Martin Chuzzlewit
by Charles Dickens
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Return to Part 3 of 4

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 servant-
gal 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; OUR 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.'

'What do you call using it against me?' asked Jonas, who had not yet
changed his attitude.

'Oh!' said Montague, with a laugh. 'We'll not enter into that.'

'Using it to make a beggar of me. Is that the use you mean?'

'No.'

'Ecod,' muttered Jonas, bitterly. 'That's the use in which your
account DOES lie. You speak the truth there.'

'I wish you to venture (it's a very safe venture) a little more with
us, certainly, and to keep quiet,' said Montague. 'You promised me
you would; and you must. I say it plainly, Chuzzlewit, you MUST.
Reason the matter. If you don't, my secret is worthless to me: and
being so, it may as well become the public property as mine; better,
for I shall gain some credit, bringing it to light. I want you,
besides, to act as a decoy in a case I have already told you of.
You don't mind that, I know. You care nothing for the man (you care
nothing for any man; you are too sharp; so am I, I hope); and could
bear any loss of his with pious fortitude. Ha, ha, ha! You have
tried to escape from the first consequence. You cannot escape it, I
assure you. I have shown you that to-day. Now, I am not a moral
man, you know. I am not the least in the world affected by anything
you may have done; by any little indiscretion you may have
committed; but I wish to profit by it if I can; and to a man of your
intelligence I make that free confession. I am not at all singular
in that infirmity. Everybody profits by the indiscretion of his
neighbour; and the people in the best repute, the most. Why do you
give me this trouble? It must come to a friendly agreement, or an
unfriendly crash. It must. If the former, you are very little
hurt. If the latter--well! you know best what is likely to happen
then.'

Jonas left the window, and walked up close to him. He did not look
him in the face; it was not his habit to do that; but he kept his
eyes towards him--on his breast, or thereabouts--and was at great
pains to speak slowly and distinctly in reply. Just as a man in a
state of conscious drunkenness might be.

'Lying is of no use now,' he said. 'I DID think of getting away
this morning, and making better terms with you from a distance.'

'To be sure! to be sure!' replied Montague. 'Nothing more natural.
I foresaw that, and provided against it. But I am afraid I am
interrupting you.'

'How the devil,' pursued Jonas, with a still greater effort, 'you
made choice of your messenger, and where you found him, I'll not ask
you. I owed him one good turn before to-day. If you are so
careless of men in general, as you said you were just now, you are
quite indifferent to what becomes of such a crop-tailed cur as that,
and will leave me to settle my account with him in my own manner.'

If he had raised his eyes to his companion's face, he would have
seen that Montague was evidently unable to comprehend his meaning.
But continuing to stand before him, with his furtive gaze directed
as before, and pausing here only to moisten his dry lips with his
tongue, the fact was lost upon him. It might have struck a close
observer that this fixed and steady glance of Jonas's was a part of
the alteration which had taken place in his demeanour. He kept it
riveted on one spot, with which his thoughts had manifestly nothing
to do; like as a juggler walking on a cord or wire to any dangerous
end, holds some object in his sight to steady him, and never wanders
from it, lest he trip.

Montague was quick in his rejoinder, though he made it at a
venture. There was no difference of opinion between him and his
friend on THAT point. Not the least.

'Your great discovery,' Jonas proceeded, with a savage sneer that
got the better of him for the moment, 'may be true, and may be
false. Whichever it is, I dare say I'm no worse than other men.'

'Not a bit,' said Tigg. 'Not a bit. We're all alike--or nearly
so.'

'I want to know this,' Jonas went on to say; 'is it your own?
You'll not wonder at my asking the question.'

'My own!' repeated Montague.

'Aye!' returned the other, gruffly. 'Is it known to anybody else?
Come! Don't waver about that.'

'No!' said Montague, without the smallest hesitation. 'What would
it be worth, do you think, unless I had the keeping of it?'

Now, for the first time, Jonas looked at him. After a pause, he put
out his hand, and said, with a laugh:

'Come! make things easy to me, and I'm yours. I don't know that I
may not be better off here, after all, than if I had gone away this
morning. But here I am, and here I'll stay now. Take your oath!'

He cleared his throat, for he was speaking hoarsely and said in a
lighter tone:

'Shall I go to Pecksniff? When? Say when!'

'Immediately!' cried Montague. 'He cannot be enticed too soon.'

'Ecod!' cried Jonas, with a wild laugh. 'There's some fun in
catching that old hypocrite. I hate him. Shall I go to-night?'

'Aye! This,' said Montague, ecstatically, 'is like business! We
understand each other now! To-night, my good fellow, by all means.'

'Come with me,' cried Jonas. 'We must make a dash; go down in
state, and carry documents, for he's a deep file to deal with, and
must be drawn on with an artful hand, or he'll not follow. I know
him. As I can't take your lodgings or your dinners down, I must
take you. Will you come to-night?'

His friend appeared to hesitate; and neither to have anticipated
this proposal, nor to relish it very much.

'We can concert our plans upon the road,' said Jonas. 'We must not
go direct to him, but cross over from some other place, and turn out
of our way to see him. I may not want to introduce you, but I must
have you on the spot. I know the man, I tell you.'

'But what if the man knows me?' said Montague, shrugging his
shoulders.

'He know!' cried Jonas. 'Don't you run that risk with fifty men a
day! Would your father know you? Did I know you? Ecod! You were
another figure when I saw you first. Ha, ha, ha! I see the rents
and patches now! No false hair then, no black dye! You were another
sort of joker in those days, you were! You even spoke different
then. You've acted the gentleman so seriously since, that you've
taken in yourself. If he should know you, what does it matter?
Such a change is a proof of your success. You know that, or you
would not have made yourself known to me. Will you come?'

'My good fellow,' said Montague, still hesitating, 'I can trust you
alone.'

'Trust me! Ecod, you may trust me now, far enough. I'll try to go
away no more--no more!'  He stopped, and added in a more sober tone,
'I can't get on without you. Will you come?'

'I will,' said Montague, 'if that's your opinion.'  And they shook
hands upon it.

The boisterous manner which Jonas had exhibited during the latter
part of this conversation, and which had gone on rapidly increasing
with almost every word he had spoken, from the time when he looked
his honourable friend in the face until now, did not now subside,
but, remaining at its height, abided by him. Most unusual with him
at any period; most inconsistent with his temper and constitution;
especially unnatural it would appear in one so darkly circumstanced;
it abided by him. It was not like the effect of wine, or any ardent
drink, for he was perfectly coherent. It even made him proof
against the usual influence of such means of excitement; for,
although he drank deeply several times that day, with no reserve or
caution, he remained exactly the same man, and his spirits neither
rose nor fell in the least observable degree.

Deciding, after some discussion, to travel at night, in order that
the day's business might not be broken in upon, they took counsel
together in reference to the means. Mr Montague being of opinion
that four horses were advisable, at all events for the first stage,
as throwing a great deal of dust into people's eyes, in more senses
than one, a travelling chariot and four lay under orders for nine
o'clock. Jonas did not go home; observing, that his being obliged
to leave town on business in so great a hurry, would be a good
excuse for having turned back so unexpectedly in the morning. So he
wrote a note for his portmanteau, and sent it by a messenger, who
duly brought his luggage back, with a short note from that other
piece of luggage, his wife, expressive of her wish to be allowed to
come and see him for a moment. To this request he sent for answer,
'she had better;' and one such threatening affirmative being
sufficient, in defiance of the English grammar, to express a
negative, she kept away.

