent pudding, or at all events, I am sure that I shall think it so. There is naturally something so handy and brisk about you, Ruth, that if you said you could make a bowl of faultless turtle soup, I should believe you.’

And Tom was right. She was precisely that sort of person. Nobody ought to have been able to resist her coaxing manner; and nobody had any business to try. Yet she never seemed to know it was her manner at all. That was the best of it.

Well! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time, and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-copper founder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat as herself;—you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers though, or anything like it—and brushed Tom’s old hat round and round and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr Pecksniff. Then she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom’s shirt-collar was frayed at the edge; and flying upstairs for a needle and thread, came flying down again with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness; never once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming his pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of her left hand upon his neckcloth. She had no sooner done this, than off she was again; and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a bee, tying that compact little chin of hers into an equally compact little bonnet; intent on bustling out to the butcher’s, without a minute’s loss of time; and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut, with his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they trotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy situation.

To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was agreeable, too—it really was—to see him cut it off, so smooth and juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.

Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him; ‘for meat,’ he said with some emotion, ‘must be humoured, not drove.’

Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs, and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household drudgery, they waited on themselves.

‘What are you writing, Tom?’ inquired his sister, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

‘Why, you see, my dear,’ said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and looking up in her face, ‘I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some suitable employment; and before Mr Westlock comes this afternoon, I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my qualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.’

‘You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,’ said his sister, casting down her eyes. ‘I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care of you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.’

‘We are not rich,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly; and we may be much poorer. But we will not part if we can help it. No, no; we will make up our minds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will battle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together. Don’t you think we shall?’

‘Think, Tom!’

‘Oh, tut, tut!’ interposed Tom, tenderly. ‘You mustn’t cry.’

‘No, no; I won’t, Tom. But you can’t afford it, dear. You can’t, indeed.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Tom. ‘How are we to know that, yet awhile, and without trying? Lord bless my soul!’—Tom’s energy became quite grand—‘there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am sure we can live contentedly upon a very little—if we can only get it.’

‘Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.’

‘Why, then,’ said Tom, ‘we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I’ll take his advice. We’ll talk it over with him—both of us together. You’ll like John very much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don’t cry, don’t cry. You make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!’ said Tom, giving her a gentle push. ‘Why, you haven’t boldness enough for a dumpling!’

‘You will call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!’

‘I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,’ said Tom. ‘Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?’

Aye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that Tom’s attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she tripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the pepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and laughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were collected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran upstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn’t put it on upstairs, but came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little women to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down beneath—Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!—and to be gathered up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set right, which at last it did, and when it did—but never mind; this is a sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which wouldn’t come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these preparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under her dark eyelashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and indispensable to its composition.

For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his writing than, ‘A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,’ and this, notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon her.

‘Tom,’ she said at last, in high glee. ‘Tom!’

‘What now?’ said Tom, repeating to himself, ‘aged thirty-five!’

‘Will you look here a moment, please?’

As if he hadn’t been looking all the time!

‘I am going to begin, Tom. Don’t you wonder why I butter the inside of the basin?’ said his busy little sister.

‘Not more than you do, I dare say,’ replied Tom, laughing. ‘For I believe you don’t know anything about it.’

‘What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out easily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to know that! My goodness, Tom!’

It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out ‘respectable young man, aged thirty-five;’ and sat looking on, pen in hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.

Such a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance and trying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a perfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the rim, chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and salt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for gravy, and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her gravity should be disturbed; until, at last, the basin being quite full and only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands all covered with paste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming little laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other seasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.

‘Where’s the pudding?’ said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.

‘Where!’ she answered, holding it up with both hands. ‘Look at it!’

‘That a pudding!’ said Tom.

‘It will be, you stupid fellow, when it’s covered in,’ returned his sister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on the head with the rolling-pin, and still laughing merrily, had returned to the composition of the top crust, when she started and turned very red. Tom started, too, for following her eyes, he saw John Westlock in the room.

‘Why, my goodness, John! How did you come in?’

‘I beg pardon,’ said John—’ your sister’s pardon especially—but I met an old lady at the street door, who requested me to enter here; and as you didn’t hear me knock, and the door was open, I made bold to do so. I hardly know,’ said John, with a smile, ‘why any of us should be disconcerted at my having accidentally intruded upon such an agreeable domestic occupation, so very agreeably and skillfully pursued; but I must confess that I am. Tom, will you kindly come to my relief?’

‘Mr John Westlock,’ said Tom. ‘My sister.’

‘I hope that, as the sister of so old a friend,’ said John, laughing ‘you will have the goodness to detach your first impressions of me from my unfortunate entrance.’

‘My sister is not indisposed perhaps to say the same to you on her own behalf,’ retorted Tom.

John said, of course, that this was quite unnecessary, for he had been transfixed in silent admiration; and he held out his hand to Miss Pinch; who couldn’t take it, however, by reason of the flour and paste upon her own. This, which might seem calculated to increase the general confusion and render matters worse, had in reality the best effect in the world, for neither of them could help laughing; and so they both found themselves on easy terms immediately.

‘I am delighted to see you,’ said Tom. ‘Sit down.’

‘I can only think of sitting down on one condition,’ returned his friend; ‘and that is, that your sister goes on with the pudding, as if you were still alone.’

‘That I am sure she will,’ said Tom. ‘On one other condition, and that is, that you stay and help us to eat it.’

Poor little Ruth was seized with a palpitation of the heart when Tom committed this appalling indiscretion, for she felt that if the dish turned out a failure, she never would be able to hold up her head before John Westlock again. Quite unconscious of her state of mind, John accepted the invitation with all imaginable heartiness; and after a little more pleasantry concerning this same pudding, and the tremendous expectations he made believe to entertain of it, she blushingly resumed her occupation, and he took a chair.

‘I am here much earlier than I intended, Tom; but I will tell you, what brings me, and I think I can answer for your being glad to hear it. Is that anything you wish to show me?’

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Tom, who had forgotten the blotted scrap of paper in his hand, until this inquiry brought it to his recollection. ‘“A respectable young man, aged thirty-five”—The beginning of a description of myself. That’s all.’

‘I don’t think you will have occasion to finish it, Tom. But how is it you never told me you had friends in London?’

Tom looked at his sister with all his might; and certainly his sister looked with all her might at him.

‘Friends in London!’ echoed Tom.

‘Ah!’ said Westlock, ‘to be sure.’

‘Have you any friends in London, Ruth, my dear!’ asked Tom.

‘No, Tom.’

‘I am very happy to hear that I have,’ said Tom, ‘but it’s news to me. I never knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John.’

‘You shall judge for yourself,’ returned the other. ‘Seriously, Tom, here is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this morning, there comes a knock at my door.’

‘On which you cried out, very loud, “Come in!”’ suggested Tom.

‘So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young man, aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited, instead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well! When he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like, sedate-looking, stranger. “Mr Westlock?” said he. “That is my name,” said I. “The favour of a few words with you?” said he. “Pray be seated, sir,” said I.’

Here John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where Tom’s sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin, which by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:

‘The pudding having taken a chair, Tom—’

‘What!’ cried Tom.

‘Having taken a chair.’

