 Chapter 36, Part 2 of Life and Adventures of Martin Cheslowit. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Life and Adventures of Martin Cheslowit by Charles Dickens. Chapter 36, Part 2. Accordingly, John Westlock took the French rolls out of his boots and put his boots on and dressed himself, giving Tom the paper to read in the meanwhile. When he returned, equipped for walking, he found Tom in a brown study with the paper in his hand. Dreaming, Tom? No, said Mr. Pinch. No, I have been looking over the advertising sheet, thinking there might be something in it which would be likely to suit me. But as I often think, the strange thing seems to be that nobody is suited. Here are all kinds of employers wanting all sorts of servants, and all sorts of servants wanting all kinds of employers, and they never seem to come together. Here is a gentleman in a public office, in a position of temporary difficulty, who wants to borrow five hundred pounds. And in the very next advertisement, here is another gentleman who has got exactly that sum to lend. But he'll never lend it to him, John, you'll find. Here is a lady possessing a moderate independence who wants to board and lodge with a quiet, cheerful family. And here is a family describing themselves in those very words, a quiet, cheerful family who want exactly such a lady to come and live with them. But she'll never go, John. Neither do any of these single gentlemen who want an airy bedroom with the occasional use of a parlor, ever appear to come to terms with these other people who live in a rural situation, remarkable for its bracing atmosphere, within five minutes' walk of the royal exchange. Even those letters of the alphabet, who are always running away from their friends and being entreated at the tops of columns to come back, never do come back, if we may judge from the number of times they are asked to do it and don't. It really seems, said Tom, relinquishing the paper with a thoughtful sigh, as if people had the same gratification in printing their complaints as in making them known by word of mouth, as if they found it a comfort and consolation to proclaim, I want such and such a thing and I can't get it and I don't expect I ever shall. John Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many years had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so little of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He was particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have those streets pointed out to him, which were appropriated to the slaughter of countrymen, and was quite disappointed to find, after half an hour's walking, that he hadn't had his pocket picked. But on John Westlock's inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and pointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he was much delighted. His friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell, and having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy brass and copper founders, left him to make his visit. Arriving before the great bell handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared. Pray, does Miss Pinch live here, said Tom? Miss Pinch is governess here, replied the porter. At the same time, he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have said, you are a nice man, you are, where did you come from? It's the same young lady, said Tom, it's quite right, is she at home? I don't know, I'm sure, rejoined the porter. Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain, said Tom? He had quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility of such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter's mind at all. The fact was that the porter in answering the gate bell had, according to usage, rung the house bell, for it is as well to do these things in the baronial style while you are about it, and that there the functions of his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and not to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be developed by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called out from the doorsteps, Hello there, what are you up to, this way young man? Oh, said Tom, hurrying towards him, I didn't observe that there was anybody else. Pray, is Miss Pinch at home? She's in, replied the footman, as much as to say to Tom, but if you think she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place, you had better abandon that idea. I wish to see her, if you please, said Tom. The footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention caught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so warm an interest that his gaze was riveted on the bird until it was quite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in and showed him into a parlor. Honey neem, said the young man, pausing languidly at the door. It was a good thought, because without providing the stranger, in case he should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for knocking him down, it implied this young man's estimate of his quality and relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of writing him in secret as a nameless and obscure individual. Say her brother, if you please, said Tom. Mother, drawled the footman. Brother, repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. And if you will say in the first instance a gentleman, and then say her brother, I shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in London, and I do not wish to startle her. The young man's interest in Tom's observations had ceased long before this time, but he kindly waited until now when shutting the door he withdrew. Dear me, said Tom, this is very disrespectful and uncivil behavior. I hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently treated. His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining room. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or an indignant reprimand of some offender, and gathering strength occasionally broke out into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it appeared to Tom, that the footman announced him, for an abrupt and unnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing before the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused these sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door opened, and his sister ran into his arms. I bless my soul, said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when they had tenderly embraced each other. How altered you are, Ruth! I should scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere else, I declare. You are so improved, said Tom, with inexpressible delight. You are so womanly, you are so positively, you know, you are so handsome. If you think so, Tom. Oh, but everybody must think so, you know, said Tom, gently smoothing down her hair. It's a matter of fact, not opinion. But what's the matter, said Tom, looking at her more intently? How flushed you are, and you have been crying. No, I have not, Tom. Nonsense, said her brother Stoutly. That's a story. Don't tell me. I know better. What is it, dear? I'm not with Mr. Pecksniff now. I am going to try and settle myself in London. And if you are not happy here, as I very much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving me, with the kindest and most affectionate intention, you shall not remain here. Oh, Tom's blood was rising. Mind that. Perhaps the boar's head had something to do with it. But certainly the footman had. So had the sight of his pretty sister. A great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good deal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing. He began to think, there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps. And by all the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in