Mr Montague being much engaged in the course of the day, Jonas
bestowed his spirits chiefly on the doctor, with whom he lunched in
the medical officer's own room. On his way thither, encountering Mr
Nadgett in the outer room, he bantered that stealthy gentleman on
always appearing anxious to avoid him, and inquired if he were
afraid of him. Mr Nadgett slyly answered, 'No, but he believed it
must be his way as he had been charged with much the same kind of
thing before.'

Mr Montague was listening to, or, to speak with greater elegance, he
overheard, this dialogue. As soon as Jonas was gone he beckoned
Nadgett to him with the feather of his pen, and whispered in his
ear.

'Who gave him my letter this morning?'

'My lodger, sir,' said Nadgett, behind the palm of his hand.

'How came that about?'

'I found him on the wharf, sir. Being so much hurried, and you not
arrived, it was necessary to do something. It fortunately occurred
to me, that if I gave it him myself I could be of no further use. I
should have been blown upon immediately.'

'Mr Nadgett, you are a jewel,' said Montague, patting him on the
back. 'What's your lodger's name?'

'Pinch, sir. Thomas Pinch.'

Montague reflected for a little while, and then asked:

'From the country, do you know?'

'From Wiltshire, sir, he told me.'

They parted without another word. To see Mr Nadgett's bow when
Montague and he next met, and to see Mr Montague acknowledge it,
anybody might have undertaken to swear that they had never spoken to
each other confidentially in all their lives.

In the meanwhile, Mr Jonas and the doctor made themselves very
comfortable upstairs, over a bottle of the old Madeira and some
sandwiches; for the doctor having been already invited to dine below
at six o'clock, preferred a light repast for lunch. It was
advisable, he said, in two points of view: First, as being healthy
in itself. Secondly as being the better preparation for dinner.

'And you are bound for all our sakes to take particular care of your
digestion, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir,' said the doctor smacking his
lips after a glass of wine; 'for depend upon it, it is worth
preserving. It must be in admirable condition, sir; perfect
chronometer-work. Otherwise your spirits could not be so
remarkable. Your bosom's lord sits lightly on its throne, Mr
Chuzzlewit, as what's-his-name says in the play. I wish he said it
in a play which did anything like common justice to our profession,
by the bye. There is an apothecary in that drama, sir, which is a
low thing; vulgar, sir; out of nature altogether.'

Mr Jobling pulled out his shirt-frill of fine linen, as though he
would have said, 'This is what I call nature in a medical man, sir;'
and looked at Jonas for an observation.

Jonas not being in a condition to pursue the subject, took up a case
of lancets that was lying on the table, and opened it.

'Ah!' said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, 'I always take 'em
out of my pocket before I eat. My pockets are rather tight. Ha,
ha, ha!'

Jonas had opened one of the shining little instruments; and was
scrutinizing it with a look as sharp and eager as its own bright
edge.

'Good steel, doctor. Good steel! Eh!'

'Ye-es,' replied the doctor, with the faltering modesty of
ownership. 'One might open a vein pretty dexterously with that, Mr
Chuzzlewit.'

'It has opened a good many in its time, I suppose?' said Jonas
looking at it with a growing interest.

'Not a few, my dear sir, not a few. It has been engaged in a--in a
pretty good practice, I believe I may say,' replied the doctor,
coughing as if the matter-of-fact were so very dry and literal that
he couldn't help it. 'In a pretty good practice,' repeated the
doctor, putting another glass of wine to his lips.

'Now, could you cut a man's throat with such a thing as this?'
demanded Jonas.

'Oh certainly, certainly, if you took him in the right place,'
returned the doctor. 'It all depends upon that.'

'Where you have your hand now, hey?' cried Jonas, bending forward
to look at it.

'Yes,' said the doctor; 'that's the jugular.'

Jonas, in his vivacity, made a sudden sawing in the air, so close
behind the doctor's jugular that he turned quite red. Then Jonas
(in the same strange spirit of vivacity) burst into a loud
discordant laugh.

'No, no,' said the doctor, shaking his head; 'edge tools, edge
tools; never play with 'em. A very remarkable instance of the
skillful use of edge-tools, by the way, occurs to me at this moment.
It was a case of murder. I am afraid it was a case of murder,
committed by a member of our profession; it was so artistically
done.'

'Aye!' said Jonas. 'How was that?'

'Why, sir,' returned Jobling, 'the thing lies in a nutshell. A
certain gentleman was found, one morning, in an obscure street,
lying in an angle of a doorway--I should rather say, leaning, in an
upright position, in the angle of a doorway, and supported
consequently by the doorway. Upon his waistcoat there was one
solitary drop of blood. He was dead and cold; and had been
murdered, sir.'

'Only one drop of blood!' said Jonas.

'Sir, that man,' replied the doctor, 'had been stabbed to the heart.
Had been stabbed to the heart with such dexterity, sir, that he had
died instantly, and had bled internally. It was supposed that a
medical friend of his (to whom suspicion attached) had engaged him
in conversation on some pretence; had taken him, very likely, by the
button in a conversational manner; had examined his ground at
leisure with his other hand; had marked the exact spot; drawn out
the instrument, whatever it was, when he was quite prepared; and--'

'And done the trick,' suggested Jonas.

'Exactly so,' replied the doctor. 'It was quite an operation in its
way, and very neat. The medical friend never turned up; and, as I
tell you, he had the credit of it. Whether he did it or not I can't
say. But, having had the honour to be called in with two or three
of my professional brethren on the occasion, and having assisted to
make a careful examination of the wound, I have no hesitation in
saying that it would have reflected credit on any medical man; and
that in an unprofessional person it could not but be considered,
either as an extraordinary work of art, or the result of a still
more extraordinary, happy, and favourable conjunction of
circumstances.'

His hearer was so much interested in this case, that the doctor went
on to elucidate it with the assistance of his own finger and thumb
and waistcoat; and at Jonas's request, he took the further trouble
of going into a corner of the room, and alternately representing the
murdered man and the murderer; which he did with great effect. The
bottle being emptied and the story done, Jonas was in precisely the
same boisterous and unusual state as when they had sat down. If, as
Jobling theorized, his good digestion were the cause, he must have
been a very ostrich.

At dinner it was just the same; and after dinner too; though wine
was drunk in abundance, and various rich meats eaten. At nine
o'clock it was still the same. There being a lamp in the carriage,
he swore they would take a pack of cards, and a bottle of wine; and
with these things under his cloak, went down to the door.

'Out of the way, Tom Thumb, and get to bed!'

This was the salutation he bestowed on Mr Bailey, who, booted and
wrapped up, stood at the carriage door to help him in.

'To bed, sir! I'm a-going, too,' said Bailey.

He alighted quickly, and walked back into the hall, where Montague
was lighting a cigar; conducting Mr Bailey with him, by the collar.

'You are not a-going to take this monkey of a boy, are you?'

'Yes,' said Montague.

He gave the boy a shake, and threw him roughly aside. There was
more of his familiar self in the action, than in anything he had
done that day; but he broke out laughing immediately afterwards, and
making a thrust at the doctor with his hand, in imitation of his
representation of the medical friend, went out to the carriage
again, and took his seat. His companion followed immediately. Mr
Bailey climbed into the rumble. 'It will be a stormy night!'
exclaimed the doctor, as they started.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

The doctor's prognostication in reference to the weather was
speedily verified. Although the weather was not a patient of his,
and no third party had required him to give an opinion on the case,
the quick fulfilment of his prophecy may be taken as an instance of
his professional tact; for, unless the threatening aspect of the
night had been perfectly plain and unmistakable, Mr Jobling would
never have compromised his reputation by delivering any sentiments
on the subject. He used this principle in Medicine with too much
success to be unmindful of it in his commonest transactions.

