Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  “I know the human mind, although I trust it. That is my weakness. Do I not know, sir'—here he became exceedingly plaintive and was observed to glance towards Tom Pinch—'that my misfortunes bring this treatment on me? Do I not know, sir, that but for them I never should have heard what I have heard to-day? Do I not know that in the silence and the solitude of night, a little voice will whisper in your ear, Mr Chuzzlewit, “This was not well. This was not well, sir!” Think of this, sir (if you will have the goodness), remote from the impulses of passion, and apart from the specialities, if I may use that strong remark, of prejudice. And if you ever contemplate the silent tomb, sir, which you will excuse me for entertaining some doubt of your doing, after the conduct into which you have allowed yourself to be betrayed this day; if you ever contemplate the silent tomb sir, think of me. If you find yourself approaching to the silent tomb, sir, think of me. If you should wish to have anything inscribed upon your silent tomb, sir, let it be, that I—ah, my remorseful sir! that I—the humble individual who has now the honour of reproaching you, forgave you. That I forgave you when my injuries were fresh, and when my bosom was newly wrung. It may be bitterness to you to hear it now, sir, but you will live to seek a consolation in it. May you find a consolation in it when you want it, sir! Good morning!”

  With this sublime address, Mr Pecksniff departed. But the effect of his departure was much impaired by his being immediately afterwards run against, and nearly knocked down, by a monstrously excited little man in velveteen shorts and a very tall hat; who came bursting up the stairs, and straight into the chambers of Mr Chuzzlewit, as if he were deranged.

  “Is there anybody here that knows him?” cried the little man. “Is there anybody here that knows him? Oh, my stars, is there anybody here that knows him?”

  They looked at each other for an explanation; but nobody knew anything more than that here was an excited little man with a very tall hat on, running in and out of the room as hard as he could go; making his single pair of bright blue stockings appear at least a dozen; and constantly repeating in a shrill voice, “IS there anybody here that knows him?”

  “If your brains is not turned topjy turjey, Mr Sweedlepipes!” exclaimed another voice, “hold that there nige of yourn, I beg you, sir.”

  At the same time Mrs Gamp was seen in the doorway; out of breath from coming up so many stairs, and panting fearfully; but dropping curtseys to the last.

  “Excuge the weakness of the man,” said Mrs Gamp, eyeing Mr Sweedlepipe with great indignation; “and well I might expect it, as I should have know'd, and wishin” he was drownded in the Thames afore I had brought him here, which not a blessed hour ago he nearly shaved the noge off from the father of as lovely a family as ever, Mr Chuzzlewit, was born three sets of twins, and would have done it, only he see it a-goin” in the glass, and dodged the rager. And never, Mr Sweedlepipes, I do assure you, sir, did I so well know what a misfortun it was to be acquainted with you, as now I do, which so I say, sir, and I don't deceive you!”

  “I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all,” cried the little barber, taking off his hat, “and yours too, Mrs Gamp. But—but,” he added this half laughing and half crying, “IS there anybody here that knows him?”

  As the barber said these words, a something in top-boots, with its head bandaged up, staggered into the room, and began going round and round and round, apparently under the impression that it was walking straight forward.

  “Look at him!” cried the excited little barber. “Here he is! That'll soon wear off, and then he'll be all right again. He's no more dead than I am. He's all alive and hearty. Aint you, Bailey?”

  “R—r—reether so, Poll!” replied that gentleman.

  “Look here!” cried the little barber, laughing and crying in the same breath. “When I steady him he comes all right. There! He's all right now. Nothing's the matter with him now, except that he's a little shook and rather giddy; is there, Bailey?”

  “R—r—reether shook, Poll—reether so!” said Mr Bailey. “What, my lovely Sairey! There you air!”

  “What a boy he is!” cried the tender-hearted Poll, actually sobbing over him. “I never see sech a boy! It's all his fun. He's full of it. He shall go into the business along with me. I am determined he shall. We'll make it Sweedlepipe and Bailey. He shall have the sporting branch (what a one he'll be for the matches!) and me the shavin”. I'll make over the birds to him as soon as ever he's well enough. He shall have the little bullfinch in the shop, and all. He's sech a boy! I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought there might be some one here that know'd him!”

