Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand, and pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous fear beset his mind.

  What if the murdered man were there before him!

  He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.

  He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust and damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old. He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away and sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard. These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.

  The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his view; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every sound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking which should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch, and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!

  The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in his bed, and cried:

  “Who's there?”

  It was his wife.

  He asked her what it was o'clock? Nine.

  “Did—did no one knock at my door yesterday?” he faltered. “Something disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have got no notice from me.”

  “No one,” she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless, for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.

  “Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,” she said, “but I told him you were tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let in the cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early; but he hasn't been again.”

  Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and keep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.

  He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go upstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came into that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that they might see him without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all, he could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening to the murmur of their distant conversation.

  He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.

  And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening. For he knew it must come. And his present punishment, and torture and distraction, were, to listen for its coming.

  Hush!

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  BEARS TIDINGS OF MARTIN AND OF MARK, AS WELL AS OF A THIRD PERSON NOT QUITE UNKNOWN TO THE READER. EXHIBITS FILIAL PIETY IN AN UGLY ASPECT; AND CASTS A DOUBTFUL RAY OF LIGHT UPON A VERY DARK PLACE

  Tom Pinch and Ruth were sitting at their early breakfast, with the window open, and a row of the freshest little plants ranged before it on the inside by Ruth's own hands; and Ruth had fastened a sprig of geranium in Tom's button-hole, to make him very smart and summerlike for the day (it was obliged to be fastened in, or that dear old Tom was certain to lose it); and people were crying flowers up and down the street; and a blundering bee, who had got himself in between the two sashes of the window, was bruising his head against the glass, endeavouring to force himself out into the fine morning, and considering himself enchanted because he couldn't do it; and the morning was as fine a morning as ever was seen; and the fragrant air was kissing Ruth and rustling about Tom, as if it said, “how are you, my dears; I came all this way on purpose to salute you;” and it was one of those glad times when we form, or ought to form, the wish that every one on earth were able to be happy, and catching glimpses of the summer of the heart, to feel the beauty of the summer of the year.

  It was even a pleasanter breakfast than usual; and it was always a pleasant one. For little Ruth had now two pupils to attend, each three times a week; and each two hours at a time; and besides this, she had painted some screens and card-racks, and, unknown to Tom (was there ever anything so delightful!), had walked into a certain shop which dealt in such articles, after often peeping through the window; and had taken courage to ask the Mistress of that shop whether she would buy them. And the mistress had not only bought them, but had ordered more, and that very morning Ruth had made confession of these facts to Tom, and had handed him the money in a little purse she had worked expressly for the purpose. They had been in a flutter about this, and perhaps had shed a happy tear or two for anything the history knows to the contrary; but it was all over now; and a brighter face than Tom's, or a brighter face than Ruth's, the bright sun had not looked on since he went to bed last night.

  “My dear girl,” said Tom, coming so abruptly on the subject, that he interrupted himself in the act of cutting a slice of bread, and left the knife sticking in the loaf, “what a queer fellow our landlord is! I don't believe he has been home once since he got me into that unsatisfactory scrape. I begin to think he will never come home again. What a mysterious life that man does lead, to be sure!”

  “Very strange. Is it not, Tom?”

  “Really,” said Tom, “I hope it is only strange. I hope there may be nothing wrong in it. Sometimes I begin to be doubtful of that. I must have an explanation with him,” said Tom, shaking his head as if this were a most tremendous threat, “when I can catch him!”

  A short double knock at the door put Tom's menacing looks to flight, and awakened an expression of surprise instead.

  “Heyday!” said Tom. “An early hour for visitors! It must be John, I suppose.”

  “I—I—don't think it was his knock, Tom,” observed his little sister.

  “No?” said Tom. “It surely can't be my employer suddenly arrived in town; directed here by Mr Fips; and come for the key of the office. It's somebody inquiring for me, I declare! Come in, if you please!”

  But when the person came in, Tom Pinch, instead of saying, “Did you wish to speak with me, sir?” or, “My name is Pinch, sir; what is your business, may I ask?” or addressing him in any such distant terms; cried out, “Good gracious Heaven!” and seized him by both hands, with the liveliest manifestations of astonishment and pleasure.