It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows
listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when
they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of
lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by
lightning. Lightning flashed and quivered on the black horizon even
now; and hollow murmurings were in the wind, as though it had been
blowing where the thunder rolled, and still was charged with its
exhausted echoes. But the storm, though gathering swiftly, had not
yet come up; and the prevailing stillness was the more solemn, from
the dull intelligence that seemed to hover in the air, of noise and
conflict afar off.

It was very dark; but in the murky sky there were masses of cloud
which shone with a lurid light, like monstrous heaps of copper that
had been heated in a furnace, and were growing cold. These had been
advancing steadily and slowly, but they were now motionless, or
nearly so. As the carriage clattered round the corners of the
streets, it passed at every one a knot of persons who had come
there--many from their houses close at hand, without hats--to look
up at that quarter of the sky. And now a very few large drops of
rain began to fall, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Jonas sat in a corner of the carriage with his bottle resting on his
knee, and gripped as tightly in his hand as if he would have ground
its neck to powder if he could. Instinctively attracted by the
night, he had laid aside the pack of cards upon the cushion; and
with the same involuntary impulse, so intelligible to both of them
as not to occasion a remark on either side, his companion had
extinguished the lamp. The front glasses were down; and they sat
looking silently out upon the gloomy scene before them.

They were clear of London, or as clear of it as travellers can be
whose way lies on the Western Road, within a stage of that enormous
city. Occasionally they encountered a foot-passenger, hurrying to
the nearest place of shelter; or some unwieldy cart proceeding
onward at a heavy trot, with the same end in view. Little clusters
of such vehicles were gathered round the stable-yard or baiting-
place of every wayside tavern; while their drivers watched the
weather from the doors and open windows, or made merry within.
Everywhere the people were disposed to bear each other company
rather than sit alone; so that groups of watchful faces seemed to be
looking out upon the night AND THEM, from almost every house they
passed.

It may appear strange that this should have disturbed Jonas, or
rendered him uneasy; but it did. After muttering to himself, and
often changing his position, he drew up the blind on his side of the
carriage, and turned his shoulder sulkily towards it. But he
neither looked at his companion, nor broke the silence which
prevailed between them, and which had fallen so suddenly upon
himself, by addressing a word to him.

The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed; the rain poured down like
Heaven's wrath. Surrounded at one moment by intolerable light, and
at the next by pitchy darkness, they still pressed forward on their
journey. Even when they arrived at the end of the stage, and might
have tarried, they did not; but ordered horses out immediately. Nor
had this any reference to some five minutes' lull, which at that
time seemed to promise a cessation of the storm. They held their
course as if they were impelled and driven by its fury. Although
they had not exchanged a dozen words, and might have tarried very
well, they seemed to feel, by joint consent, that onward they must
go.

Louder and louder the deep thunder rolled, as through the myriad
halls of some vast temple in the sky; fiercer and brighter became
the lightning, more and more heavily the rain poured down. The
horses (they were travelling now with a single pair) plunged and
started from the rills of quivering fire that seemed to wind along
the ground before them; but there these two men sat, and forward
they went as if they were led on by an invisible attraction.

The eye, partaking of the quickness of the flashing light, saw in
its every gleam a multitude of objects which it could not see at
steady noon in fifty times that period. Bells in steeples, with the
rope and wheel that moved them; ragged nests of birds in cornices
and nooks; faces full of consternation in the tilted waggons that
came tearing past; their frightened teams ringing out a warning
which the thunder drowned; harrows and ploughs left out in fields;
miles upon miles of hedge-divided country, with the distant fringe
of trees as obvious as the scarecrow in the bean-field close at hand;
in a trembling, vivid, flickering instant, everything was clear and
plain; then came a flush of red into the yellow light; a change to
blue; a brightness so intense that there was nothing else but light;
and then the deepest and profoundest darkness.

The lightning being very crooked and very dazzling may have
presented or assisted a curious optical illusion, which suddenly
rose before the startled eyes of Montague in the carriage, and as
rapidly disappeared. He thought he saw Jonas with his hand lifted,
and the bottle clenched in it like a hammer, making as if he would
aim a blow at his head. At the same time he observed (or so
believed) an expression in his face--a combination of the unnatural
excitement he had shown all day, with a wild hatred and fear--which
might have rendered a wolf a less terrible companion.

He uttered an involuntary exclamation, and called to the driver, who
brought his horses to a stop with all speed.

It could hardly have been as he supposed, for although he had not
taken his eyes off his companion, and had not seen him move, he sat
reclining in his corner as before.

'What's the matter?' said Jonas. 'Is that your general way of
waking out of your sleep?'

'I could swear,' returned the other, 'that I have not closed my
eyes!'

'When you have sworn it,' said Jonas, composedly, 'we had better go
on again, if you have only stopped for that.'

He uncorked the bottle with the help of his teeth; and putting it to
his lips, took a long draught.

'I wish we had never started on this journey. This is not,' said
Montague, recoiling instinctively, and speaking in a voice that
betrayed his agitation; 'this is not a night to travel in.'

'Ecod! you're right there,' returned Jonas, 'and we shouldn't be out
in it but for you. If you hadn't kept me waiting all day, we might
have been at Salisbury by this time; snug abed and fast asleep.
What are we stopping for?'

His companion put his head out of window for a moment, and drawing
it in again, observed (as if that were his cause of anxiety), that
the boy was drenched to the skin.

'Serve him right,' said Jonas. 'I'm glad of it. What the devil are
we stopping for? Are you going to spread him out to dry?'

'I have half a mind to take him inside,' observed the other with
some hesitation.

'Oh! thankee!' said Jonas. 'We don't want any damp boys here;
especially a young imp like him. Let him be where he is. He ain't
afraid of a little thunder and lightning, I dare say; whoever else
is. Go on, driver. We had better have HIM inside perhaps,' he
muttered with a laugh; 'and the horses!'

'Don't go too fast,' cried Montague to the postillion; 'and take
care how you go. You were nearly in the ditch when I called to
you.'

This was not true; and Jonas bluntly said so, as they moved forward
again. Montague took little or no heed of what he said, but
repeated that it was not a night for travelling, and showed himself,
both then and afterwards, unusually anxious.

From this time Jonas recovered his former spirits, if such a term
may be employed to express the state in which he had left the city.
He had his bottle often at his mouth; roared out snatches of songs,
without the least regard to time or tune or voice, or anything but
loud discordance; and urged his silent friend to be merry with him.

'You're the best company in the world, my good fellow,' said
Montague with an effort, 'and in general irresistible; but to-night
--do you hear it?'

'Ecod! I hear and see it too,' cried Jonas, shading his eyes, for
the moment, from the lightning which was flashing, not in any one
direction, but all around them. 'What of that? It don't change
you, nor me, nor our affairs. Chorus, chorus,

         It may lighten and storm,
         Till it hunt the red worm
     From the grass where the gibbet is driven;
         But it can't hurt the dead,
         And it won't save the head
     That is doom'd to be rifled and riven.

That must be a precious old song,' he added with an oath, as he
stopped short in a kind of wonder at himself. 'I haven't heard it
since I was a boy, and how it comes into my head now, unless the
lightning put it there, I don't know. "Can't hurt the dead"! No,
no. "And won't save the head"! No, no. No! Ha, ha, ha!'