  Mrs Gamp had observed, not without jealousy and scorn, that a favourable impression appeared to exist in behalf of Mr Sweedlepipe and his young friend; and that she had fallen rather into the background in consequence. She now struggled to the front, therefore, and stated her business.

  “Which, Mr Chuzzlewit,” she said, “is well beknown to Mrs Harris as has one sweet infant (though she DO not wish it known) in her own family by the mother's side, kep in spirits in a bottle; and that sweet babe she see at Greenwich Fair, a-travelling in company with a pink-eyed lady, Prooshan dwarf, and livin” skelinton, which judge her feelings when the barrel organ played, and she was showed her own dear sister's child, the same not bein” expected from the outside picter, where it was painted quite contrairy in a livin” state, a many sizes larger, and performing beautiful upon the Arp, which never did that dear child know or do; since breathe it never did, to speak on in this wale! And Mrs Harris, Mr Chuzzlewit, has knowed me many year, and can give you information that the lady which is widdered can't do better and may do worse, than let me wait upon her, which I hope to do. Permittin” the sweet faces as I see afore me.”

  “Oh!” said Mr Chuzzlewit. “Is that your business? Was this good person paid for the trouble we gave her?”

  “I paid her, sir,” returned Mark Tapley; “liberal.”

  “The young man's words is true,” said Mrs Gamp, “and thank you kindly.”

  “Then here we will close our acquaintance, Mrs Gamp,” retorted Mr Chuzzlewit. “And Mr Sweedlepipe—is that your name?”

  “That is my name, sir,” replied Poll, accepting with a profusion of gratitude, some chinking pieces which the old man slipped into his hand.

  “Mr Sweedlepipe, take as much care of your lady-lodger as you can, and give her a word or two of good advice now and then. Such,” said old Martin, looking gravely at the astonished Mrs Gamp, “as hinting at the expediency of a little less liquor, and a little more humanity, and a little less regard for herself, and a little more regard for her patients, and perhaps a trifle of additional honesty. Or when Mrs Gamp gets into trouble, Mr Sweedlepipe, it had better not be at a time when I am near enough to the Old Bailey to volunteer myself as a witness to her character. Endeavour to impress that upon her at your leisure, if you please.”

  Mrs Gamp clasped her hands, turned up her eyes until they were quite invisible, threw back her bonnet for the admission of fresh air to her heated brow; and in the act of saying faintly—'Less liquor!— Sairey Gamp—Bottle on the chimney-piece, and let me put my lips to it, when I am so dispoged!'—fell into one of the walking swoons; in which pitiable state she was conducted forth by Mr Sweedlepipe, who, between his two patients, the swooning Mrs Gamp and the revolving Bailey, had enough to do, poor fellow.

  The old man looked about him, with a smile, until his eyes rested on Tom Pinch's sister; when he smiled the more.

  “We will all dine here together,” he said; “and as you and Mary have enough to talk of, Martin, you shall keep house for us until the afternoon, with Mr and Mrs Tapley. I must see your lodgings in the meanwhile, Tom.”

  Tom was quite delighted. So was Ruth. She would go with them.

  “Thank you, my love,” said Mr Chuzzlewit. “But I am afraid I must take Tom a little out of the way, on business. Suppose you go on first, my dear?”

  Pretty little Ruth was equally delighted to do that.
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  “But not alone,” said Martin, “not alone. Mr Westlock, I dare say, will escort you.”

  Why, of course he would: what else had Mr Westlock in his mind? How dull these old men are!

  “You are sure you have no engagement?” he persisted.

  Engagement! As if he could have any engagement!

  So they went off arm-in-arm. When Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit went off arm-in-arm a few minutes after them, the latter was still smiling; and really, for a gentleman of his habits, in rather a knowing manner.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  WHAT JOHN WESTLOCK SAID TO TOM PINCH'S SISTER; WHAT TOM PINCH'S SISTER SAID TO JOHN WESTLOCK; WHAT TOM PINCH SAID TO BOTH OF THEM; AND HOW THEY ALL PASSED THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY

  Brilliantly the Temple Fountain sparkled in the sun, and laughingly its liquid music played, and merrily the idle drops of water danced and danced, and peeping out in sport among the trees, plunged lightly down to hide themselves, as little Ruth and her companion came toward it.