  The visitor was not less moved than Tom himself, and they shook hands a great many times, without another word being spoken on either side. Tom was the first to find his voice.

  “Mark Tapley, too!” said Tom, running towards the door, and shaking hands with somebody else. “My dear Mark, come in. How are you, Mark? He don't look a day older than he used to do at the Dragon. How ARE you, Mark?”

  “Uncommonly jolly, sir, thank'ee,” returned Mr Tapley, all smiles and bows. “I hope I see you well, sir.”

&n
bsp; “Good gracious me!” cried Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. “How delightful it is to hear his old voice again! My dear Martin, sit down. My sister, Martin. Mr Chuzzlewit, my love. Mark Tapley from the Dragon, my dear. Good gracious me, what a surprise this is! Sit down. Lord, bless me!”

  Tom was in such a state of excitement that he couldn't keep himself still for a moment, but was constantly running between Mark and Martin, shaking hands with them alternately, and presenting them over and over again to his sister.

  “I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday,” said Tom. “What a day it was! and what a passion you were in! And don't you remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I was going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him, and you were looking out for a situation? And don't you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury, Martin, with John Westlock, eh! Good gracious me! Ruth, my dear, Mr Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the Dragon. More cups and saucers, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both!”

  And then Tom (as John Westlock had done on his arrival) ran off to the loaf to cut some bread and butter for them; and before he had spread a single slice, remembered something else, and came running back again to tell it; and then he shook hands with them again; and then he introduced his sister again; and then he did everything he had done already all over again; and nothing Tom could do, and nothing Tom could say, was half sufficient to express his joy at their safe return.

  Mr Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space of time he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as waiter, or attendant upon the party; a fact which was first suggested to them by his temporary absence in the kitchen, and speedy return with a kettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the tea-pot with a self-possession that was quite his own.

  “Sit down, and take your breakfast, Mark,” said Tom. “Make him sit down and take his breakfast, Martin.”

  “Oh! I gave him up, long ago, as incorrigible,” Martin replied. “He takes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew his value.”

  “She knows it, bless you!” said Tom. “I have told her all about Mark Tapley. Have I not, Ruth?”

  “Yes, Tom.”

  “Not all,” returned Martin, in a low voice. “The best of Mark Tapley is only known to one man, Tom; and but for Mark he would hardly be alive to tell it!”

  “Mark!” said Tom Pinch energetically; “if you don't sit down this minute, I'll swear at you!”

  “Well, sir,” returned Mr Tapley, “sooner than you should do that, I'll com-ply. It's a considerable invasion of a man's jollity to be made so partickler welcome, but a Werb is a word as signifies to be, to do, or to suffer (which is all the grammar, and enough too, as ever I wos taught); and if there's a Werb alive, I'm it. For I'm always a-bein”, sometimes a-doin”, and continually a-sufferin”.”

  “Not jolly yet?” asked Tom, with a smile.

  “Why, I was rather so, over the water, sir,” returned Mr Tapley; “and not entirely without credit. But Human Natur” is in a conspiracy again” me; I can't get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be wrote upon my tomb: “He was a man as might have come out strong if he could have got a chance. But it was denied him.”

  Mr Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin, and subsequently attacking the breakfast, with an appetite not at all expressive of blighted hopes, or insurmountable despondency.

  In the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his sister, and related to them what had passed at Mr Pecksniff's house; adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and disappointments he had undergone since he left England.

  “For your faithful stewardship in the trust I left with you, Tom,” he said, “and for all your goodness and disinterestedness, I can never thank you enough. When I add Mary's thanks to mine—”

  Ah, Tom! The blood retreated from his cheeks, and came rushing back, so violently, that it was pain to feel it; ease though, ease, compared with the aching of his wounded heart.

  “When I add Mary's thanks to mine,” said Martin, “I have made the only poor acknowledgment it is in our power to offer; but if you knew how much we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure.”

  And if they had known how much Tom felt—but that no human creature ever knew—they would have set some store by him. Indeed they would.