His mirth was of such a savage and extraordinary character, and was,
in an inexplicable way, at once so suited to the night, and yet such
a coarse intrusion on its terrors, that his fellow-traveller, always
a coward, shrunk from him in positive fear. Instead of Jonas being
his tool and instrument, their places seemed to be reversed. But
there was reason for this too, Montague thought; since the sense of
his debasement might naturally inspire such a man with the wish to
assert a noisy independence, and in that licence to forget his real
condition. Being quick enough, in reference to such subjects of
contemplation, he was not long in taking this argument into account
and giving it its full weight. But still, he felt a vague sense of
alarm, and was depressed and uneasy.

He was certain he had not been asleep; but his eyes might have
deceived him; for, looking at Jonas now in any interval of darkness,
he could represent his figure to himself in any attitude his state
of mind suggested. On the other hand, he knew full well that Jonas
had no reason to love him; and even taking the piece of pantomime
which had so impressed his mind to be a real gesture, and not the
working of his fancy, the most that could be said of it was, that it
was quite in keeping with the rest of his diabolical fun, and had
the same impotent expression of truth in it. 'If he could kill me
with a wish,' thought the swindler, 'I should not live long.'

He resolved that when he should have had his use of Jonas, he would
restrain him with an iron curb; in the meantime, that he could not
do better than leave him to take his own way, and preserve his own
peculiar description of good-humour, after his own uncommon manner.
It was no great sacrifice to bear with him; 'for when all is got
that can be got,' thought Montague, 'I shall decamp across the
water, and have the laugh on my side--and the gains.'

Such were his reflections from hour to hour; his state of mind being
one in which the same thoughts constantly present themselves over
and over again in wearisome repetition; while Jonas, who appeared to
have dismissed reflection altogether, entertained himself as before.
They agreed that they would go to Salisbury, and would cross to Mr
Pecksniff's in the morning; and at the prospect of deluding that
worthy gentleman, the spirits of his amiable son-in-law became more
boisterous than ever.

As the night wore on, the thunder died away, but still rolled
gloomily and mournfully in the distance. The lightning too, though
now comparatively harmless, was yet bright and frequent. The rain
was quite as violent as it had ever been.

It was their ill-fortune, at about the time of dawn and in the last
stage of their journey, to have a restive pair of horses. These
animals had been greatly terrified in their stable by the tempest;
and coming out into the dreary interval between night and morning,
when the glare of the lightning was yet unsubdued by day, and the
various objects in their view were presented in indistinct and
exaggerated shapes which they would not have worn by night, they
gradually became less and less capable of control; until, taking a
sudden fright at something by the roadside, they dashed off wildly
down a steep hill, flung the driver from his saddle, drew the
carriage to the brink of a ditch, stumbled headlong down, and threw
it crashing over.

The travellers had opened the carriage door, and had either jumped
or fallen out. Jonas was the first to stagger to his feet. He felt
sick and weak, and very giddy, and reeling to a five-barred gate,
stood holding by it; looking drowsily about as the whole landscape
swam before his eyes. But, by degrees, he grew more conscious, and
presently observed that Montague was lying senseless in the road,
within a few feet of the horses.

In an instant, as if his own faint body were suddenly animated by a
demon, he ran to the horses' heads; and pulling at their bridles
with all his force, set them struggling and plunging with such mad
violence as brought their hoofs at every effort nearer to the skull
of the prostrate man; and must have led in half a minute to his
brains being dashed out on the highway.

As he did this, he fought and contended with them like a man
possessed, making them wilder by his cries.

'Whoop!' cried Jonas. 'Whoop! again! another! A little more, a
little more! Up, ye devils! Hillo!'

As he heard the driver, who had risen and was hurrying up, crying to
him to desist, his violence increased.

'Hiilo! Hillo!' cried Jonas.

'For God's sake!' cried the driver. 'The gentleman--in the road--
he'll be killed!'

The same shouts and the same struggles were his only answer. But
the man darting in at the peril of his own life, saved Montague's,
by dragging him through the mire and water out of the reach of
present harm. That done, he ran to Jonas; and with the aid of his
knife they very shortly disengaged the horses from the broken
chariot, and got them, cut and bleeding, on their legs again. The
postillion and Jonas had now leisure to look at each other, which
they had not had yet.

'Presence of mind, presence of mind!' cried Jonas, throwing up his
hands wildly. 'What would you have done without me?'

'The other gentleman would have done badly without ME,' returned the
man, shaking his head. 'You should have moved him first. I gave
him up for dead.'

'Presence of mind, you croaker, presence of mind' cried Jonas with a
harsh loud laugh. 'Was he struck, do you think?'

They both turned to look at him. Jonas muttered something to
himself, when he saw him sitting up beneath the hedge, looking
vacantly around.

'What's the matter?' asked Montague. 'Is anybody hurt?'

'Ecod!' said Jonas, 'it don't seem so. There are no bones broken,
after all.'

They raised him, and he tried to walk. He was a good deal shaken,
and trembled very much. But with the exception of a few cuts and
bruises this was all the damage he had sustained.

'Cuts and bruises, eh?' said Jonas. 'We've all got them. Only cuts
and bruises, eh?'

'I wouldn't have given sixpence for the gentleman's head in half-a-
dozen seconds more, for all he's only cut and bruised,' observed the
post-boy. 'If ever you're in an accident of this sort again, sir;
which I hope you won't be; never you pull at the bridle of a horse
that's down, when there's a man's head in the way. That can't be
done twice without there being a dead man in the case; it would have
ended in that, this time, as sure as ever you were born, if I hadn't
come up just when I did.'

Jonas replied by advising him with a curse to hold his tongue, and
to go somewhere, whither he was not very likely to go of his own
accord. But Montague, who had listened eagerly to every word,
himself diverted the subject, by exclaiming: 'Where's the boy?'

'Ecod! I forgot that monkey,' said Jonas. 'What's become of him?'  A
very brief search settled that question. The unfortunate Mr Bailey
had been thrown sheer over the hedge or the five-barred gate; and
was lying in the neighbouring field, to all appearance dead.

'When I said to-night, that I wished I had never started on this
journey,' cried his master, 'I knew it was an ill-fated one. Look
at this boy!'

'Is that all?' growled Jonas. 'If you call THAT a sign of it--'

'Why, what should I call a sign of it?' asked Montague, hurriedly.
'What do you mean?'

'I mean,' said Jonas, stooping down over the body, 'that I never
heard you were his father, or had any particular reason to care much
about him. Halloa. Hold up there!'

But the boy was past holding up, or being held up, or giving any
other sign of life than a faint and fitful beating of the heart.
After some discussion the driver mounted the horse which had been
least injured, and took the lad in his arms as well as he could;
while Montague and Jonas, leading the other horse, and carrying a
trunk between them, walked by his side towards Salisbury.

'You'd get there in a few minutes, and be able to send assistance to
meet us, if you went forward, post-boy,' said Jonas. 'Trot on!'

'No, no,' cried Montague; 'we'll keep together.'

'Why, what a chicken you are! You are not afraid of being robbed;
are you?' said Jonas.

'I am not afraid of anything,' replied the other, whose looks and
manner were in flat contradiction to his words. 'But we'll keep
together.'

'You were mighty anxious about the boy, a minute ago,' said Jonas.
'I suppose you know that he may die in the meantime?'

'Aye, aye. I know. But we'll keep together.'

