Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  Who so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early tap at Tom's door, and her light foot outside, would have been music to him though she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest morning ever seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she would have made it so to Tom.

  She was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs, and had her bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news, that Tom was lost in wonder. She might have been up all night, collecting it for his entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come home yet, and there was bread down a penny a loaf, and there was twice as much strength in this tea as in the last, and the milkwoman's husband had come out of the hospital cured, and the curlyheaded child over the way had been lost all yesterday, and she was going to make all sorts of preserves in a desperate hurry, and there happened to be a saucepan in the house which was the very saucepan for the purpose; and she knew all about the last book Tom had brought home, all through, though it was a teaser to read; and she had so much to tell him that she had finished breakfast first. Then she had her little bonnet on, and the tea and sugar locked up, and the keys in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom's coat, and was in all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew she had begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence in his own assertion which amounted to a defiance of the public in general, there never was such a little woman.

  She made Tom talkative. It was impossible to resist her. She put such enticing questions to him; about books, and about dates of churches, and about organs and about the Temple, and about all kinds of things. Indeed, she lightened the way (and Tom's heart with it) to that degree, that the Temple looked quite blank and solitary when he parted from her at the gate.

  “No Mr Fips's friend to-day, I suppose,” thought Tom, as he ascended the stairs.

  Not yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom opened it with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now, and had mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs, and substituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked a different place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride in comtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one to approve or disapprove of it.

  He was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught of the catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfully concentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had ever expended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff's workroom. It was a very marvel of a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really getting his money too easily, and he had determined within himself that this document should take a little of his superfluous leisure out of him.

  So with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and pencil, and black ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning. He thought a good deal about Martin, and their interview of yesterday, and would have been far easier in his mind if he could have resolved to confide it to his friend John, and to have taken his opinion on the subject. But besides that he knew what John's boiling indignation would be, he bethought himself that he was helping Martin now in a matter of great moment, and that to deprive the latter of his assistance at such a crisis of affairs, would be to inflict a serious injury upon him.

  “So I'll keep it to myself,” said Tom, with a sigh. “I'll keep it to myself.”

  And to work he went again, more assiduously than ever, with the pens, and the ruler, and the india-rubber, and the pencils, and the red ink, that he might forget it.

  He had laboured away another hour or more, when he heard a footstep in the entry, down below.

  “Ah!” said Tom, looking towards the door; “time was, not long ago either, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But I have left off now.”

  The footstep came on, up the stairs.

  “Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,” said Tom, counting. “Now you'll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth stair.”

  The person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the footstep came again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.

  The door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked impatiently and eagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the landing, and arriving in the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he rose up from his chair, and half believed he saw a spirit.

  Old Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr Pecksniff's, weak and sinking!

  The same? No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was strong, and leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with the other he signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the resolute face, the watchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff, the triumphant purpose in the figure, and such a light broke in on Tom as blinded him.

  “You have expected me,” said Martin, “a long time.”

  “I was told that my employer would arrive soon,” said Tom; “but—”

  “I know. You were ignorant who he was. It was my desire. I am glad it has been so well observed. I intended to have been with you much sooner. I thought the time had come. I thought I could know no more, and no worse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you last. But I was wrong.”

  He had by this time come up to Tom, and now he grasped his hand.

  “I have lived in his house, Pinch, and had him fawning on me days and weeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to treat me like his tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me there. I have undergone ten thousand times as much as I could have endured if I had been the miserable weak old man he took me for. You know it. I have seen him offer love to Mary. You know it; who better— who better, my true heart! I have had his base soul bare before me, day by day, and have not betrayed myself once. I never could have undergone such torture but for looking forward to this time.”

  He stopped, even in the passion of his speech—if that can be called passion which was so resolute and steady—to press Tom's hand again. Then he said, in great excitement:

  “Close the door, close the door. He will not be long after me, but may come too soon. The time now drawing on,” said the old man, hurriedly—his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke—'will make amends for all. I wouldn't have him die or hang himself, for millions of golden pieces! Close the door!”

  Tom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a dream.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  SHEDS NEW AND BRIGHTER LIGHT UPON THE VERY DARK PLACE; AND CONTAINS THE SEQUEL OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

  The night had now come, when the old clerk was to be delivered over to his keepers. In the midst of his guilty distractions, Jonas had not forgotten it.

  It was a part of his guilty state of mind to remember it; for on his persistence in the scheme depended one of his precautions for his own safety. A hint, a word, from the old man, uttered at such a moment in attentive ears, might fire the train of suspicion, and destroy him. His watchfulness of every avenue by which the discovery of his guilt might be approached, sharpened with his sense of the danger by which he was encompassed. With murder on his soul, and its innumerable alarms and terrors dragging at him night and day, he would have repeated the crime, if he had seen a path of safety stretching out beyond. It was in his punishment; it was in his guilty condition. The very deed which his fears rendered insupportable, his fears would have impelled him to commit again.

