CHAPTER FIFTY
SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSEDBETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER
It was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting togetherbefore tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great manythings, but not at all about Lewsome's story or anything connected withit; for John Westlock--really John, for so young a man, was one of themost considerate fellows in the world--had particularly advised Tom notto mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her.'And I wouldn't, Tom,' he said, with a little hesitation, 'I wouldn'thave a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentleheart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!' Really John wasuncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tomsaid, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.
But although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they wereless lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that thisoriginated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dullhimself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of herquiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.
And there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tomwas looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towardshis face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, andthen grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon the summer weather,she would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if she were about to throwherself upon his neck; then check the impulse, and when he lookedround, show a laughing face, and speak to him very merrily; when she hadanything to give Tom, or had any excuse for coming near him, she wouldflutter about him, and lay her bashful hand upon his shoulder, and notbe willing to withdraw it; and would show by all such means that therewas something on her heart which in her great love she longed to say tohim, but had not the courage to utter.
So they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not working, andTom with his book beside him, but not reading, when Martin knockedat the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to open it; and he andMartin came back into the room together. Tom looked surprised, for inanswer to his cordial greeting Martin had hardly spoken a word.
Ruth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of theirvisitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom's face, as if she wereseeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made the same muteappeal to Martin.
Martin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood therelooking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but hastilyaverted his head again, without doing so.
'What has happened, Martin?' Tom anxiously inquired. 'My dear fellow,what bad news do you bring?'
'Oh, Tom!' replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. 'To hear youfeign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even morethan your ungenerous dealing.'
'My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My--' Tom could say no more.
'How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so ferventlyand sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that youhad deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of whatyou used to be--of what I am sure you used to be--to tempt me, when youhad turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!'
His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for theloss of a friend he had trusted in--it expressed such high past lovefor Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposedunworthiness--that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, andhad no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monsterof deceit and falsehood.
'I protest, as I must die,' said Martin, 'that I grieve over the lossof what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my owninjuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that weknow the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear,little as I showed it--little as I know I showed it--that when I had theleast consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.'
Tom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of Truth,in a homely dress--it very often wears a homely dress, thank God!--whenhe replied to him.
'Martin,' he said, 'I don't know what is in your mind, or who has abusedit, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are false. There isno truth whatever in the impression under which you labour. It is adelusion from first to last; and I warn you that you will deeply regretthe wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I have been true to you,and to myself. You will be very sorry for this. Indeed, you will be verysorry for it, Martin.'
'I AM sorry,' returned Martin, shaking his head. 'I think I never knewwhat it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.'
'At least,' said Tom, 'if I had always been what you charge me withbeing now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had always beendespised by you, and had always deserved it, you should tell me in whatyou have found me to be treacherous; and on what grounds you proceed. Ido not intreat you, therefore, to give me that satisfaction as a favour,Martin, but I ask it of you as a right.'
'My own eyes are my witnesses,' returned Martin. 'Am I to believe them?'
'No,' said Tom, calmly. 'Not if they accuse me.'
'Your own words. Your own manner,' pursued Martin. 'Am I to believeTHEM?'
'No,' replied Tom, calmly. 'Not if they accuse me. But they never haveaccused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose, has wrongedme almost as cruelly'--his calmness rather failed him here--'as you havedone.'
'I came here,' said Martin; 'and I appeal to your good sister to hearme--'
'Not to her,' interrupted Tom. 'Pray, do not appeal to her. She willnever believe you.'
He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.
'I believe it, Tom!'
'No, no,' cried Tom, 'of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. Whata silly little thing you are!'
'I never meant,' said Martin, hastily, 'to appeal to you against yourbrother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to youto hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach--Ihave not one reproach to vent--but in deep regret. You could not know inwhat bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought ofTom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forwardto the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I havebelieved and trusted in him.'
'Tut, tut,' said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. 'He ismistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be setright at last.'
'Heaven bless the day that sets me right!' cried Martin, 'if it couldever come!'
'Amen!' said Tom. 'And it will!'
Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:
'You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting.It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side--'
'There is none on mine,' said Tom.
'--It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about.I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice thatmight have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which Idid not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgmentmore than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; andthere is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, onthe other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and thechoice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resistsuch temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yieldedto them; and I DO blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with ashow of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted meto confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; whenyou had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,' said Martin, withemotion--'hear me say it from my heart--I CANNOT believe, Tom, now thatI am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in yournature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, bychance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you;I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarde
dyour retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price,bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that Ihave found out what you so much desired to keep secret.'