‘You said a pudding.’

‘No, no,’ replied John, colouring rather; ‘a chair. The idea of a stranger coming into my rooms at half-past eight o’clock in the morning, and taking a pudding! Having taken a chair, Tom, a chair—amazed me by opening the conversation thus: “I believe you are acquainted, sir, with Mr Thomas Pinch?”

‘No!’ cried Tom.

‘His very words, I assure you. I told him I was. Did I know where you were at present residing? Yes. In London? Yes. He had casually heard, in a roundabout way, that you had left your situation with Mr Pecksniff. Was that the fact? Yes, it was. Did you want another? Yes, you did.’

‘Certainly,’ said Tom, nodding his head.

‘Just what I impressed upon him. You may rest assured that I set that point beyond the possibility of any mistake, and gave him distinctly to understand that he might make up his mind about it. Very well.’

“Then,” said he, “I think I can accommodate him.”’

Tom’s sister stopped short.

‘Lord bless me!’ cried Tom. ‘Ruth, my dear, “think I can accommodate him.”’

‘Of course I begged him,’ pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom’s sister, who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, ‘to proceed, and said that I would undertake to see you immediately. He replied that he had very little to say, being a man of few words, but such as it was, it was to the purpose—and so, indeed, it turned out—for he immediately went on to tell me that a friend of his was in want of a kind of secretary and librarian; and that although the salary was small, being only a hundred pounds a year, with neither board nor lodging, still the duties were not heavy, and there the post was. Vacant, and ready for your acceptance.’

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom; ‘a hundred pounds a year! My dear John! Ruth, my love! A hundred pounds a year!’

‘But the strangest part of the story,’ resumed John Westlock, laying his hand on Tom’s wrist, to bespeak his attention, and repress his ecstasies for the moment; ‘the strangest part of the story, Miss Pinch, is this. I don’t know this man from Adam; neither does this man know Tom.’

‘He can’t,’ said Tom, in great perplexity, ‘if he’s a Londoner. I don’t know any one in London.’

‘And on my observing,’ John resumed, still keeping his hand upon Tom’s wrist, ‘that I had no doubt he would excuse the freedom I took in inquiring who directed him to me; how he came to know of the change which had taken place in my friend’s position; and how he came to be acquainted with my friend’s peculiar fitness for such an office as he had described; he drily said that he was not at liberty to enter into any explanations.’

‘Not at liberty to enter into any explanations!’ repeated Tom, drawing a long breath.

‘“I must be perfectly aware,” he said,’ John added, ‘“that to any person who had ever been in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, Mr Thomas Pinch and his acquirements were as well known as the Church steeple, or the Blue Dragon.”’

‘The Blue Dragon!’ repeated Tom, staring alternately at his friend and his sister.

‘Aye, think of that! He spoke as familiarly of the Blue Dragon, I give you my word, as if he had been Mark Tapley. I opened my eyes, I can tell you, when he did so; but I could not fancy I had ever seen the man before, although he said with a smile, “You know the Blue Dragon, Mr Westlock; you kept it up there, once or twice, yourself.” Kept it up there! So I did. You remember, Tom?’

Tom nodded with great significance, and, falling into a state of deeper perplexity than before, observed that this was the most unaccountable and extraordinary circumstance he had ever heard of in his life.

‘Unaccountable?’ his friend repeated. ‘I became afraid of the man. Though it was broad day, and bright sunshine, I was positively afraid of him. I declare I half suspected him to be a supernatural visitor, and not a mortal, until he took out a common-place description of pocket-book, and handed me this card.’

‘Mr Fips,’ said Tom, reading it aloud. ‘Austin Friars. Austin Friars sounds ghostly, John.’

‘Fips don’t, I think,’ was John’s reply. ‘But there he lives, Tom, and there he expects us to call this morning. And now you know as much of this strange incident as I do, upon my honour.’

Tom’s face, between his exultation in the hundred pounds a year, and his wonder at this narration, was only to be equalled by the face of his sister, on which there sat the very best expression of blooming surprise that any painter could have wished to see. What the beef-steak pudding would have come to, if it had not been by this time finished, astrology itself could hardly determine.

‘Tom,’ said Ruth, after a little hesitation, ‘perhaps Mr Westlock, in his friendship for you, knows more of this than he chooses to tell.’

‘No, indeed!’ cried John, eagerly. ‘It is not so, I assure you. I wish it were. I cannot take credit to myself, Miss Pinch, for any such thing. All that I know, or, so far as I can judge, am likely to know, I have told you.’

‘Couldn’t you know more, if you thought proper?’ said Ruth, scraping the pie-board industriously.

‘No,’ retorted John. ‘Indeed, no. It is very ungenerous in you to be so suspicious of me when I repose implicit faith in you. I have unbounded confidence in the pudding, Miss Pinch.’

She laughed at this, but they soon got back into a serious vein, and discussed the subject with profound gravity. Whatever else was obscure in the business, it appeared to be quite plain that Tom was offered a salary of one hundred pounds a year; and this being the main point, the surrounding obscurity rather set it off than otherwise.

Tom, being in a great flutter, wished to start for Austin Friars instantly, but they waited nearly an hour, by John’s advice, before they departed. Tom made himself as spruce as he could before leaving home, and when John Westlock, through the half-opened parlour door, had glimpses of that brave little sister brushing the collar of his coat in the passage, taking up loose stitches in his gloves and hovering lightly about and about him, touching him up here and there in the height of her quaint, little, old-fashioned tidiness, he called to mind the fancy-portraits of her on the wall of the Pecksniffian workroom, and decided with uncommon indignation that they were gross libels, and not half pretty enough; though, as hath been mentioned in its place, the artists always made those sketches beautiful, and he had drawn at least a score of them with his own hands.

‘Tom,’ he said, as they were walking along, ‘I begin to think you must be somebody’s son.’

‘I suppose I am,’ Tom answered in his quiet way.

‘But I mean somebody’s of consequence.’

‘Bless your heart,’ replied Tom, ‘my poor father was of no consequence, nor my mother either.’

‘You remember them perfectly, then?’

‘Remember them? oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when Ruth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings of that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember! Oh! There’s nothing romantic in our history, John.’

‘Very well,’ said John in quiet despair. ‘Then there is no way of accounting for my visitor of this morning. So we’ll not try, Tom.’

They did try, notwithstanding, and never left off trying until they got to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor, oddly situated at the back of a house, across some leads, they found a little blear-eyed glass door up in one corner, with Mr Fips painted on it in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a wicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs upon the ribs of visitors; and an old mat, worn into lattice work, which, being useless as a mat (even if anybody could have seen it, which was impossible), had for many years directed its industry into another channel, and regularly tripped up every one of Mr Fips’s clients.

Mr Fips, hearing a violent concussion between a human hat and his office door, was apprised, by the usual means of communication, that somebody had come to call upon him, and giving that somebody admission, observed that it was ‘rather dark.’

‘Dark indeed,’ John whispered in Tom Pinch’s ear. ‘Not a bad place to dispose of a countryman in, I should think, Tom.’

Tom had been already turning over in his mind the possibility of their having been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie; but the sight of Mr Fips, who was small and spare, and looked peaceable, and wore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts.