As it was clear that he was not to be moved from this determination,
Jonas made no other rejoinder than such as his face expressed; and
they proceeded in company. They had three or four good miles to
travel; and the way was not made easier by the state of the road,
the burden by which they were embarrassed, or their own stiff and
sore condition. After a sufficiently long and painful walk, they
arrived at the Inn; and having knocked the people up (it being yet
very early in the morning), sent out messengers to see to the
carriage and its contents, and roused a surgeon from his bed to tend
the chief sufferer. All the service he could render, he rendered
promptly and skillfully. But he gave it as his opinion that the boy
was labouring under a severe concussion of the brain, and that Mr
Bailey's mortal course was run.

If Montague's strong interest in the announcement could have been
considered as unselfish in any degree, it might have been a
redeeming trait in a character that had no such lineaments to spare.
But it was not difficult to see that, for some unexpressed reason
best appreciated by himself, he attached a strange value to the
company and presence of this mere child. When, after receiving some
assistance from the surgeon himself, he retired to the bedroom
prepared for him, and it was broad day, his mind was still dwelling
on this theme,

'I would rather have lost,' he said, 'a thousand pounds than lost
the boy just now. But I'll return home alone. I am resolved upon
that. Chuzzlewit shall go forward first, and I will follow in my
own time. I'll have no more of this,' he added, wiping his damp
forehead. 'Twenty-four hours of this would turn my hair grey!'

After examining his chamber, and looking under the bed, and in the
cupboards, and even behind the curtains, with unusual caution
(although it was, as has been said, broad day), he double-locked the
door by which he had entered, and retired to rest. There was
another door in the room, but it was locked on the outer side; and
with what place it communicated, he knew not.

His fears or evil conscience reproduced this door in all his dreams.
He dreamed that a dreadful secret was connected with it; a secret
which he knew, and yet did not know, for although he was heavily
responsible for it, and a party to it, he was harassed even in his
vision by a distracting uncertainty in reference to its import.
Incoherently entwined with this dream was another, which represented
it as the hiding-place of an enemy, a shadow, a phantom; and made it
the business of his life to keep the terrible creature closed up,
and prevent it from forcing its way in upon him. With this view
Nadgett, and he, and a strange man with a bloody smear upon his head
(who told him that he had been his playfellow, and told him, too,
the real name of an old schoolmate, forgotten until then), worked
with iron plates and nails to make the door secure; but though they
worked never so hard, it was all in vain, for the nails broke, or
changed to soft twigs, or what was worse, to worms, between their
fingers; the wood of the door splintered and crumbled, so that even
nails would not remain in it; and the iron plates curled up like hot
paper. All this time the creature on the other side--whether it was
in the shape of man, or beast, he neither knew nor sought to know--
was gaining on them. But his greatest terror was when the man with
the bloody smear upon his head demanded of him if he knew this
creatures name, and said that he would whisper it. At this the
dreamer fell upon his knees, his whole blood thrilling with
inexplicable fear, and held his ears. But looking at the speaker's
lips, he saw that they formed the utterance of the letter 'J'; and
crying out aloud that the secret was discovered, and they were all
lost, he awoke.

Awoke to find Jonas standing at his bedside watching him. And that
very door wide open.

As their eyes met, Jonas retreated a few paces, and Montague sprang
out of bed.

'Heyday!' said Jonas. 'You're all alive this morning.'

'Alive!' the other stammered, as he pulled the bell-rope violently.
'What are you doing here?'

'It's your room to be sure,' said Jonas; 'but I'm almost inclined to
ask you what YOU are doing here? My room is on the other side of
that door. No one told me last night not to open it. I thought it
led into a passage, and was coming out to order breakfast. There's
--there's no bell in my room.'

Montague had in the meantime admitted the man with his hot water and
boots, who hearing this, said, yes, there was; and passed into the
adjoining room to point it out, at the head of the bed.

'I couldn't find it, then,' said Jonas; 'it's all the same. Shall I
order breakfast?'

Montague answered in the affirmative. When Jonas had retired,
whistling, through his own room, he opened the door of
communication, to take out the key and fasten it on the inner side.
But it was taken out already.

He dragged a table against the door, and sat down to collect
himself, as if his dreams still had some influence upon his mind.

'An evil journey,' he repeated several times. 'An evil journey.
But I'll travel home alone. I'll have no more of this.'

His presentiment, or superstition, that it was an evil journey, did
not at all deter him from doing the evil for which the journey was
undertaken. With this in view, he dressed himself more carefully
than usual to make a favourable impression on Mr Pecksniff; and,
reassured by his own appearance, the beauty of the morning, and the
flashing of the wet boughs outside his window in the merry sunshine,
was soon sufficiently inspirited to swear a few round oaths, and hum
the fag-end of a song.

But he still muttered to himself at intervals, for all that: 'I'll
travel home alone!'

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

HAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS
EXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH
FORTITUDE AND MAGNANIMITY

On the night of the storm, Mrs Lupin, hostess of the Blue Dragon,
sat by herself in her little bar. Her solitary condition, or the
bad weather, or both united, made Mrs Lupin thoughtful, not to say
sorrowful. As she sat with her chin upon her hand, looking out
through a low back lattice, rendered dim in the brightest day-time
by clustering vine-leaves, she shook her head very often, and said,
'Dear me! Oh, dear, dear me!'

It was a melancholy time, even in the snugness of the Dragon bar.
The rich expanse of corn-field, pasture-land, green slope, and
gentle undulation, with its sparkling brooks, its many hedgerows,
and its clumps of beautiful trees, was black and dreary, from the
diamond panes of the lattice away to the far horizon, where the
thunder seemed to roll along the hills. The heavy rain beat down
the tender branches of vine and jessamine, and trampled on them in
its fury; and when the lightning gleamed it showed the tearful
leaves shivering and cowering together at the window, and tapping at
it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered from the dismal night.

As a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed
her candle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood
unheeded at her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far
off, was untasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of
attraction. She had sat for a long time with her chin upon her
hand, saying to herself at intervals, 'Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!'

She was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the
house-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn
catch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and
walking straight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather
gruffly:

'A pint of the best old beer here.'

He had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a
waterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was
wrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor's coat, and had an
oil-skin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell
trickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging
from a certain liveliness of chin--he had so pulled down his hat,
and pulled up his collar, to defend himself from the weather, that
she could only see his chin, and even across that he drew the wet
sleeve of his shaggy coat, as she looked at him--Mrs Lupin set him
down for a good-natured fellow, too.

'A bad night!' observed the hostess cheerfully.

The traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it
was, rather.

'There's a fire in the kitchen,' said Mrs Lupin, 'and very good
company there. Hadn't you better go and dry yourself?'

'No, thankee,' said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he
spoke; he seemed to know the way.

'It's enough to give you your death of cold,' observed the hostess.

'I don't take my death easy,' returned the traveller; 'or I should
most likely have took it afore to-night. Your health, ma'am!'

Mrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his
mouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his
body back, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is
wrapped up, and has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:

'What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?'

Mrs Lupin complacently made answer, 'Yes, the Dragon.'

'Why, then, you've got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma'am,'
said the traveller; 'a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark,
my boy!' apostrophizing the premises, 'have I come upon you at last,
old buck!'

This was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim
the candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the
traveller:

'Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any
one who brought me news of Mark. But it's many and many a long day
and month since he left here and England. And whether he's alive or
dead, poor fellow, Heaven above us only knows!'

She shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done
so too, for the light required a deal of trimming.

'Where did he go, ma'am?' asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.

'He went,' said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, 'to America. He
was always tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may
be lying in prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some
miserable black, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape.
How could he ever go to America! Why didn't he go to some of those
countries where the savages eat each other fairly, and give an equal
chance to every one!'