  Tom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it, as it gave Martin pleasure; but he was unable, at that moment. No drop of envy or bitterness was in his soul; but he could not master the firm utterance of her name.

  He inquired what Martin's projects were.

  “No longer to make your fortune, Tom,” said Martin, “but to try to live. I tried that once in London, Tom; and failed. If you will give me the benefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under your guidance. I will do anything Tom, anything, to gain a livelihood by my own exertions. My hopes do not soar above that, now.”

  High-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find the pride of his old companion humbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once, at once, he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep emotions, and spoke out bravely.

  “Your hopes do not soar above that!” cried Tom. “Yes they do. How can you talk so! They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe that you were ever cast down in spirit, or poor in pocket, Martin. Advice, and friendly counsel! Why, of course. But you shall have better advice and counsel (though you cannot have more friendly) than mine. You shall consult John Westlock. We'll go there immediately. It is yet so early that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to business; they are in my way; and I can leave you there, to talk over your affairs with him. So come along. Come along. I am a man of occupation now, you know,” said Tom, with his pleasantest smile; “and have no time to lose. Your hopes don't soar higher than that? I dare say they don't. I know you, pretty well. They'll be soaring out of sight soon, Martin, and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind.”

  “Aye! But I may be a little changed,” said Martin, “since you knew me pretty well, Tom.”

  “What nonsense!” exclaimed Tom. “Why should you be changed? You talk as if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow! Come to John Westlock's, come. Come along, Mark Tapley. It's Mark's doing, I have no doubt; and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your companion.”

  “There's no credit to be got through being jolly with YOU, Mr Pinch, anyways,” said Mark, with his face all wrinkled up with grins. “A parish doctor might be jolly with you. There's nothing short of goin” to the U-nited States for a second trip, as would make it at all creditable to be jolly, arter seein” you again!”

  Tom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out into the street, and away to John Westlock's by the nearest road; for his hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on always being exact to his time.

  John Westlock was at home, but, strange to say, was rather embarrassed to see them; and when Tom was about to go into the room where he was breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a mysterious stranger, for John shut that door as he said it, and led them into the next room.

  He was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley; and received Martin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not inspire John Westlock with any unusual interest; and twice or thrice observed that he looked at Tom Pinch doubtfully; not to say compassionately. He thought, and blushed to think, that he knew the cause of this.

  “I apprehend you are engaged,” said Martin, when Tom had announced the purport of their visit. “If you will allow me to come again at your own time, I shall be glad to do so.”

  “I AM engaged,” replied John, wi
th some reluctance; “but the matter on which I am engaged is one, to say the truth, more immediately demanding your knowledge than mine.”

  “Indeed!” cried Martin.

  “It relates to a member of your family, and is of a serious nature. If you will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to me to have it privately communicated to you, in order that you may judge of its importance for yourself.”

  “And in the meantime,” said Tom, “I must really take myself off, without any further ceremony.”

  “Is your business so very particular,” asked Martin, “that you cannot remain with us for half an hour? I wish you could. What IS your business, Tom?”

  It was Tom's turn to be embarrassed now; but he plainly said, after a little hesitation:

  “Why, I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin; though I hope soon to be in a condition to do so, and am aware of no other reason to prevent my doing so now, than the request of my employer. It's an awkward position to be placed in,” said Tom, with an uneasy sense of seeming to doubt his friend, “as I feel every day; but I really cannot help it, can I, John?”

  John Westlock replied in the negative; and Martin, expressing himself perfectly satisfied, begged them not to say another word; though he could not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held, and why he was so secret, and embarrassed, and unlike himself, in reference to it. Nor could he help reverting to it, in his own mind, several times after Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was ended, taking Mr Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might accompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury.

  “And what do you mean to do, Mark?” asked Tom, as they walked on together.

  “Mean to do, sir?” returned Mr Tapley.

  “Aye. What course of life do you mean to pursue?”

  “Well, sir,” said Mr Tapley. “The fact is, that I have been a-thinking rather of the matrimonial line, sir.”

  “You don't say so, Mark!” cried Tom.