‘Walk in,’ said Mr Fips.

They walked in. And a mighty yellow-jaundiced little office Mr Fips had of it; with a great, black, sprawling splash upon the floor in one corner, as if some old clerk had cut his throat there, years ago, and had let out ink instead of blood.

‘I have brought my friend Mr Pinch, sir,’ said John Westlock.

‘Be pleased to sit,’ said Mr Fips.

They occupied the two chairs, and Mr Fips took the office stool from the stuffing whereof he drew forth a piece of horse-hair of immense length, which he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite.

He looked at Tom Pinch curiously, but with an entire freedom from any such expression as could be reasonably construed into an unusual display of interest. After a short silence, during which Mr Fips was so perfectly unembarrassed as to render it manifest that he could have broken it sooner without hesitation, if he had felt inclined to do so, he asked if Mr Westlock had made his offer fully known to Mr Pinch.

John answered in the affirmative.

‘And you think it worth your while, sir, do you?’ Mr Fips inquired of Tom.

‘I think it a piece of great good fortune, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am exceedingly obliged to you for the offer.’

‘Not to me,’ said Mr Fips. ‘I act upon instructions.’

‘To your friend, sir, then,’ said Tom. ‘To the gentleman with whom I am to engage, and whose confidence I shall endeavour to deserve. When he knows me better, sir, I hope he will not lose his good opinion of me. He will find me punctual and vigilant, and anxious to do what is right. That I think I can answer for, and so,’ looking towards him, ‘can Mr Westlock.’

‘Most assuredly,’ said John.

Mr Fips appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the conversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer-stamp, and began stamping capital F’s all over his legs.

‘The fact is,’ said Mr Fips, ‘that my friend is not, at this present moment, in town.’

Tom’s countenance fell; for he thought this equivalent to telling him that his appearance did not answer; and that Fips must look out for somebody else.

‘When do you think he will be in town, sir?’ he asked.

‘I can’t say; it’s impossible to tell. I really have no idea. But,’ said Fips, taking off a very deep impression of the wafer-stamp upon the calf of his left leg, and looking steadily at Tom, ‘I don’t know that it’s a matter of much consequence.’

Poor Tom inclined his head deferentially, but appeared to doubt that.

‘I say,’ repeated Mr Fips, ‘that I don’t know it’s a matter of much consequence. The business lies entirely between yourself and me, Mr Pinch. With reference to your duties, I can set you going; and with reference to your salary, I can pay it. Weekly,’ said Mr Fips, putting down the wafer-stamp, and looking at John Westlock and Tom Pinch by turns, ‘weekly; in this office; at any time between the hours of four and five o’clock in the afternoon.’ As Mr Fips said this, he made up his face as if he were going to whistle. But he didn’t.

‘You are very good,’ said Tom, whose countenance was now suffused with pleasure; ‘and nothing can be more satisfactory or straightforward. My attendance will be required—’

‘From half-past nine to four o’clock or so, I should say,’ interrupted Mr Fips. ‘About that.’

‘I did not mean the hours of attendance,’ retorted Tom, ‘which are light and easy, I am sure; but the place.’

‘Oh, the place! The place is in the Temple.’

Tom was delighted.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Fips, ‘you would like to see the place?’

‘Oh, dear!’ cried Tom. ‘I shall only be too glad to consider myself engaged, if you will allow me; without any further reference to the place.’

‘You may consider yourself engaged, by all means,’ said Mr Fips; ‘you couldn’t meet me at the Temple Gate in Fleet Street, in an hour from this time, I suppose, could you?’

Certainly Tom could.

‘Good,’ said Mr Fips, rising. ‘Then I will show you the place; and you can begin your attendance to-morrow morning. In an hour, therefore, I shall see you. You too, Mr Westlock? Very good. Take care how you go. It’s rather dark.’

With this remark, which seemed superfluous, he shut them out upon the staircase, and they groped their way into the street again. The interview had done so little to remove the mystery in which Tom’s new engagement was involved, and had done so much to thicken it, that neither could help smiling at the puzzled looks of the other. They agreed, however, that the introduction of Tom to his new office and office companions could hardly fail to throw a light upon the subject; and therefore postponed its further consideration until after the fulfillment of the appointment they had made with Mr Fips.

After looking at John Westlock’s chambers, and devoting a few spare minutes to the Boar’s Head, they issued forth again to the place of meeting. The time agreed upon had not quite come; but Mr Fips was already at the Temple Gate, and expressed his satisfaction at their punctuality.

He led the way through sundry lanes and courts, into one more quiet and more gloomy than the rest, and, singling out a certain house, ascended a common staircase; taking from his pocket, as he went, a bunch of rusty keys. Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing but a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the tenant’s name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys, very deliberately, upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade.

‘You had better have a little plug made,’ he said, looking round at Tom, after blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. ‘It’s the only way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You’ll find the lock go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil.’

Tom thanked him; but was too much occupied with his own speculations, and John Westlock’s looks, to be very talkative. In the meantime Mr Fips opened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly, and with a horribly discordant sound. He took the key out, when he had done so, and gave it to Tom.

‘Aye, aye!’ said Mr Fips. ‘The dust lies rather thick here.’

Truly, it did. Mr Fips might have gone so far as to say, very thick. It had accumulated everywhere; lay deep on everything, and in one part, where a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck upon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round, like a gigantic squirrel-cage.

Dust was the only thing in the place that had any motion about it. When their conductor admitted the light freely, and lifting up the heavy window-sash, let in the summer air, he showed the mouldering furniture, discoloured wainscoting and ceiling, rusty stove, and ashy hearth, in all their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candlestick, with an extinguisher upon it; as if the last man who had been there had paused, after securing a retreat, to take a parting look at the dreariness he left behind, and then had shut out light and life together, and closed the place up like a tomb.

There were two rooms on that floor; and in the first or outer one a narrow staircase, leading to two more above. These last were fitted up as bed-chambers. Neither in them, nor in the rooms below, was any scarcity of convenient furniture observable, although the fittings were of a bygone fashion; but solitude and want of use seemed to have rendered it unfit for any purposes of comfort, and to have given it a grisly, haunted air.

Movables of every kind lay strewn about, without the least attempt at order, and were intermixed with boxes, hampers, and all sorts of lumber. On all the floors were piles of books, to the amount, perhaps, of some thousands of volumes: these, still in bales; those, wrapped in paper, as they had been purchased; others scattered singly or in heaps; not one upon the shelves which lined the walls. To these Mr Fips called Tom’s attention.

‘Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order, catalogued, and ranged upon the book-shelves, Mr Pinch. That will do to begin with, I think, sir.’

Tom rubbed his hands in the pleasant anticipation of a task so congenial to his taste, and said:

‘An occupation full of interest for me, I assure you. It will occupy me, perhaps, until Mr—’

‘Until Mr—’ repeated Fips; as much as to ask Tom what he was stopping for.