Quite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a
chair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in
his arms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.

'Yes, I will!' cried Mark, 'another--one more--twenty more! You
didn't know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known
me anywheres! Ten more!'

'So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I
couldn't, and you spoke so gruff. I didn't think you could speak
gruff to me, Mark, at first coming back.'

'Fifteen more!' said Mr Tapley. 'How handsome and how young you
look! Six more! The last half-dozen warn't a fair one, and must be
done over again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One
more! Well, I never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of
there not being any credit in it!'

When Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he
did it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because
he was out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.

'Mr Martin Chuzzlewit's outside,' he said. 'I left him under the
cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We
want to keep quiet to-night, till we know the news from you, and
what it's best for us to do.'

'There's not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,'
returned the hostess. 'If they were to know you had come back,
Mark, they'd have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.'

'But they mustn't know it to-night, my precious soul,' said Mark;
'so have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it's
all ready, put a light in the winder, and we'll come in. One more!
I long to hear about old friends. You'll tell me all about 'em,
won't you; Mr Pinch, and the butcher's dog down the street, and the
terrier over the way, and the wheelwright's, and every one of 'em.
When I first caught sight of the church to-night, I thought the
steeple would have choked me, I did. One more! Won't you? Not a
very little one to finish off with?'

'You have had plenty, I am sure,' said the hostess. 'Go along with
your foreign manners!'

'That ain't foreign, bless you!' cried Mark. 'Native as oysters,
that is! One more, because it's native! As a mark of respect for the
land we live in! This don't count as between you and me, you
understand,' said Mr Tapley. 'I ain't a-kissing you now, you'll
observe. I have been among the patriots; I'm a-kissin' my country.'

It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition
of his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that
it was at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full
expression to his nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs
Lupin, in a state of great agitation and excitement, prepared for
their reception.

The company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the
Dragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must
have affected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were,
Martin and Mark were overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched
them with delighted interest as they departed from the house, and
passed close by them.

'There's the old tailor, Mark!' whispered Martin.

'There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir,
ain't he? His figure's so far altered, as it seems to me, that you
might wheel a rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks,
than you could have done conveniently when we know'd him. There's
Sam a-coming out, sir.'

'Ah, to be sure!' cried Martin; 'Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether
that horse of Pecksniff's is alive still?'

'Not a doubt on it, sir,' returned Mark. 'That's a description of
animal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a
long time, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of
"Sing'lar Tenacity of Life in a Quadruped."  As if he had ever been
alive in all his life, worth mentioning! There's the clerk, sir--
wery drunk, as usual.'

'I see him!' said Martin, laughing. 'But, my life, how wet you are,
Mark!'

'I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?'

'Oh, not half as bad,' said his fellow-traveller, with an air of
great vexation. 'I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark,
but to let us change and change about. The rain has been beating on
you ever since it began.'

'You don't know how it pleases me, sir,' said Mark, after a short
silence, 'if I may make so bold as say so, to hear you a-going on in
that there uncommon considerate way of yours; which I don't mean to
attend to, never, but which, ever since that time when I was floored
in Eden, you have showed.'

'Ah, Mark!' sighed Martin, 'the less we say of that the better. Do
I see the light yonder?'

'That's the light!' cried Mark. 'Lord bless her, what briskness she
possesses! Now for it, sir. Neat wines, good beds, and first-rate
entertainment for man or beast.'

The kitchen fire burnt clear and red, the table was spread out, the
kettle boiled; the slippers were there, the boot-jack too, sheets of
ham were there, cooking on the gridiron; half-a-dozen eggs were
there, poaching in the frying-pan; a plethoric cherry-brandy bottle
was there, winking at a foaming jug of beer upon the table; rare
provisions were there, dangling from the rafters as if you had only
to open your mouth, and something exquisitely ripe and good would be
glad of the excuse for tumbling into it. Mrs Lupin, who for their
sakes had dislodged the very cook, high priestess of the temple,
with her own genial hands was dressing their repast.

It was impossible to help it--a ghost must have hugged her. The
Atlantic Ocean and the Red Sea being, in that respect, all one,
Martin hugged her instantly. Mr Tapley (as if the idea were quite
novel, and had never occurred to him before), followed, with much
gravity, on the same side.

'Little did I ever think,' said Mrs Lupin, adjusting her cap and
laughing heartily; yes, and blushing too; 'often as I have said that
Mr Pecksniff's young gentlemen were the life and soul of the Dragon,
and that without them it would be too dull to live in--little did I
ever think I am sure, that any one of them would ever make so free
as you, Mr Martin! And still less that I shouldn't be angry with
him, but should be glad with all my heart to be the first to welcome
him home from America, with Mark Tapley for his--'

'For his friend, Mrs Lupin,' interposed Martin.

'For his friend,' said the hostess, evidently gratified by this
distinction, but at the same time admonishing Mr Tapley with a fork
to remain at a respectful distance. 'Little did I ever think that!
But still less, that I should ever have the changes to relate that I
shall have to tell you of, when you have done your supper!'

'Good Heaven!' cried Martin, changing colour, 'what changes?'

'SHE,' said the hostess, 'is quite well, and now at Mr Pecksniff's.
Don't be at all alarmed about her. She is everything you could
wish. It's of no use mincing matters, or making secrets, is it?'
added Mrs Lupin. 'I know all about it, you see!'

'My good creature,' returned Martin, 'you are exactly the person who
ought to know all about it. I am delighted to think you DO know
about that! But what changes do you hint at? Has any death
occurred?'

'No, no!' said the hostess. 'Not as bad as that. But I declare now
that I will not be drawn into saying another word till you have had
your supper. If you ask me fifty questions in the meantime, I won't
answer one.'

She was so positive, that there was nothing for it but to get the
supper over as quickly as possible; and as they had been walking a
great many miles, and had fasted since the middle of the day, they
did no great violence to their own inclinations in falling on it
tooth and nail. It took rather longer to get through than might
have been expected; for, half-a-dozen times, when they thought they
had finished, Mrs Lupin exposed the fallacy of that impression
triumphantly. But at last, in the course of time and nature, they
gave in. Then, sitting with their slippered feet stretched out upon
the kitchen hearth (which was wonderfully comforting, for the night
had grown by this time raw and chilly), and looking with involuntary
admiration at their dimpled, buxom, blooming hostess, as the
firelight sparkled in her eyes and glimmered in her raven hair, they
composed themselves to listen to her news.

Many were the exclamations of surprise which interrupted her, when
she told them of the separation between Mr Pecksniff and his
daughters, and between the same good gentleman and Mr Pinch. But
these were nothing to the indignant demonstrations of Martin, when
she related, as the common talk of the neighbourhood, what entire
possession he had obtained over the mind and person of old Mr
Chuzzlewit, and what high honour he designed for Mary. On receipt
of this intelligence, Martin's slippers flew off in a twinkling, and
he began pulling on his wet boots with that indefinite intention of
going somewhere instantly, and doing something to somebody, which is
the first safety-valve of a hot temper.

'He!' said Martin, 'smooth-tongued villain that he is! He! Give me
that other boot, Mark?'

'Where was you a-thinking of going to, sir?' inquired Mr Tapley
drying the sole at the fire, and looking coolly at it as he spoke,
as if it were a slice of toast.

'Where!' repeated Martin. 'You don't suppose I am going to remain
here, do you?'

The imperturbable Mark confessed that he did.

You do!' retorted Martin angrily. 'I am much obliged to you. What
do you take me for?'