  But keeping the old man close, according to his design, would serve his turn. His purpose was to escape, when the first alarm and wonder had subsided; and when he could make the attempt without awakening instant suspicion. In the meanwhile these women would keep him quiet; and if the talking humour came upon him, would not be easily startled. He knew their trade.

  Nor had he spoken idly when he said the old man should be gagged. He had resolved to ensure his silence; and he looked to the end, not the means. He had been rough and rude and cruel to the old man all his life; and violence was natural to his mind in connection with him. “He shall be gagged if he speaks, a
nd pinioned if he writes,” said Jonas, looking at him; for they sat alone together. “He is mad enough for that; I'll go through with it!”

  Hush!

  Still listening! To every sound. He had listened ever since, and it had not come yet. The exposure of the Assurance office; the flight of Crimple and Bullamy with the plunder, and among the rest, as he feared, with his own bill, which he had not found in the pocket-book of the murdered man, and which with Mr Pecksniff's money had probably been remitted to one or other of those trusty friends for safe deposit at the banker's; his immense losses, and peril of being still called to account as a partner in the broken firm; all these things rose in his mind at one time and always, but he could not contemplate them. He was aware of their presence, and of the rage, discomfiture, and despair, they brought along with them; but he thought—of his own controlling power and direction he thought—of the one dread question only. When they would find the body in the wood.

  He tried—he had never left off trying—not to forget it was there, for that was impossible, but to forget to weary himself by drawing vivid pictures of it in his fancy; by going softly about it and about it among the leaves, approaching it nearer and nearer through a gap in the boughs, and startling the very flies that were thickly sprinkled all over it, like heaps of dried currants. His mind was fixed and fastened on the discovery, for intelligence of which he listened intently to every cry and shout; listened when any one came in or went out; watched from the window the people who passed up and down the street; mistrusted his own looks and words. And the more his thoughts were set upon the discovery, the stronger was the fascination which attracted them to the thing itself; lying alone in the wood. He was for ever showing and presenting it, as it were, to every creature whom he saw. “Look here! Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?” If he had been condemned to bear the body in his arms, and lay it down for recognition at the feet of every one he met, it could not have been more constantly with him, or a cause of more monotonous and dismal occupation than it was in this state of his mind.

  Still he was not sorry. It was no contrition or remorse for what he had done that moved him; it was nothing but alarm for his own security. The vague consciousness he possessed of having wrecked his fortune in the murderous venture, intensified his hatred and revenge, and made him set the greater store by what he had gained The man was dead; nothing could undo that. He felt a triumph yet, in the reflection.

  He had kept a jealous watch on Chuffey ever since the deed; seldom leaving him but on compulsion, and then for as short intervals as possible. They were alone together now. It was twilight, and the appointed time drew near at hand. Jonas walked up and down the room. The old man sat in his accustomed corner.

  The slightest circumstance was matter of disquiet to the murderer, and he was made uneasy at this time by the absence of his wife, who had left home early in the afternoon, and had not returned yet. No tenderness for her was at the bottom of this; but he had a misgiving that she might have been waylaid, and tempted into saying something that would criminate him when the news came. For anything he knew, she might have knocked at the door of his room, while he was away, and discovered his plot. Confound her, it was like her pale face to be wandering up and down the house! Where was she now?

  “She went to her good friend, Mrs Todgers,” said the old man, when he asked the question with an angry oath.

  Aye! To be sure! Always stealing away into the company of that woman. She was no friend of his. Who could tell what devil's mischief they might hatch together! Let her be fetched home directly.

  The old man, muttering some words softly, rose as if he would have gone himself, but Jonas thrust him back into his chair with an impatient imprecation, and sent a servant-girl to fetch her. When he had charged her with her errand he walked to and fro again, and never stopped till she came back, which she did pretty soon; the way being short, and the woman having made good haste.

  Well! Where was she? Had she come?

  No. She had left there, full three hours.

  “Left there! Alone?”

  The messenger had not asked; taking that for granted.

  “Curse you for a fool. Bring candles!”

  She had scarcely left the room when the old clerk, who had been unusually observant of him ever since he had asked about his wife, came suddenly upon him.

  “Give her up!” cried the old man. “Come! Give her up to me! Tell me what you have done with her. Quick! I have made no promises on that score. Tell me what you have done with her.”

  He laid his hands upon his collar as he spoke, and grasped it; tightly too.

  “You shall not leave me!” cried the old man. “I am strong enough to cry out to the neighbours, and I will, unless you give her up. Give her up to me!”