‘I forgot that you had not mentioned the gentleman’s name,’ said Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried Mr Fips, pulling on his glove, ‘didn’t I? No, by-the-bye, I don’t think I did. Ah! I dare say he’ll be here soon. You will get on very well together, I have no doubt. I wish you success I am sure. You won’t forget to shut the door? It’ll lock of itself if you slam it. Half-past nine, you know. Let us say from half-past nine to four, or half-past four, or thereabouts; one day, perhaps, a little earlier, another day, perhaps, a little later, according as you feel disposed, and as you arrange your work. Mr Fips, Austin Friars of course you’ll remember? And you won’t forget to slam the door, if you please!’

He said all this in such a comfortable, easy manner, that Tom could only rub his hands, and nod his head, and smile in acquiescence which he was still doing, when Mr Fips walked coolly out.

‘Why, he’s gone!’ cried Tom.

‘And what’s more, Tom,’ said John Westlock, seating himself upon a pile of books, and looking up at his astonished friend, ‘he is evidently not coming back again; so here you are, installed. Under rather singular circumstances, Tom!’

It was such an odd affair throughout, and Tom standing there among the books with his hat in one hand and the key in the other, looked so prodigiously confounded, that his friend could not help laughing heartily. Tom himself was tickled; no less by the hilarity of his friend than by the recollection of the sudden manner in which he had been brought to a stop, in the very height of his urbane conference with Mr Fips; so by degrees Tom burst out laughing too; and each making the other laugh more, they fairly roared.

When they had had their laugh out, which did not happen very soon, for give John an inch that way and he was sure to take several ells, being a jovial, good-tempered fellow, they looked about them more closely, groping among the lumber for any stray means of enlightenment that might turn up. But no scrap or shred of information could they find. The books were marked with a variety of owner’s names, having, no doubt, been bought at sales, and collected here and there at different times; but whether any one of these names belonged to Tom’s employer, and, if so, which of them, they had no means whatever of determining. It occurred to John as a very bright thought to make inquiry at the steward’s office, to whom the chambers belonged, or by whom they were held; but he came back no wiser than he went, the answer being, ‘Mr Fips, of Austin Friars.’

‘After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Fips is an eccentric man; has some knowledge of Pecksniff; despises him, of course; has heard or seen enough of you to know that you are the man he wants; and engages you in his own whimsical manner.’

‘But why in his own whimsical manner?’ asked Tom.

‘Oh! why does any man entertain his own whimsical taste? Why does Mr Fips wear shorts and powder, and Mr Fips’s next-door neighbour boots and a wig?’

Tom, being in that state of mind in which any explanation is a great relief, adopted this last one (which indeed was quite as feasible as any other) readily, and said he had no doubt of it. Nor was his faith at all shaken by his having said exactly the same thing to each suggestion of his friend’s in turn, and being perfectly ready to say it again if he had any new solution to propose.

As he had not, Tom drew down the window-sash, and folded the shutter; and they left the rooms. He closed the door heavily, as Mr Fips had desired him; tried it, found it all safe, and put the key in his pocket.

They made a pretty wide circuit in going back to Islington, as they had time to spare, and Tom was never tired of looking about him. It was well he had John Westlock for his companion, for most people would have been weary of his perpetual stoppages at shop-windows, and his frequent dashes into the crowded carriage-way at the peril of his life, to get the better view of church steeples, and other public buildings. But John was charmed to see him so much interested, and every time Tom came back with a beaming face from among the wheels of carts and hackney-coaches, wholly unconscious of the personal congratulations addressed to him by the drivers, John seemed to like him better than before.

There was no flour on Ruth’s hands when she received them in the triangular parlour, but there were pleasant smiles upon her face, and a crowd of welcomes shining out of every smile, and gleaming in her bright eyes. By the bye, how bright they were! Looking into them for but a moment, when you took her hand, you saw, in each, such a capital miniature of yourself, representing you as such a restless, flashing, eager, brilliant little fellow—

Ah! if you could only have kept them for your own miniature! But, wicked, roving, restless, too impartial eyes, it was enough for any one to stand before them, and, straightway, there he danced and sparkled quite as merrily as you!

The table was already spread for dinner; and though it was spread with nothing very choice in the way of glass or linen, and with green-handled knives, and very mountebanks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be trying how far asunder they could possibly stretch their legs without converting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it wanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china; no, nor any other garniture at all. There it was; and, being there, nothing else would have done as well.

The success of that initiative dish; that first experiment of hers in cookery; was so entire, so unalloyed and perfect, that John Westlock and Tom agreed she must have been studying the art in secret for a long time past; and urged her to make a full confession of the fact. They were exceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said concerning it; but John was not as fair in his behaviour as might have been expected, for, after luring Tom Pinch on for a long time, he suddenly went over to the enemy, and swore to everything his sister said. However, as Tom observed the same night before going to bed, it was only in joke, and John had always been famous for being polite to ladies, even when he was quite a boy. Ruth said, ‘Oh! indeed!’ She didn’t say anything else.

It is astonishing how much three people may find to talk about. They scarcely left off talking once. And it was not all lively chat which occupied them; for when Tom related how he had seen Mr Pecksniff’s daughters, and what a change had fallen on the younger, they were very serious.

John Westlock became quite absorbed in her fortunes; asking many questions of Tom Pinch about her marriage, inquiring whether her husband was the gentleman whom Tom had brought to dine with him at Salisbury; in what degree of relationship they stood towards each other, being different persons; and taking, in short, the greatest interest in the subject. Tom then went into it, at full length; he told how Martin had gone abroad, and had not been heard of for a long time; how Dragon Mark had borne him company; how Mr Pecksniff had got the poor old doting grandfather into his power; and how he basely sought the hand of Mary Graham. But not a word said Tom of what lay hidden in his heart; his heart, so deep, and true, and full of honour, and yet with so much room for every gentle and unselfish thought; not a word.

Tom, Tom! The man in all this world most confident in his sagacity and shrewdness; the man in all this world most proud of his distrust of other men, and having most to show in gold and silver as the gains belonging to his creed; the meekest favourer of that wise doctrine, Every man for himself, and God for us all (there being high wisdom in the thought that the Eternal Majesty of Heaven ever was, or can be, on the side of selfish lust and love!); shall never find, oh, never find, be sure of that, the time come home to him, when all his wisdom is an idiot’s folly, weighed against a simple heart!

Well, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to be so eager touching that same theatre, of which John said, when tea was done, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without the payment of a sixpence was concerned; and simpler yet, perhaps, never to suspect that when he went in first, alone, he paid the money! Simple in thee, dear Tom, to laugh and cry so heartily at such a sorry show, so poorly shown; simple to be so happy and loquacious trudging home with Ruth; simple to be so surprised to find that merry present of a cookery-book awaiting her in the parlour next morning, with the beef-steak-pudding-leaf turned down and blotted out. There! Let the record stand! Thy quality of soul was simple, simple, quite contemptible, Tom Pinch!

CHAPTER FORTY

THE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR SURPRISE AND WONDER

There was a ghostly air about these uninhabited chambers in the Temple, and attending every circumstance of Tom’s employment there, which had a strange charm in it. Every morning when he shut his door at Islington, he turned his face towards an atmosphere of unaccountable fascination, as surely as he turned it to the London smoke; and from that moment it thickened round and round him all day long, until the time arrived for going home again, and leaving it, like a motionless cloud, behind.