'I take you for what you are, sir,' said Mark; 'and, consequently,
am quite sure that whatever you do will be right and sensible. The
boot, sir.'

Martin darted an impatient look at him, without taking it, and
walked rapidly up and down the kitchen several times, with one boot
and a stocking on. But, mindful of his Eden resolution, he had
already gained many victories over himself when Mark was in the case,
and he resolved to conquer now. So he came back to the book-jack,
laid his hand on Mark's shoulder to steady himself, pulled the boot
off, picked up his slippers, put them on, and sat down again. He
could not help thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his
pockets, and muttering at intervals, 'Pecksniff too! That fellow!
Upon my soul! In-deed! What next?' and so forth; nor could he help
occasionally shaking his fist at the chimney, with a very
threatening countenance; but this did not last long; and he heard
Mrs Lupin out, if not with composure, at all events in silence.

'As to Mr Pecksniff himself,' observed the hostess in conclusion,
spreading out the skirts of her gown with both hands, and nodding
her head a great many times as she did so, 'I don't know what to
say. Somebody must have poisoned his mind, or influenced him in
some extraordinary way. I cannot believe that such a noble-spoken
gentleman would go and do wrong of his own accord!'

A noble-spoken gentleman! How many people are there in the world,
who, for no better reason, uphold their Pecksniffs to the last and
abandon virtuous men, when Pecksniffs breathe upon them!

'As to Mr Pinch,' pursued the landlady, 'if ever there was a dear,
good, pleasant, worthy soul alive, Pinch, and no other, is his name.
But how do we know that old Mr Chuzzlewit himself was not the cause
of difference arising between him and Mr Pecksniff? No one but
themselves can tell; for Mr Pinch has a proud spirit, though he has
such a quiet way; and when he left us, and was so sorry to go, he
scorned to make his story good, even to me.'

'Poor old Tom!' said Martin, in a tone that sounded like remorse.

'It's a comfort to know,' resumed the landlady, 'that he has his
sister living with him, and is doing well. Only yesterday he sent
me back, by post, a little'--here the colour came into her cheeks--
'a little trifle I was bold enough to lend him when he went away;
saying, with many thanks, that he had good employment, and didn't
want it. It was the same note; he hadn't broken it. I never
thought I could have been so little pleased to see a bank-note come
back to me as I was to see that.'

'Kindly said, and heartily!' said Martin. 'Is it not, Mark?'

'She can't say anything as does not possess them qualities,'
returned Mr Tapley; 'which as much belongs to the Dragon as its
licence. And now that we have got quite cool and fresh, to the
subject again, sir; what will you do? If you're not proud, and can
make up your mind to go through with what you spoke of, coming along,
that's the course for you to take. If you started wrong with your
grandfather (which, you'll excuse my taking the liberty of saying,
appears to have been the case), up with you, sir, and tell him so,
and make an appeal to his affections. Don't stand out. He's a
great deal older than you, and if he was hasty, you was hasty too.
Give way, sir, give way.'

The eloquence of Mr Tapley was not without its effect on Martin but
he still hesitated, and expressed his reason thus:

'That's all very true, and perfectly correct, Mark; and if it were
a mere question of humbling myself before HIM, I would not consider
it twice. But don't you see, that being wholly under this
hypocrite's government, and having (if what we hear be true) no mind
or will of his own, I throw myself, in fact, not at his feet, but at
the feet of Mr Pecksniff? And when I am rejected and spurned away,'
said Martin, turning crimson at the thought, 'it is not by him; my
own blood stirred against me; but by Pecksniff--Pecksniff, Mark!'

'Well, but we know beforehand,' returned the politic Mr Tapley,
'that Pecksniff is a wagabond, a scoundrel, and a willain.'

'A most pernicious villain!' said Martin.

'A most pernicious willain. We know that beforehand, sir; and,
consequently, it's no shame to be defeated by Pecksniff. Blow
Pecksniff!' cried Mr Tapley, in the fervour of his eloquence.
'Who's he! It's not in the natur of Pecksniff to shame US, unless he
agreed with us, or done us a service; and, in case he offered any
audacity of that description, we could express our sentiments in the
English language, I hope. Pecksniff!' repeated Mr Tapley, with
ineffable disdain. 'What's Pecksniff, who's Pecksniff, where's
Pecksniff, that he's to be so much considered? We're not a-
calculating for ourselves;' he laid uncommon emphasis on the last
syllable of that word, and looked full in Martin's face; 'we're
making a effort for a young lady likewise as has undergone her
share; and whatever little hope we have, this here Pecksniff is not
to stand in its way, I expect. I never heard of any act of
Parliament, as was made by Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Why, I wouldn't
see the man myself; I wouldn't hear him; I wouldn't choose to know
he was in company. I'd scrape my shoes on the scraper of the door,
and call that Pecksniff, if you liked; but I wouldn't condescend no
further.'

The amazement of Mrs Lupin, and indeed of Mr Tapley himself for that
matter, at this impassioned flow of language, was immense. But
Martin, after looking thoughtfully at the fire for a short time,
said:

'You are right, Mark. Right or wrong, it shall be done. I'll do
it.'

'One word more, sir,' returned Mark. 'Only think of him so far as
not to give him a handle against you. Don't you do anything secret
that he can report before you get there. Don't you even see Miss
Mary in the morning, but let this here dear friend of ours'--Mr
Tapley bestowed a smile upon the hostess--'prepare her for what's a-
going to happen, and carry any little message as may be agreeable.
She knows how. Don't you?'  Mrs Lupin laughed and tossed her head.
'Then you go in, bold and free as a gentleman should. "I haven't
done nothing under-handed," says you. "I haven't been skulking
about the premises, here I am, for-give me, I ask your pardon, God
Bless You!"'

Martin smiled, but felt that it was good advice notwithstanding, and
resolved to act upon it. When they had ascertained from Mrs Lupin
that Pecksniff had already returned from the great ceremonial at
which they had beheld him in his glory; and when they had fully
arranged the order of their proceedings; they went to bed, intent
upon the morrow.

In pursuance of their project as agreed upon at this discussion, Mr
Tapley issued forth next morning, after breakfast, charged with a
letter from Martin to his grandfather, requesting leave to wait upon
him for a few minutes. And postponing as he went along the
congratulations of his numerous friends until a more convenient
season, he soon arrived at Mr Pecksniff's house. At that
gentleman's door; with a face so immovable that it would have been
next to an impossibility for the most acute physiognomist to
determine what he was thinking about, or whether he was thinking at
all; he straightway knocked.

A person of Mr Tapley's observation could not long remain insensible
to the fact that Mr Pecksniff was making the end of his nose very
blunt against the glass of the parlour window, in an angular attempt
to discover who had knocked at the door. Nor was Mr Tapley slow to
baffle this movement on the part of the enemy, by perching himself
on the top step, and presenting the crown of his hat in that
direction. But possibly Mr Pecksniff had already seen him, for Mark
soon heard his shoes creaking, as he advanced to open the door with
his own hands.

Mr Pecksniff was as cheerful as ever, and sang a little song in the
passage.

'How d'ye do, sir?' said Mark.

'Oh!' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Tapley, I believe? The Prodigal
returned! We don't want any beer, my friend.'

'Thankee, sir,' said Mark. 'I couldn't accommodate you if you did.
A letter, sir. Wait for an answer.'

'For me?' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'And an answer, eh?'

'Not for you, I think, sir,' said Mark, pointing out the direction.
'Chuzzlewit, I believe the name is, sir.'

'Oh!' returned Mr Pecksniff. 'Thank you. Yes. Who's it from, my
good young man?'