'Be just,' said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin'sface since the commencement of this last address; 'be just even inyour injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what youraccusation is!'
'Why should I?' returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towardsthe door. 'You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, andthough it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be.No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of youat this moment, and in this place--in which you are so amiable and sogood--as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since wefirst met. All good go with you, Tom!--I--'
'You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?' said Tom.
'I--you--you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I--I hope it was a rashchoice,' Martin faltered. 'I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!'
And he was gone.
Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He tookhis book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turninga leaf as he spoke: 'He will be very sorry for this.' And a tear stoledown his face, and dropped upon the page.
Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms abouthis neck.
'No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!'
'I am quite--comforted,' said Tom. 'It will be set right.'
'Such a cruel, bad return!' cried Ruth.
'No, no,' said Tom. 'He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it willbe set right.'
More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heartwould break.
'Don't. Don't,' said Tom. 'Why do you hide your face, my dear!'
Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.
'Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; youcouldn't hide the truth from me. Why didn't you tell me? I am sure Icould have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!'
Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sisterhurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little historywas written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silenttouch.
'In spite of that,' said Ruth, 'you have been so faithful and so good,dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and havestruggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle,and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hastylook, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you havebeen so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will THIS be set right too!Will it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you whodeserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?'
And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck,and wept for him, and poured out all her woman's heart and soul in therelief and pain of this disclosure.
It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, andshe was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom's face. Then Tom spoketo her thus, cheerily, though gravely:
'I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not becauseit assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of thatbefore), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.'
Tom's eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed heron the cheek.
'My dear girl,' said Tom; 'with whatever feeling I regard her'--theyseemed to avoid the name by mutual consent--'I have long ago--I am sureI may say from the very first--looked upon it as a dream. As somethingthat might possibly have happened under very different circumstances,but which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?'
She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to takeit for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.
'By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed toMartin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. Youwould have her betrothed to me?'
'Yes,' she said directly.
'Yes,' rejoined Tom, 'but that might be setting it wrong, instead ofright. Do you think,' said Tom, with a grave smile, 'that even if shehad never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love withMe?'
'Why not, dear Tom?'
Tom shook his head, and smiled again.
'You think of me, Ruth,' said Tom, 'and it is very natural that youshould, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort ofpoetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come,at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justicethan poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon thesame principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, andchoose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a veryfine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, andperhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everythingordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to becomeone of that sort of people?'
'No, Tom. But still I know,' she added timidly, 'that this is a sorrowto you in your own better way.'
Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been merefolly, and he gave it up.
'My dear,' said Tom, 'I will repay your affection with the Truth and allthe Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so sometimes,though I have always striven against it. But somebody who is precious toyou may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven with the departedspirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the life on earth, whichis no harder to be borne than when you fell asleep. It is sorrowful tome to contemplate my dream which I always knew was a dream, even whenit first presented itself; but the realities about me are not to blame.They are the same as they were. My sister, my sweet companion, who makesthis place so dear, is she less devoted to me, Ruth, than she wouldhave been, if this vision had never troubled me? My old friend John, whomight so easily have treated me with coldness and neglect, is he lesscordial to me? The world about me, is there less good in that? Are mywords to be harsh and my looks to be sour, and is my heart to grow cold,because there has fallen in my way a good and beautiful creature, whobut for the selfish regret that I cannot call her my own, would, likeall other good and beautiful creatures, make me happier and better!No, my dear sister. No,' said Tom stoutly. 'Remembering all my means ofhappiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a sorrow; butwhatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me moresensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty ways. Notless happy. Not less happy, Ruth!'
She could not speak to him, but she loved him, as he well deserved. Evenas he deserved, she loved him.
'She will open Martin's eyes,' said Tom, with a glow of pride, 'and that(which is indeed wrong) will be set right. Nothing will persuade her, Iknow, that I have betrayed him. It will be set right through her, and hewill be very sorry for it. Our secret, Ruth, is our own, and lives anddies with us. I don't believe I ever could have told it you,' said Tom,with a smile, 'but how glad I am to think you have found it out!'