It seemed to Tom, every morning, that he approached this ghostly mist, and became enveloped in it, by the easiest succession of degrees imaginable. Passing from the roar and rattle of the streets into the quiet court-yards of the Temple, was the first preparation. Every echo of his footsteps sounded to him like a sound from the old walls and pavements, wanting language to relate the histories of the dim, dismal rooms; to tell him what lost documents were decaying in forgotten corners of the shut-up cellars, from whose lattices such mouldy sighs came breathing forth as he went past; to whisper of dark bins of rare old wine, bricked up in vaults among the old foundations of the Halls; or mutter in a lower tone yet darker legends of the cross-legged knights, whose marble effigies were in the church. With the first planting of his foot upon the staircase of his dusty office, all these mysteries increased; until, ascending step by step, as Tom ascended, they attained their full growth in the solitary labours of the day.

Every day brought one recurring, never-failing source of speculation. This employer; would he come to-day, and what would he be like? For Tom could not stop short at Mr Fips; he quite believed that Mr Fips had spoken truly, when he said he acted for another; and what manner of man that other was, became a full-blown flower of wonder in the garden of Tom’s fancy, which never faded or got trodden down.

At one time, he conceived that Mr Pecksniff, repenting of his falsehood, might, by exertion of his influence with some third person have devised these means of giving him employment. He found this idea so insupportable after what had taken place between that good man and himself, that he confided it to John Westlock on the very same day; informing John that he would rather ply for hire as a porter, than fall so low in his own esteem as to accept the smallest obligation from the hands of Mr Pecksniff. But John assured him that he (Tom Pinch) was far from doing justice to the character of Mr Pecksniff yet, if he supposed that gentleman capable of performing a generous action; and that he might make his mind quite easy on that head until he saw the sun turn green and the moon black, and at the same time distinctly perceived with the naked eye, twelve first-rate comets careering round those planets. In which unusual state of things, he said (and not before), it might become not absolutely lunatic to suspect Mr Pecksniff of anything so monstrous. In short he laughed the idea down completely; and Tom, abandoning it, was thrown upon his beam-ends again, for some other solution.

In the meantime Tom attended to his duties daily, and made considerable progress with the books; which were already reduced to some sort of order, and made a great appearance in his fairly-written catalogue. During his business hours, he indulged himself occasionally with snatches of reading; which were often, indeed, a necessary part of his pursuit; and as he usually made bold to carry one of these goblin volumes home at night (always bringing it back again next morning, in case his strange employer should appear and ask what had become of it), he led a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart.

But though the books were never so interesting, and never so full of novelty to Tom, they could not so enchain him, in those mysterious chambers, as to render him unconscious, for a moment, of the lightest sound. Any footstep on the flags without set him listening attentively and when it turned into that house, and came up, up, up the stairs, he always thought with a beating heart, ‘Now I am coming face to face with him at last!’ But no footstep ever passed the floor immediately below: except his own.

This mystery and loneliness engendered fancies in Tom’s mind, the folly of which his common sense could readily discover, but which his common sense was quite unable to keep away, notwithstanding; that quality being with most of us, in such a case, like the old French Police—quick at detection, but very weak as a preventive power. Misgivings, undefined, absurd, inexplicable, that there was some one hiding in the inner room—walking softly overhead, peeping in through the door-chink, doing something stealthy, anywhere where he was not—came over him a hundred times a day, making it pleasant to throw up the sash, and hold communication even with the sparrows who had built in the roof and water-spout, and were twittering about the windows all day long.

He sat with the outer door wide open, at all times, that he might hear the footsteps as they entered, and turned off into the chambers on the lower floor. He formed odd prepossessions too, regarding strangers in the streets; and would say within himself of such or such a man, who struck him as having anything uncommon in his dress or aspect, ‘I shouldn’t wonder, now, if that were he!’ But it never was. And though he actually turned back and followed more than one of these suspected individuals, in a singular belief that they were going to the place he was then upon his way from, he never got any other satisfaction by it, than the satisfaction of knowing it was not the case.

Mr Fips, of Austin Friars, rather deepened than illumined the obscurity of his position; for on the first occasion of Tom’s waiting on him to receive his weekly pay, he said:

‘Oh! by the bye, Mr Pinch, you needn’t mention it, if you please!’

Tom thought he was going to tell him a secret; so he said that he wouldn’t on any account, and that Mr Fips might entirely depend upon him. But as Mr Fips said ‘Very good,’ in reply, and nothing more, Tom prompted him:

‘Not on any account,’ repeated Tom.

Mr Fips repeated: ‘Very good.’

‘You were going to say’—Tom hinted.

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Fips. ‘Not at all.’ However, seeing Tom confused, he added, ‘I mean that you needn’t mention any particulars about your place of employment, to people generally. You’ll find it better not.’

‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing my employer yet, sir,’ observed Tom, putting his week’s salary in his pocket.

‘Haven’t you?’ said Fips. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have though.’

‘I should like to thank him, and to know that what I have done so far, is done to his satisfaction,’ faltered Tom.

‘Quite right,’ said Mr Fips, with a yawn. ‘Highly creditable. Very proper.’

Tom hastily resolved to try him on another tack.

‘I shall soon have finished with the books,’ he said. ‘I hope that will not terminate my engagement, sir, or render me useless?’

‘Oh dear no!’ retorted Fips. ‘Plenty to do; plen-ty to do! Be careful how you go. It’s rather dark.’

This was the very utmost extent of information Tom could ever get out of him. So it was dark enough in all conscience; and if Mr Fips expressed himself with a double meaning, he had good reason for doing so.

But now a circumstance occurred, which helped to divert Tom’s thoughts from even this mystery, and to divide them between it and a new channel, which was a very Nile in itself.

The way it came about was this. Having always been an early riser and having now no organ to engage him in sweet converse every morning, it was his habit to take a long walk before going to the Temple; and naturally inclining, as a stranger, towards those parts of the town which were conspicuous for the life and animation pervading them, he became a great frequenter of the market-places, bridges, quays, and especially the steam-boat wharves; for it was very lively and fresh to see the people hurrying away upon their many schemes of business or pleasure, and it made Tom glad to think that there was that much change and freedom in the monotonous routine of city lives.

In most of these morning excursions Ruth accompanied him. As their landlord was always up and away at his business (whatever that might be, no one seemed to know) at a very early hour, the habits of the people of the house in which they lodged corresponded with their own. Thus they had often finished their breakfast, and were out in the summer air, by seven o’clock. After a two hours’ stroll they parted at some convenient point; Tom going to the Temple, and his sister returning home, as methodically as you please.