'The gentleman it comes from wrote his name inside, sir,' returned
Mr Tapley with extreme politeness. 'I see him a-signing of it at
the end, while I was a-waitin'.'

'And he said he wanted an answer, did he?' asked Mr Pecksniff in his
most persuasive manner.

Mark replied in the affirmative.

'He shall have an answer. Certainly,' said Mr Pecksniff, tearing
the letter into small pieces, as mildly as if that were the most
flattering attention a correspondent could receive. 'Have the
goodness to give him that, with my compliments, if you please. Good
morning!'  Whereupon he handed Mark the scraps; retired, and shut the
door.

Mark thought it prudent to subdue his personal emotions, and return
to Martin at the Dragon. They were not unprepared for such a
reception, and suffered an hour or so to elapse before making
another attempt. When this interval had gone by, they returned to
Mr Pecksniff's house in company. Martin knocked this time, while Mr
Tapley prepared himself to keep the door open with his foot and
shoulder, when anybody came, and by that means secure an enforced
parley. But this precaution was needless, for the servant-girl
appeared almost immediately. Brushing quickly past her as he had
resolved in such a case to do, Martin (closely followed by his
faithful ally) opened the door of that parlour in which he knew a
visitor was most likely to be found; passed at once into the room;
and stood, without a word of notice or announcement, in the presence
of his grandfather.

Mr Pecksniff also was in the room; and Mary. In the swift instant
of their mutual recognition, Martin saw the old man droop his grey
head, and hide his face in his hands.

It smote him to the heart. In his most selfish and most careless
day, this lingering remnant of the old man's ancient love, this
buttress of a ruined tower he had built up in the time gone by, with
so much pride and hope, would have caused a pang in Martin's heart.
But now, changed for the better in his worst respect; looking
through an altered medium on his former friend, the guardian of his
childhood, so broken and bowed down; resentment, sullenness,
self-confidence, and pride, were all swept away, before the starting
tears upon the withered cheeks. He could not bear to see them. He
could not bear to think they fell at sight of him. He could not
bear to view reflected in them, the reproachful and irrevocable
Past.

He hurriedly advanced to seize the old man's hand in his, when Mr
Pecksniff interposed himself between them.

'No, young man!' said Mr Pecksniff, striking himself upon the
breast, and stretching out his other arm towards his guest as if it
were a wing to shelter him. 'No, sir. None of that. Strike here,
sir, here! Launch your arrows at me, sir, if you'll have the
goodness; not at Him!'

'Grandfather!' cried Martin. 'Hear me! I implore you, let me
speak!'

'Would you, sir? Would you?' said Mr Pecksniff, dodging about, so
as to keep himself always between them. 'Is it not enough, sir,
that you come into my house like a thief in the night, or I should
rather say, for we can never be too particular on the subject of
Truth, like a thief in the day-time; bringing your dissolute
companions with you, to plant themselves with their backs against
the insides of parlour doors, and prevent the entrance or issuing
forth of any of my household'--Mark had taken up this position, and
held it quite unmoved--'but would you also strike at venerable
Virtue? Would you? Know that it is not defenceless. I will be its
shield, young man. Assail me. Come on, sir. Fire away!'

'Pecksniff,' said the old man, in a feeble voice. 'Calm yourself.
Be quiet.'

'I can't be calm,' cried Mr Pecksniff, 'and I won't be quiet. My
benefactor and my friend! Shall even my house be no refuge for your
hoary pillow!'

'Stand aside!' said the old man, stretching out his hand; 'and let
me see what it is I used to love so dearly.'

'It is right that you should see it, my friend,' said Mr Pecksniff.
'It is well that you should see it, my noble sir. It is desirable
that you should contemplate it in its true proportions. Behold it!
There it is, sir. There it is!'

Martin could hardly be a mortal man, and not express in his face
something of the anger and disdain with which Mr Pecksniff inspired
him. But beyond this he evinced no knowledge whatever of that
gentleman's presence or existence. True, he had once, and that at
first, glanced at him involuntarily, and with supreme contempt; but
for any other heed he took of him, there might have been nothing in
his place save empty air.

As Mr Pecksniff withdrew from between them, agreeably to the wish
just now expressed (which he did during the delivery of the
observations last recorded), old Martin, who had taken Mary Graham's
hand in his, and whispered kindly to her, as telling her she had no
cause to be alarmed, gently pushed her from him, behind his chair;
and looked steadily at his grandson.

'And that,' he said, 'is he. Ah! that is he! Say what you wish to
say. But come no nearer,'

'His sense of justice is so fine,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'that he will
hear even him, although he knows beforehand that nothing can come of
it. Ingenuous mind!'  Mr Pecksniff did not address himself
immediately to any person in saying this, but assuming the position
of the Chorus in a Greek Tragedy, delivered his opinion as a
commentary on the proceedings.

'Grandfather!' said Martin, with great earnestness. 'From a painful
journey, from a hard life, from a sick-bed, from privation and
distress, from gloom and disappointment, from almost hopelessness
and despair, I have come back to you.'

'Rovers of this sort,' observed Mr Pecksniff, as Chorus, 'very
commonly come back when they find they don't meet with the success
they expected in their marauding ravages.'

'But for this faithful man,' said Martin, turning towards Mark,
'whom I first knew in this place, and who went away with me
voluntarily, as a servant, but has been, throughout, my zealous and
devoted friend; but for him, I must have died abroad. Far from
home, far from any help or consolation; far from the probability
even of my wretched fate being ever known to any one who cared to
hear it--oh, that you would let me say, of being known to you!'

The old man looked at Mr Pecksniff. Mr Pecksniff looked at him.
'Did you speak, my worthy sir?' said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile.
The old man answered in the negative. 'I know what you thought,'
said Mr Pecksniff, with another smile. 'Let him go on my friend.
The development of self-interest in the human mind is always a
curious study. Let him go on, sir.'

'Go on!' observed the old man; in a mechanical obedience, it
appeared, to Mr Pecksniff's suggestion.

'I have been so wretched and so poor,' said Martin, 'that I am
indebted to the charitable help of a stranger, in a land of
strangers, for the means of returning here. All this tells against
me in your mind, I know. I have given you cause to think I have
been driven here wholly by want, and have not been led on, in any
degree, by affection or regret. When I parted from you,
Grandfather, I deserved that suspicion, but I do not now. I do not
now.'

The Chorus put its hand in its waistcoat, and smiled. 'Let him go
on, my worthy sir,' it said. 'I know what you are thinking of, but
don't express it prematurely.'

Old Martin raised his eyes to Mr Pecksniff's face, and appearing to
derive renewed instruction from his looks and words, said, once
again:

'Go on!'

'I have little more to say,' returned Martin. 'And as I say it now,
with little or no hope, Grandfather; whatever dawn of hope I had on
entering the room; believe it to be true. At least, believe it to
be true.'

'Beautiful Truth!' exclaimed the Chorus, looking upward. 'How is
your name profaned by vicious persons! You don't live in a well, my
holy principle, but on the lips of false mankind. It is hard to
bear with mankind, dear sir'--addressing the elder Mr Chuzzlewit;
'but let us do so meekly. It is our duty so to do. Let us be among
the Few who do their duty. If,' pursued the Chorus, soaring up into
a lofty flight, 'as the poet informs us, England expects Every man
to do his duty, England is the most sanguine country on the face of
the earth, and will find itself continually disappointed.'

'Upon that subject,' said Martin, looking calmly at the old man as
he spoke, but glancing once at Mary, wh