  Jonas was so dismayed and conscience-stricken, that he had not even hardihood enough to unclench the old man's hands with his own; but stood looking at him as well as he could in the darkness, without moving a finger. It was as much as he could do to ask him what he meant.

  “I will know what you have done with her!” retorted Chuffey. “If you hurt a hair of her head, you shall answer it. Poor thing! Poor thing! Where is she?”

  “Why, you old madman!” said Jonas, in a low voice, and with trembling lips. “What Bedlam fit has come upon you now?”

  “It is enough to make me mad, seeing what I have seen in this house!” cried Chuffey. “Where is my dear old master! Where is his only son that I have nursed upon my knee, a child! Where is she, she who was the last; she that I've seen pining day by day, and heard weeping in the dead of night! She was the last, the last of all my friends! Heaven help me, she was the very last!”

  Seeing that the tears were stealing down his face, Jonas mustered courage to unclench his hands, and push him off before he answered:

  “Did you hear me ask for her? Did you hear me send for her? How can I give you up what I haven't got, idiot! Ecod, I'd give her up to you and welcome, if I could; and a precious pair you'd be!”

  “If she has come to any harm,” cried Chuffey, “mind! I'm old and silly; but I have my memory sometimes; and if she has come to any harm—”

  “Devil take you,” interrupted Jonas, but in a suppressed voice still; “what harm do you suppose she has come to? I know no more where she is than you do; I wish I did. Wait till she comes home, and see; she can't be long. Will that content you?”

  “Mind!” exclaimed the old man. “Not a hair of her head! not a hair of her head ill-used! I won't bear it. I—I—have borne it too long Jonas. I am silent, but I—I—I can speak. I—I—I can speak—” he stammered, as he crept back to his chair, and turned a threatening, though a feeble, look upon him.

  “You can speak, can you!” thought Jonas. “So, so, we'll stop your speaking. It's well I knew of this in good time. Prevention is better than cure.”

  He had made a poor show of playing the bully and evincing a desire to conciliate at the same time, but was so afraid of the old man that great drops had started out upon his brow; and they stood there yet. His unusual tone of voice and agitated manner had sufficiently expressed his fear; but his face would have done so now, without that aid, as he again walked to and fro, glancing at him by the candelight.

  He stopped at the window to think. An opposite shop was lighted up; and the tradesman and a customer were reading some printed bill together across the counter. The sight brought him back, instantly, to the occupation he had forgotten. “Look here! Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?”

  A hand upon the door. “What's that!”

  “A pleasant evenin',” said the voice of Mrs Gamp, “though warm, which, bless you, Mr Chuzzlewit, we must expect when cowcumbers is three for twopence. How does Mr Chuffey find his self to-night, sir?”

  Mrs Gamp kept particularly close to the door in saying this, and curtseyed more than usual. She did not appear to be quite so much at her ease as she generally was.

  “Get him to his room,” said
Jonas, walking up to her, and speaking in her ear. “He has been raving to-night—stark mad. Don't talk while he's here, but come down again.”

  “Poor sweet dear!” cried Mrs Gamp, with uncommon tenderness. “He's all of a tremble.”

  “Well he may be,” said Jonas, “after the mad fit he has had. Get him upstairs.”

  She was by this time assisting him to rise.

  “There's my blessed old chick!” cried Mrs Gamp, in a tone that was at once soothing and encouraging. “There's my darlin” Mr Chuffey! Now come up to your own room, sir, and lay down on your bed a bit; for you're a-shakin” all over, as if your precious jints was hung upon wires. That's a good creetur! Come with Sairey!”

  “Is she come home?” inquired the old man.

  “She'll be here directly minit,” returned Mrs Gamp. “Come with Sairey, Mr Chuffey. Come with your own Sairey!”

  The good woman had no reference to any female in the world in promising this speedy advent of the person for whom Mr Chuffey inquired, but merely threw it out as a means of pacifying the old man. It had its effect, for he permitted her to lead him away; and they quitted the room together.

  Jonas looked out of the window again. They were still reading the printed paper in the shop opposite, and a third man had joined in the perusal. What could it be, to interest them so?”

  A dispute or discussion seemed to arise among them, for they all looked up from their reading together, and one of the three, who had been glancing over the shoulder of another, stepped back to explain or illustrate some action by his gestures.

  Horror! How like the blow he had struck in the wood!

  It beat him from the window as if it had lighted on himself. As he staggered into a chair, he thought of the change in Mrs Gamp exhibited in her new-born tenderness to her charge. Was that because it was found?—because she knew of it?—because she suspected him?

  “Mr Chuffey is a-lyin” down,” said Mrs Gamp, returning, “and much good may it do him, Mr Chuzzlewit, which harm it can't and good it may; be joyful!”