Many and many a pleasant stroll they had in Covent Garden Market; snuffing up the perfume of the fruits and flowers, wondering at the magnificence of the pineapples and melons; catching glimpses down side avenues, of rows and rows of old women, seated on inverted baskets, shelling peas; looking unutterable things at the fat bundles of asparagus with which the dainty shops were fortified as with a breastwork; and, at the herbalist’s doors, gratefully inhaling scents as of veal-stuffing yet uncooked, dreamily mixed up with capsicums, brown-paper, seeds, even with hints of lusty snails and fine young curly leeches. Many and many a pleasant stroll they had among the poultry markets, where ducks and fowls, with necks unnaturally long, lay stretched out in pairs, ready for cooking; where there were speckled eggs in mossy baskets, white country sausages beyond impeachment by surviving cat or dog, or horse or donkey; new cheeses to any wild extent, live birds in coops and cages, looking much too big to be natural, in consequence of those receptacles being much too little; rabbits, alive and dead, innumerable. Many a pleasant stroll they had among the cool, refreshing, silvery fish-stalls, with a kind of moonlight effect about their stock-in-trade, excepting always for the ruddy lobsters. Many a pleasant stroll among the waggon-loads of fragrant hay, beneath which dogs and tired waggoners lay fast asleep, oblivious of the pieman and the public-house. But never half so good a stroll as down among the steamboats on a bright morning.

There they lay, alongside of each other; hard and fast for ever, to all appearance, but designing to get out somehow, and quite confident of doing it; and in that faith shoals of passengers, and heaps of luggage, were proceeding hurriedly on board. Little steam-boats dashed up and down the stream incessantly. Tiers upon tiers of vessels, scores of masts, labyrinths of tackle, idle sails, splashing oars, gliding row-boats, lumbering barges, sunken piles, with ugly lodgings for the water-rat within their mud-discoloured nooks; church steeples, warehouses, house-roofs, arches, bridges, men and women, children, casks, cranes, boxes, horses, coaches, idlers, and hard-labourers; there they were, all jumbled up together, any summer morning, far beyond Tom’s power of separation.

In the midst of all this turmoil there was an incessant roar from every packet’s funnel, which quite expressed and carried out the uppermost emotion of the scene. They all appeared to be perspiring and bothering themselves, exactly as their passengers did; they never left off fretting and chafing, in their own hoarse manner, once; but were always panting out, without any stops, ‘Come along do make haste I’m very nervous come along oh good gracious we shall never get there how late you are do make haste I’m off directly come along!’

Even when they had left off, and had got safely out into the current, on the smallest provocation they began again; for the bravest packet of them all, being stopped by some entanglement in the river, would immediately begin to fume and pant afresh, ‘oh here’s a stoppage what’s the matter do go on there I’m in a hurry it’s done on purpose did you ever oh my goodness do go on here!’ and so, in a state of mind bordering on distraction, would be last seen drifting slowly through the mist into the summer light beyond, that made it red.

Tom’s ship, however; or, at least, the packet-boat in which Tom and his sister took the greatest interest on one particular occasion; was not off yet, by any means; but was at the height of its disorder. The press of passengers was very great; another steam-boat lay on each side of her; the gangways were choked up; distracted women, obviously bound for Gravesend, but turning a deaf ear to all representations that this particular vessel was about to sail for Antwerp, persisted in secreting baskets of refreshments behind bulk-heads, and water-casks, and under seats; and very great confusion prevailed.

It was so amusing, that Tom, with Ruth upon his arm, stood looking down from the wharf, as nearly regardless as it was in the nature of flesh and blood to be, of an elderly lady behind him, who had brought a large umbrella with her, and didn’t know what to do with it. This tremendous instrument had a hooked handle; and its vicinity was first made known to him by a painful pressure on the windpipe, consequent upon its having caught him round the throat. Soon after disengaging himself with perfect good humour, he had a sensation of the ferule in his back; immediately afterwards, of the hook entangling his ankles; then of the umbrella generally, wandering about his hat, and flapping at it like a great bird; and, lastly, of a poke or thrust below the ribs, which give him such exceeding anguish, that he could not refrain from turning round to offer a mild remonstrance.

Upon his turning round, he found the owner of the umbrella struggling on tip-toe, with a countenance expressive of violent animosity, to look down upon the steam-boats; from which he inferred that she had attacked him, standing in the front row, by design, and as her natural enemy.

‘What a very ill-natured person you must be!’ said Tom.

The lady cried out fiercely, ‘Where’s the pelisse!’—meaning the constabulary—and went on to say, shaking the handle of the umbrella at Tom, that but for them fellers never being in the way when they was wanted, she’d have given him in charge, she would.

‘If they greased their whiskers less, and minded the duties which they’re paid so heavy for, a little more,’ she observed, ‘no one needn’t be drove mad by scrouding so!’

She had been grievously knocked about, no doubt, for her bonnet was bent into the shape of a cocked hat. Being a fat little woman, too, she was in a state of great exhaustion and intense heat. Instead of pursuing the altercation, therefore, Tom civilly inquired what boat she wanted to go on board of?

‘I suppose,’ returned the lady, ‘as nobody but yourself can want to look at a steam package, without wanting to go a-boarding of it, can they! Booby!’

‘Which one do you want to look at then?’ said Tom. ‘We’ll make room for you if we can. Don’t be so ill-tempered.’

‘No blessed creetur as ever I was with in trying times,’ returned the lady, somewhat softened, ‘and they’re a many in their numbers, ever brought it as a charge again myself that I was anythin’ but mild and equal in my spirits. Never mind a contradicting of me, if you seem to feel it does you good, ma’am, I often says, for well you know that Sairey may be trusted not to give it back again. But I will not denige that I am worrited and wexed this day, and with good reagion, Lord forbid!’

By this time, Mrs Gamp (for it was no other than that experienced practitioner) had, with Tom’s assistance, squeezed and worked herself into a small corner between Ruth and the rail; where, after breathing very hard for some little time, and performing a short series of dangerous evolutions with her umbrella, she managed to establish herself pretty comfortably.

‘And which of all them smoking monsters is the Ankworks boat, I wonder. Goodness me!’ cried Mrs Gamp.

‘What boat did you want?’ asked Ruth.

‘The Ankworks package,’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘I will not deceive you, my sweet. Why should I?’

‘That is the Antwerp packet in the middle,’ said Ruth.

‘And I wish it was in Jonadge’s belly, I do,’ cried Mrs Gamp; appearing to confound the prophet with the whale in this miraculous aspiration.

Ruth said nothing in reply; but, as Mrs Gamp, laying her chin against the cool iron of the rail, continued to look intently at the Antwerp boat, and every now and then to give a little groan, she inquired whether any child of hers was going aboard that morning? Or perhaps her husband, she said kindly.

‘Which shows,’ said Mrs Gamp, casting up her eyes, ‘what a little way you’ve travelled into this wale of life, my dear young creetur! As a good friend of mine has frequent made remark to me, which her name, my love, is Harris, Mrs Harris through the square and up the steps a-turnin’ round by the tobacker shop, “Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us!” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says, “not much, it’s true, but more than you suppoge. Our calcilations, ma’am,” I says, “respectin’ wot the number of a family will be, comes most times within one, and oftener than you would suppoge, exact.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, in a awful way, “Tell me wot is my indiwidgle number.” “No, Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “ex-cuge me, if you please. My own,” I says, “has fallen out of three-pair backs, and had damp doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was turned up smilin’ in a bedstead unbeknown. Therefore, ma’am,” I says, “seek not to proticipate, but take ‘em as they come and as they go.” Mine,’ says Mrs Gamp, ‘mine is all gone, my dear young chick. And as to husbands, there’s a wooden leg gone likeways home to its account, which in its constancy of walkin’ into wine vaults, and never comin’ out again ‘till fetched by force, was quite as weak as flesh, if not weaker.’

