Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  “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 servantgal 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.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND, ARRIVING AT A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING, SET FORTH UPON AN ENTERPRISE

  The office of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company being near at hand, and Mr Montague driving Jonas straight there, they had very little way to go. But the journey might have been one of several hours” duration, without provoking a remark from either; for it was clear that Jonas did not mean to break the silence which prevailed between them, and that it was not, as yet, his dear friend's cue to tempt them into conversation.

  He had thrown aside his cloak, as having now no motive for concealment, and with that garment huddled on his knees, sat as far removed from his companion as the limited space in such a carriage would allow. There was a striking difference in his manner, compared with what it had been, within a few minutes, when Tom encountered him so unexpectedly on board the packet, or when the ugly change had fallen on him in Mr Montague's dressing-room. He had the aspect of a man found out and held at bay; of being baffled, hunted, and beset; but there was now a dawning and increasing purpose in his face, which changed it very much. It was gloomy, distrustful, lowering; pale with anger and defeat; it still was humbled, abject, cowardly and mean; but, let the conflict go on as it would, there was one strong purpose wrestling with every emotion of his mind, and casting the whole series down as they arose.

  Not prepossessing in appearance at the best of times, it may be readily supposed that he was not so now. He had left deep marks of his front teeth in his nether lip; and those tokens of the agitation he had lately undergone improved his looks as little as the heavy corrugations in his forehead. But he was self-possessed now; unnaturally self-possessed, indeed, as men quite otherwise than brave are known to be in desperate extremities; and when the carriage stopped, he waited for no invitation, but leapt hardily out, and went upstairs.

  The chairman followed him; and closing the board-room door as soon as they had entered, threw himself upon a sofa. Jonas stood before the window, looking down into the street; and leaned against the sash, resting his head upon his arms.

  “This is not handsome, Chuzzlewit!” said Montague at length. “Not handsome upon my soul!”

  “What would you have me do?” he answered, looking round abruptly; “What do you expect?”

  “Confidence, my good fellow. Some confidence!” said Montague in an injured tone.

  “Ecod! You show great confidence in me,” retorted Jonas. “Don't you?”

  “Do I not?” said his companion, raising his head, and looking at him, but he had turned again. “Do I not? Have I not confided to you the easy schemes I have formed for our advantage; OU
R advantage, mind; not mine alone; and what is my return? Attempted flight!”

  “How do you know that? Who said I meant to fly?”

  “Who said? Come, come. A foreign boat, my friend, an early hour, a figure wrapped up for disguise! Who said? If you didn't mean to jilt me, why were you there? If you didn't mean to jilt me, why did you come back?”

  “I came back,” said Jonas, “to avoid disturbance.”

  “You were wise,” rejoined his friend.

  Jonas stood quite silent; still looking down into the street, and resting his head upon his arms.

  “Now, Chuzzlewit,” said Montague, “notwithstanding what has passed I will be plain with you. Are you attending to me there? I only see your back.”

  “I hear you. Go on!”

  “I say that notwithstanding what has passed, I will be plain with you.”

  “You said that before. And I have told you once I heard you say it. Go on.”

  “You are a little chafed, but I can make allowance for that, and am, fortunately, myself in the very best of tempers. Now, let us see how circumstances stand. A day or two ago, I mentioned to you, my dear fellow, that I thought I had discovered—”

  “Will you hold your tongue?” said Jonas, looking fiercely round, and glancing at the door.

  “Well, well!” said Montague. “Judicious! Quite correct! My discoveries being published, would be like many other men's discoveries in this honest world; of no further use to me. You see, Chuzzlewit, how ingenuous and frank I am in showing you the weakness of my own position! To return. I make, or think I make, a certain discovery which I take an early opportunity of mentioning in your ear, in that spirit of confidence which I really hoped did prevail between us, and was reciprocated by you. Perhaps there is something in it; perhaps there is nothing. I have my knowledge and opinion on the subject. You have yours. We will not discuss the question. But, my good fellow, you have been weak; what I wish to point out to you is, that you have been weak. I may desire to turn this little incident to my account (indeed, I do—I'll not deny it), but my account does not lie in probing it, or using it against you.”