  And why they came toward the Fountain at all is a mystery; for they had no business there. It was not in their way. It was quite out of their way. They had no more to do with the Fountain, bless you, than they had with—with Love, or any out-of-the-way thing of that sort.

  It was all very well for Tom and his sister to make appointments by the Fountain, but that was quite another affair. Because, of course, when she had to wait a minute or two, it would have been very awkward for her to have had to wait in any but a tolerably quiet spot; but that was as quiet a spot, everything considered, as they could choose. But when she had John Westlock to take care of her, and was going home with her arm in his (home being in a different direction altogether), their coming anywhere near that Fountain was quite extraordinary.

  However, there they found themselves. And another extraordinary part of the matter was, that they seemed to have come there, by a silent understanding. Yet when they got there, they were a little confused by being there, which was the strangest part of all; because there is nothing naturally confusing in a Fountain. We all know that.

  What a good old place it was! John said. With quite an earnest affection for it

  “A pleasant place indeed,” said little Ruth. “So shady!”

  Oh wicked little Ruth!

  They came to a stop when John began to praise it. The day was exquisite; and stopping at all, it was quite natural—nothing could be more so—that they should glance down Garden Court; because Garden Court ends in the Garden, and the Garden ends in the River, and that glimpse is very bright and fresh and shining on a summer's day. Then, oh, little Ruth, why not look boldly at it! Why fit that tiny, precious, blessed little foot into the cracked corner of an insensible old flagstone in the pavement; and be so very anxious to adjust it to a nicety!

  If the Fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet could have seen them as they walked away, how many years” purchase might Fiery Face have been disposed to take for her situation in Furnival's Inn as laundress to Mr Westlock!

  They went away, but not through London 's streets! Through some enchanted city, where the pavements were of air; where all the rough sounds of a stirring town were softened into gentle music; where everything was happy; where there was no distance, and no time. There were two good-tempered burly draymen letting down big butts of beer into a cellar, somewhere; and when John helped her—almost lifted her—the lightest, easiest, neatest thing you ever saw— across the rope, they said he owed them a good turn for giving him the chance. Celestial draymen!

  Green pastures in the summer tide, deep-littered straw yards in the winter, no start of corn and clover, ever, to that noble horse who WOULD dance on the pavement with a gig behind him, and who frightened her, and made her clasp his arm with both hands (both hands meeting one upon the another so endearingly!), and caused her to implore him to take refuge in the pastry-cook's, and afterwards to peep out at the door so shrinkingly; and then, looking at him with those eyes, to ask him was he sure—now was he sure—they might go safely on! Oh for a string of rampant horses! For a lion, for a bear, for a mad bull, for anything to bring the little hands together on his arm again!

  They talked, of course. They talked of Tom, and all these changes and the attachment Mr Chuzzlewit had conceived for him, and the bright prospects he had in such a friend, and a great deal more to the same purpose. The more they talked, the more afraid this fluttering little Ruth became of any pause; and sooner than have a pause she would say the same things over again; and if she hadn't courage or presence of mind enough for that (to say the truth she very seldom had), she was ten thousand times more charming and irresistible than she had been before.

  “Martin will be married very soon now, I suppose?” said John.

  She supposed he would. Never did a bewitching little woman suppose anything in such a faint voice as Ruth supposed that.

  But seeing that another of those alarming pauses was approaching, she remarked that he would have a beautiful wife. Didn't Mr Westlock think so?

  “Ye—yes,” said John, “oh, yes.”

  She feared he was rather hard to please, he spoke so coldly.

  “Rather say already pleased,” said John. “I have scarcely seen her. I had no care to see her. I had no eyes for HER, this morning.”

  Oh, good gracious!

  It was well they had reached their destination. She never could have gone any further. It would have been impossible to walk in such a tremble.

  Tom had not come in. They entered the triangular parlour together, and alone. Fiery Face, Fiery Face, how many years” purchase NOW!