When she had delivered this oration, Mrs Gamp leaned her chin upon the cool iron again; and looking intently at the Antwerp packet, shook her head and groaned.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘I wouldn’t be a man and have such a think upon my mind!—but nobody as owned the name of man, could do it!’

Tom and his sister glanced at each other; and Ruth, after a moment’s hesitation, asked Mrs Gamp what troubled her so much.

‘My dear,’ returned that lady, dropping her voice, ‘you are single, ain’t you?’

Ruth laughed blushed, and said ‘Yes.’

‘Worse luck,’ proceeded Mrs Gamp, ‘for all parties! But others is married, and in the marriage state; and there is a dear young creetur a-comin’ down this mornin’ to that very package, which is no more fit to trust herself to sea, than nothin’ is!’

She paused here to look over the deck of the packet in question, and on the steps leading down to it, and on the gangways. Seeming to have thus assured herself that the object of her commiseration had not yet arrived, she raised her eyes gradually up to the top of the escape-pipe, and indignantly apostrophised the vessel:

‘Oh, drat you!’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella at it, ‘you’re a nice spluttering nisy monster for a delicate young creetur to go and be a passinger by; ain’t you! you never do no harm in that way, do you? With your hammering, and roaring, and hissing, and lamp-iling, you brute! Them Confugion steamers,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella again, ‘has done more to throw us out of our reg’lar work and bring ewents on at times when nobody counted on ‘em (especially them screeching railroad ones), than all the other frights that ever was took. I have heerd of one young man, a guard upon a railway, only three years opened—well does Mrs Harris know him, which indeed he is her own relation by her sister’s marriage with a master sawyer—as is godfather at this present time to six-and-twenty blessed little strangers, equally unexpected, and all on ‘um named after the Ingeines as was the cause. Ugh!’ said Mrs Gamp, resuming her apostrophe, ‘one might easy know you was a man’s inwention, from your disregardlessness of the weakness of our naturs, so one might, you brute!’

It would not have been unnatural to suppose, from the first part of Mrs Gamp’s lamentations, that she was connected with the stage-coaching or post-horsing trade. She had no means of judging of the effect of her concluding remarks upon her young companion; for she interrupted herself at this point, and exclaimed:

‘There she identically goes! Poor sweet young creetur, there she goes, like a lamb to the sacrifige! If there’s any illness when that wessel gets to sea,’ said Mrs Gamp, prophetically, ‘it’s murder, and I’m the witness for the persecution.’

She was so very earnest on the subject, that Tom’s sister (being as kind as Tom himself) could not help saying something to her in reply.

‘Pray, which is the lady,’ she inquired, ‘in whom you are so much interested?’

‘There!’ groaned Mrs Gamp. ‘There she goes! A-crossin’ the little wooden bridge at this minute. She’s a-slippin’ on a bit of orangepeel!’ tightly clutching her umbrella. ‘What a turn it give me.’

‘Do you mean the lady who is with that man wrapped up from head to foot in a large cloak, so that his face is almost hidden?’

‘Well he may hide it!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘He’s good call to be ashamed of himself. Did you see him a-jerking of her wrist, then?’

‘He seems to be hasty with her, indeed.’

‘Now he’s a-taking of her down into the close cabin!’ said Mrs Gamp, impatiently. ‘What’s the man about! The deuce is in him, I think. Why can’t he leave her in the open air?’

He did not, whatever his reason was, but led her quickly down and disappeared himself, without loosening his cloak, or pausing on the crowded deck one moment longer than was necessary to clear their way to that part of the vessel.

Tom had not heard this little dialogue; for his attention had been engaged in an unexpected manner. A hand upon his sleeve had caused him to look round, just when Mrs Gamp concluded her apostrophe to the steam-engine; and on his right arm, Ruth being on his left, he found their landlord, to his great surprise.

He was not so much surprised at the man’s being there, as at his having got close to him so quietly and swiftly; for another person had been at his elbow one instant before; and he had not in the meantime been conscious of any change or pressure in the knot of people among whom he stood. He and Ruth had frequently remarked how noiselessly this landlord of theirs came into and went out of his own house; but Tom was not the less amazed to see him at his elbow now.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pinch,’ he said in his ear. ‘I am rather infirm, and out of breath, and my eyes are not very good. I am not as young as I was, sir. You don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak down yonder, with a lady on his arm; a lady in a veil and a black shawl; do you?’

If he did not, it was curious that in speaking he should have singled out from all the crowd the very people whom he described; and should have glanced hastily from them to Tom, as if he were burning to direct his wandering eyes.

‘A gentleman in a large cloak!’ said Tom, ‘and a lady in a black shawl! Let me see!’

‘Yes, yes!’ replied the other, with keen impatience. ‘A gentleman muffled up from head to foot—strangely muffled up for such a morning as this—like an invalid, with his hand to his face at this minute, perhaps. No, no, no! not there,’ he added, following Tom’s gaze; ‘the other way; in that direction; down yonder.’ Again he indicated, but this time in his hurry, with his outstretched finger, the very spot on which the progress of these persons was checked at that moment.

‘There are so many people, and so much motion, and so many objects,’ said Tom, ‘that I find it difficult to—no, I really don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak, and a lady in a black shawl. There’s a lady in a red shawl over there!’

‘No, no, no!’ cried his landlord, pointing eagerly again, ‘not there. The other way; the other way. Look at the cabin steps. To the left. They must be near the cabin steps. Do you see the cabin steps? There’s the bell ringing already! do you see the steps?’

‘Stay!’ said Tom, ‘you’re right. Look! there they go now. Is that the gentleman you mean? Descending at this minute, with the folds of a great cloak trailing down after him?’

‘The very man!’ returned the other, not looking at what Tom pointed out, however, but at Tom’s own face. ‘Will you do me a kindness, sir, a great kindness? Will you put that letter in his hand? Only give him that! He expects it. I am charged to do it by my employers, but I am late in finding him, and, not being as young as I have been, should never be able to make my way on board and off the deck again in time. Will you pardon my boldness, and do me that great kindness?’

His hands shook, and his face bespoke the utmost interest and agitation, as he pressed the letter upon Tom, and pointed to its destination, like the Tempter in some grim old carving.

To hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office was not in Tom’s way. He took the letter; whispered Ruth to wait till he returned, which would be immediately; and ran down the steps with all the expedition he could make. There were so many people going down, so many others coming up, such heavy goods in course of transit to and fro, such a ringing of bell, blowing-off of steam, and shouting of men’s voices, that he had much ado to force his way, or keep in mind to which boat he was going. But he reached the right one with good speed, and going down the cabin-stairs immediately, described the object of his search standing at the upper end of the saloon, with his back towards him, reading some notice which was hung against the wall. As Tom advanced to give him the letter, he started, hearing footsteps, and turned round.

What was Tom’s astonishment to find in him the man with whom he had had the conflict in the field—poor Mercy’s husband. Jonas!

Tom understood him to say, what the devil did he want; but it was not easy to make out what he said; he spoke so indistinctly.