They had never taken such a pleasant walk as they took that night. Tomtold her all so freely and so simply, and was so desirous to returnher tenderness with his fullest confidence, that they prolonged it farbeyond their usual hour, and sat up late when they came home. Andwhen they parted for the night there was such a tranquil, beautifulexpression in Tom's face, that she could not bear to shut it out, butgoing back on tiptoe to his chamber-door, looked in and stood there tillhe saw her, and then embracing him again, withdrew. And in her prayersand in her sleep--good times to be remembered with such fervour,Tom!--his name was uppermost.
When he was left alone, Tom pondered very much on this discovery ofhers, and greatly wondered what had led her to it. 'Because,' thoughtTom, 'I have been so very careful. It was foolish and unnecessary inme, as I clearly see now, when I am so relieved by her knowing it; but Ihave been so very careful to conceal it from her. Of course I knew
thatshe was intelligent and quick, and for that reason was more upon myguard; but I was not in the least prepared for this. I am sure herdiscovery has been sudden too. Dear me!' said Tom. 'It's a most singularinstance of penetration!'
Tom could not get it out of his head. There it was, when his head was onhis pillow.
'How she trembled when she began to tell me she knew it!' thought Tom,recalling all the little incidents and circumstances; 'and how herface flushed! But that was natural! Oh, quite natural! That needs noaccounting for.'
Tom little thought how natural it was. Tom little knew that there wasthat in Ruth's own heart, but newly set there, which had helped her tothe reading of his mystery. Ah, Tom! He didn't understand the whispersof the Temple Fountain, though he passed it every day.
Who so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early tap atTom's door, and her light foot outside, would have been music to himthough she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest morningever seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she would havemade it so to Tom.
She was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs, and hadher bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news, that Tomwas lost in wonder. She might have been up all night, collecting it forhis entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come home yet, and there wasbread down a penny a loaf, and there was twice as much strength in thistea as in the last, and the milk-woman's husband had come out of thehospital cured, and the curly-headed child over the way had been lostall yesterday, and she was going to make all sorts of preserves in adesperate hurry, and there happened to be a saucepan in the house whichwas the very saucepan for the purpose; and she knew all about the lastbook 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, andthe keys in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom's coat, andwas in all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew shehad begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence inhis 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 suchenticing 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 herat the gate.
'No Mr Fips's friend to-day, I suppose,' thought Tom, as he ascended thestairs.
Not yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom openedit with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now, andhad mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs, andsubstituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked adifferent place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride incomtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one toapprove or disapprove of it.
He was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught ofthe catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfullyconcentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had everexpended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff's workroom. It was a very marvelof a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really getting hismoney too easily, and he had determined within himself that thisdocument should take a little of his superfluous leisure out of him.
So with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and pencil, andblack ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning. He thought agood deal about Martin, and their interview of yesterday, and would havebeen far easier in his mind if he could have resolved to confide itto his friend John, and to have taken his opinion on the subject.But besides that he knew what John's boiling indignation would be, hebethought himself that he was helping Martin now in a matter of greatmoment, and that to deprive the latter of his assistance at such acrisis 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 tomyself.'
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 inthe entry, down below.
'Ah!' said Tom, looking towards the door; 'time was, not long agoeither, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But I haveleft off now.'
The footstep came on, up the stairs.
'Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,' said Tom, counting. 'Nowyou'll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth stair.'
The person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the footstepcame again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.
The door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked impatiently andeagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the landing, and arrivingin the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he rose up from his chair, andhalf believed he saw a spirit.
Old Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr Pecksniff's, weakand 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 otherhe signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the resolute face, thewatchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff, the triumphant purposein 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 ithas 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 noworse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you last. But I waswrong.'
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 andweeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to treat me likehis tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me there. I haveundergone ten thousand times as much as I could have endured if I hadbeen the miserable weak old man he took me for. You know it. I have seenhim offer love to Mary. You know it; who better--who better, my trueheart! I have had his base soul bare before me, day by day, and have notbetrayed myself once. I never could have undergone such torture but forlooking forward to this time.'
He stopped, even in the passion of his speech--if that can be calledpassion 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, butmay come too soon. The time now drawing on,' said the old man,hurriedly--his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke--'will makeamends for all. I wouldn't have him die or hang himself, for millions ofgolden pieces! Close the door!'
Tom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a dream.
Martin Chuzzlewit Page 52