  She sat down on the little sofa, and untied her bonnet-strings. He sat down by her side, and very near her; very, very near her. Oh rapid, swelling, bursting little heart, you knew that it would come to this, and hoped it would. Why beat so wildly, heart!

  “Dear Ruth! Sweet Ruth! If I had loved you less, I could have told you that I loved you, long ago. I have loved you from the first. There never was a creature in the world more truly loved than you, dear Ruth, by me!”

  She clasped her little hands before her face. The gushing tears of joy, and pride, and hope, and innocent affection, would not be restrained. Fresh from her full young heart they came to answer him.

  “My dear love! If this is—I almost dare to hope it is, now—not painful or distressing to you, you make me happier than I can tell, or you imagine. Darling Ruth! My own good, gentle, winning Ruth! I hope I know the value of your heart, I hope I know the worth of your angel nature. Let me try and show you that I do; and you will make me happier, Ruth—”

  “Not happier,” she sobbed, “than you make me. No one can be happier, John, than you make me!”

  Fiery Face, provide yourself! The usual wages or the usual warning. It's all over, Fiery Face. We needn't trouble you any further.

  The little hands could meet each other now, without a rampant horse to urge them. There was no occasion for lions, bears, or mad bulls. It could all be done, and infinitely better, without their assistance. No burly drayman or big butts of beer, were wanted for apologies. No apology at all was wanted. The soft light touch fell coyly, but quite naturally, upon the lover's shoulder; the delicate waist, the drooping head, the blushing cheek, the beautiful eyes, the exquisite mouth itself, were all as natural as possible. If all the horses in Araby had run away at once, they couldn't have improved upon it.

  They soon began to talk of Tom again.

  “I hope he will be glad to hear of it!” said John, with sparkling eyes.

  Ruth drew the little hands a little tighter when he said it, and looked up seriously into his face.

  “I am never to leave him, AM I, dear? I could never leave Tom. I am sure you know that.”

  “Do you think I would ask you?” he returned, with a—well! Never mind with what.

  “I am sure you never would,” she answered, the bright tears standing in her eyes.

  “And I will swear it, Ruth, my darling, if you please. Leave Tom! That would be
a strange beginning. Leave Tom, dear! If Tom and we be not inseparable, and Tom (God bless him) have not all honour and all love in our home, my little wife, may that home never be! And that's a strong oath, Ruth.”

  Shall it be recorded how she thanked him? Yes, it shall. In all simplicity and innocence and purity of heart, yet with a timid, graceful, half-determined hesitation, she set a little rosy seal upon the vow, whose colour was reflected in her face, and flashed up to the braiding of her dark brown hair.

  “Tom will be so happy, and so proud, and glad,” she said, clasping her little hands. “But so surprised! I am sure he had never thought of such a thing.”

  Of course John asked her immediately—because you know they were in that foolish state when great allowances must be made—when SHE had begun to think of such a thing, and this made a little diversion in their talk; a charming diversion to them, but not so interesting to us; at the end of which, they came back to Tom again.

  “Ah! dear Tom!” said Ruth. “I suppose I ought to tell you everything now. I should have no secrets from you. Should I, John, love?”

  It is of no use saying how that preposterous John answered her, because he answered in a manner which is untranslatable on paper though highly satisfactory in itself. But what he conveyed was, No no no, sweet Ruth; or something to that effect.

  Then she told him Tom's great secret; not exactly saying how she had found it out, but leaving him to understand it if he liked; and John was sadly grieved to hear it, and was full of sympathy and sorrow. But they would try, he said, only the more, on this account to make him happy, and to beguile him with his favourite pursuits. And then, in all the confidence of such a time, he told her how he had a capital opportunity of establishing himself in his old profession in the country; and how he had been thinking, in the event of that happiness coming upon him which had actually come—there was another slight diversion here—how he had been thinking that it would afford occupation to Tom, and enable them to live together in the easiest manner, without any sense of dependence on Tom's part; and to be as happy as the day was long. And Ruth receiving this with joy, they went on catering for Tom to that extent that they had already purchased him a select library and built him an organ, on which he was performing with the greatest satisfaction, when they heard him knocking at the door.