‘I want nothing with you for myself,’ said Tom; ‘I was asked, a moment since, to give you this letter. You were pointed out to me, but I didn’t know you in your strange dress. Take it!’

He did so, opened it, and read the writing on the inside. The contents were evidently very brief; not more perhaps than one line; but they struck upon him like a stone from a sling. He reeled back as he read.

His emotion was so different from any Tom had ever seen before that he stopped involuntarily. Momentary as his state of indecision was, the bell ceased while he stood there, and a hoarse voice calling down the steps, inquired if there was any to go ashore?

‘Yes,’ cried Jonas, ‘I—I am coming. Give me time. Where’s that woman! Come back; come back here.’

He threw open another door as he spoke, and dragged, rather than led, her forth. She was pale and frightened, and amazed to see her old acquaintance; but had no time to speak, for they were making a great stir above; and Jonas drew her rapidly towards the deck.

‘Where are we going? What is the matter?’

‘We are going back,’ said Jonas. ‘I have changed my mind. I can’t go. Don’t question me, or I shall be the death of you, or some one else. Stop there! Stop! We’re for the shore. Do you hear? We’re for the shore!’

He turned, even in the madness of his hurry, and scowling darkly back at Tom, shook his clenched hand at him. There are not many human faces capable of the expression with which he accompanied that gesture.

He dragged her up, and Tom followed them. Across the deck, over the side, along the crazy plank, and up the steps, he dragged her fiercely; not bestowing any look on her, but gazing upwards all the while among the faces on the wharf. Suddenly he turned again, and said to Tom with a tremendous oath:

‘Where is he?’

Before Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to a question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind, and saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign appearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with a polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and desperate manner.

‘Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!’ said the gentleman, raising his hat in compliment to Mrs Chuzzlewit, ‘I ask your pardon twenty thousand times. I am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this nature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I have not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great infelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the beehive—will you introduce me?’

‘This is Mr Montague,’ said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.

‘The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘for having been the means of spoiling this excursion; but as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short little continental trip, my dear friend, of course?’

Jonas maintained a dogged silence.

‘May I die,’ cried Montague, ‘but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am shocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city must be paramount to every other consideration, when there is honey to be made; and that is my best excuse. Here is a very singular old female dropping curtseys on my right,’ said Montague, breaking off in his discourse, and looking at Mrs Gamp, ‘who is not a friend of mine. Does anybody know her?’

‘Ah! Well they knows me, bless their precious hearts!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘not forgettin’ your own merry one, sir, and long may it be so! Wishin’ as every one’ (she delivered this in the form of a toast or sentiment) ‘was as merry, and as handsome-lookin’, as a little bird has whispered me a certain gent is, which I will not name for fear I give offence where none is doo! My precious lady,’ here she stopped short in her merriment, for she had until now affected to be vastly entertained, ‘you’re too pale by half!’

‘You are here too, are you?’ muttered Jonas. ‘Ecod, there are enough of you.’

‘I hope, sir,’ returned Mrs Gamp, dropping an indignant curtsey, ‘as no bones is broke by me and Mrs Harris a-walkin’ down upon a public wharf. Which was the very words she says to me (although they was the last I ever had to speak) was these: “Sairey,” she says, “is it a public wharf?” “Mrs Harris,” I makes answer, “can you doubt it? You have know’d me now, ma’am, eight and thirty year; and did you ever know me go, or wish to go, where I was not made welcome, say the words.” “No, Sairey,” Mrs Harris says, “contrairy quite.” And well she knows it too. I am but a poor woman, but I’ve been sought after, sir, though you may not think it. I’ve been knocked up at all hours of the night, and warned out by a many landlords, in consequence of being mistook for Fire. I goes out workin’ for my bread, ‘tis true, but I maintains my independency, with your kind leave, and which I will till death. I has my feelins as a woman, sir, and I have been a mother likeways; but touch a pipkin as belongs to me, or make the least remarks on what I eats or drinks, and though you was the favouritest young for’ard hussy of a servant-gal as ever come into a house, either you leaves the place, or me. My earnins is not great, sir, but I will not be impoged upon. Bless the babe, and save the mother, is my mortar, sir; but I makes so free as add to that, Don’t try no impogician with the Nuss, for she will not abear it!’

Mrs Gamp concluded by drawing her shawl tightly over herself with both hands, and, as usual, referring to Mrs Harris for full corroboration of these particulars. She had that peculiar trembling of the head which, in ladies of her excitable nature, may be taken as a sure indication of their breaking out again very shortly; when Jonas made a timely interposition.

‘As you are here,’ he said, ‘you had better see to her, and take her home. I am otherwise engaged.’ He said nothing more; but looked at Montague as if to give him notice that he was ready to attend him.

‘I am sorry to take you away,’ said Montague.

Jonas gave him a sinister look, which long lived in Tom’s memory, and which he often recalled afterwards.

‘I am, upon my life,’ said Montague. ‘Why did you make it necessary?’

With the same dark glance as before, Jonas replied, after a moment’s silence:

‘The necessity is none of my making. You have brought it about yourself.’

He said nothing more. He said even this as if he were bound, and in the other’s power, but had a sullen and suppressed devil within him, which he could not quite resist. His very gait, as they walked away together, was like that of a fettered man; but, striving to work out at his clenched hands, knitted brows, and fast-set lips, was the same imprisoned devil still.

They got into a handsome cabriolet which was waiting for them and drove away.

The whole of this extraordinary scene had passed so rapidly and the tumult which prevailed around as so unconscious of any impression from it, that, although Tom had been one of the chief actors, it was like a dream. No one had noticed him after they had left the packet. He had stood behind Jonas, and so near him, that he could not help hearing all that passed. He had stood there, with his sister on his arm, expecting and hoping to have an opportunity of explaining his strange share in this yet stranger business. But Jonas had not raised his eyes from the ground; no one else had even looked towards him; and before he could resolve on any course of action, they were all gone.

He gazed round for his landlord. But he had done that more than once already, and no such man was to be seen. He was still pursuing this search with his eyes, when he saw a hand beckoning to him from a hackney-coach; and hurrying towards it, found it was Merry’s. She addressed him hurriedly, but bent out of the window, that she might not be overheard by her companion, Mrs Gamp.

‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Good heaven, what is it? Why did he tell me last night to prepare for a long journey, and why have you brought us back like criminals? Dear Mr Pinch!’ she clasped her hands distractedly, ‘be merciful to us. Whatever this dreadful secret is, be merciful, and God will bless you!’

‘If any power of mercy lay with me,’ cried Tom, ‘trust me, you shouldn’t ask in vain. But I am far more ignorant and weak than you.’

She withdrew into the coach again, and he saw the hand waving towards him for a moment; but whether in reproachfulness or incredulity or misery, or grief, or sad adieu, or what else, he could not, being so hurried, understand. She was gone now; and Ruth and he were left to walk away, and wonder.

Had Mr Nadgett appointed the man who never came, to meet him upon London Bridge that morning? He was certainly looking over the parapet, and down upon the steamboat-wharf at that moment. It could not have been for pleasure; he never took pleasure. No. He must have had some business there.

Part III