a most unusual tingle all at once. We will talk about it, Tom, said Ruth, giving him another kiss to pacify him. I am afraid I cannot stay here. Cannot, replied Tom, why then you shall not, my love. Hey, you are not an object of charity upon my word. Tom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a message from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him before he went, and with Miss Pinch also. Show the way, said Tom, I'll wait upon him at once. Accordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of altercation had proceeded, and there they found a middle-aged gentleman with a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady with what may be termed an excisible face or one in which starch and vinegar were decidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss Pinch, whom Mrs. Todgers on a previous occasion had called a syrup, and who was now weeping and sobbing spitefully. My brother, sir, said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom. Oh, cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. You really are Miss Pinch's brother, I presume. You will excuse my asking, I don't observe any resemblance. Miss Pinch has a brother, I know, observed the lady. Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother when she ought to be engaged upon my education, sobbed the pupil. Sophia, hold your tongue, observe the gentleman. Sit down, if you please, addressing Tom. Tom sat down, looking from one face to another in mute surprise. Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch, pursued the gentleman, looking slightly over his shoulder. Tom interrupted him here by rising to place a chair for his sister, having done which he sat down again. I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister today, sir, resumed the brass and copper fonder, for although I do not approve as a principal of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity of a governess receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well timed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with your sister. We are very much dissatisfied with her, observed the lady. I'd never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death for it, sobbed the pupil. Sophia, cried her father, hold your tongue. Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is? Asked Tom. Yes, said the gentleman, I will. I don't recognize it as a right, but I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding respect. It has been a constant source of difference between us. Although she has been in this family for some time, and although the young lady who is now present is almost as it were grown up under her tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has been perfectly unable to command my daughter's respect or to win my daughter's confidence. Now, said the gentleman, allowing the palm of his hand to fall gravely down upon the table, I maintain that there is something radically wrong in that. You, as her brother, may be disposed to deny it. I beg your pardon, sir, said Tom. I am not at all disposed to deny it. I am not sure that there is something radically wrong, radically monstrous in that. Good heavens, cried the gentleman, looking round the room with dignity. What do I find to be the case? What results obtrude themselves upon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of Miss Pinch? What are my feelings as a father when after my desire repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to deny, that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, until in her deportment as becomes her station in life and politely distant to her inferiors in society, I find her only this very morning addressing Miss Pinch herself as a beggar. A beggarly thing, observed the lady in correction, which is worse, said the gentleman triumphantly, which is worse, a beggarly thing, a low course despicable expression. Most despicable, cried Tom. I am glad to find that there is a just appreciation of it here. So just, sir, said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more impressive, so just, that but from I knowing Miss Pinch to be an unprotected young person and orphaned and without friends, I would, as I assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character a few minutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that moment and from that time. Bless my soul, sir, cried Tom, rising from his seat, for he was now unable to contain himself any longer. Don't allow such considerations as those to influence you prey. They don't exist, sir. She is not unprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on. Oh, a pretty family, cried the lady. Oh, he's her brother. There's no doubt about that. As little doubt, Madam, said Tom, as that the young lady yonder as the child of your teaching and not my sisters. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on. When you say young man interposed the brass and copper found her haughtily, with that impertinence which is natural to you and which I therefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my eldest daughter, has been educated by anyone but Miss Pinch, you I needn't proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used to it. Sir, cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time. If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do understand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing yourself an answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his children to respect what he degrades. Ha, ha, ha, laughter, gentlemen. Can't. Can't. The common can't. The common story, sir, said Tom, the story of a common mind. Your governess cannot win the confidence in respect of your children for sooth. Let her begin by winning yours and see what happens then. Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear, said the gentleman. I trust she is, said Tom, for stalling the reply. I have no doubt she is. In the meantime, I address myself to you, sir. You made your statement to me, sir. You required to see me for that purpose, and I have a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent, said Tom, which was quite true. Though I can scarcely say as much for you in your manner of addressing yourself to me, and I wish on my sister's behalf to state the simple truth. You may state anything you like, young man, return to the gentleman, affecting Teon. My dear, Miss Pinch's money. When you tell me, resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for keeping himself quiet, that my sister has no inate power of commanding the respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so, and that she has. She is as well-bred, as well-taught, as well-qualified by nature to command respect as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house, how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters? Pretty well upon my word, exclaimed the gentleman, this is pretty well. It is very ill, sir, said Tom. It is very bad and mean and wrong and cruel. Respect. I believe young people are quick enough to observe and imitate, and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects, and everybody slights, and very partial they must grow. Oh, very partial to their studies when they see to what a past proficiency in those same tasks has brought their governess. Respect. Put anything the most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which you place her and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is. I speak with extreme impertinence, young man, observed the gentleman. I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt for such a course of treatment and for all who practice it, said Tom. Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something vaguely and humble when you are forever telling her the same thing yourself in fifty plain out-speaking ways, though not in words? And when your very porter and footman give delicate announcement to all comers, as to your suspicion and distrust of her, even of her word, if she is not above their reach you have no right to employ her. No right, cried the brass and copper founder. Distinctly not, Tom answered. If you imagine that the payment of an annual sum of money gives it to you you immensely exaggerate its power and value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case. You may be punctual in that a second on the clock and yet be bankrupt. I have nothing more to say, said Tom, much flushed and flustered now that it was over, except to crave permission to stand in your garden until my sister is ready. Not waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out. Before he had well begun to cool his sister joined him. She was crying and Tom could not bear that anyone about the house should see her doing that. They will think you are sorry to go, said Tom, you are not sorry to go? No, Tom, now I have been anxious to go for a very long time. Very well then, don't cry, said Tom. I am so sorry for you, dear, sub-Tom's sister, but you ought to be glad on my account, said Tom, I shall be twice as happy with you for a companion. Hold up your head, there. Now we go out as we ought, not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in ourselves. The idea of Tom and his sister blustering under any circumstances was a splendid absurdity, but Tom was very far from feeling it to be so in his excitement, and passed out at the gate with such severe determination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again. It was not until they had walked some short distance and Tom found himself getting cooler and more collected that he was quite restored to himself by an inquiry from his sister who said in her pleasant little voice, where are we going, Tom? Dear me, said Tom, stopping, I don't know. Don't you live anywhere, dear? asked Tom's sister, looking wistfully in his face. No, said Tom, not at present, not exactly. I only arrived this morning. We must have some lodgings. He didn't tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John, and could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom one was a young lady, for he knew that would make her uncomfortable and would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him. Neither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John and told him of this change in his arrangements, for he was delicate of seeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his friend. Therefore, he said again, we must have some lodgings, of course, and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect directory and guidebook to all the lodgings in London. Where shall we go and look for him? Said Tom, what do you think? Tom's sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she squeezed her little purse into his coat pocket and folding a little hand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she clasped his arm, said nothing. It ought to be a cheap neighborhood, said Tom, and not too far from London. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place? I should think it was an excellent place, Tom. It used to be called Mary Islington once upon a time, said Tom. Perhaps it's Mary now. If so, it's all the better, eh? If it's not too dear, said Tom's sister. Of course, if it's not too dear, said Tom. Well, where is Islington? We can't do better than go there, I should think. Let's go. Tom's sister would have gone anywhere with him. So they walked off arm in arm as comfortably as possible. Finding presently that Islington was not in that time. Tom made inquiries respecting a public conveyance thither which they soon obtained. As they rode along, they were very full of conversation indeed, Tom relating what had happened to him and Tom's sister relating what had happened to her and both finding a great deal more to say than time to say it in for they had only just begun to talk in comparison with what they had to tell each other when they reached their journey's end. Now, they were very unpretending streets and then look out for bills in the windows. So they walked off again quite as happily as if they had just stepped out of a snug little house of their own to look for lodgings on account of somebody else. Tom's simplicity was unabated, heaven knows, but now that he had somebody to rely upon him he was stimulated to rely a little more upon himself and was in his own opinion for hours looking at some scores of lodgings they began to find it rather fatiguing especially as they saw none which were at all adapted to their purpose. At length, however, in a singular little old fashioned house up a blind street they discovered two small bedrooms and a triangular parlor which promised to suit them well enough. Their desiring to take reference to John Westlock Esquire Fernable in High Holborn. It was a goodly sight when this important point was settled to behold Tom and his sister trotting round to the bakers and the butchers and the grocers with a kind of dreadful delight in the unaccustomed cares of housekeeping taking secret counsel together as they gave their small orders and distracted by the least suggestion on the high time for Tom to keep his appointment. So after agreeing with his sister that in consideration of not having dined they would venture on the extravagance of his marvelous occurrences to John. I am quite a family man all at once thought Tom. If I can only get something to do how comfortable Ruth and I may be. Ah that if. But it's of no use to disbond I can but do that when I have tried everything and failed and even then it won't serve me much. That's the price. Don't a forcing problem On즈 That now indulge Charles Dickens. CHAPTER 37 Tom Pinch, going astray, finds that he is not the only person in that predicament. He retaliates upon a fallen foe. Tom's evil genius did not lead him into the dens of any of those preparers of cannibalic pastry who are represented in many standard country legends as doing a lively retail business in the metropolis. Nor did it mark him out as the prey of ring-droppers, pee and thimble-rigors, duffers, touters, or any of those bloodless sharpers who are perhaps a little better known to the police. He fell into conversation with no gentleman who took him into a public house, where there happened to be another gentleman who swore he had more money than any gentleman, and very soon proved he had more money than one gentleman by taking his away from him. Later did he fall into any other of the numerous mantraps which are set up without notice in the public grounds of this city. But he lost his way. He very soon did that, and in trying to find it again, he lost it more and more. Now Tom, in his guileless distrust of London, thought himself very knowing in coming to the determination that he would not ask to be directed to Furnables Inn if he could help it, unless indeed he should happen to find himself near the Mint or the Bank of England, in which case he would step in and ask a civil question or two confiding in the perfect respectability of the concern. So on he went, looking up all the streets he came near and going up half of them, and thus by dint of not being true to Goswell Street, and filing off into Aldermanbury, and bewildering himself in Barbican, and being constant to the wrong point of the compass in London Wall, and then getting himself crosswise into Thames Street by an instinct that would have been marvelous if he had had the least desire or reason to go there, he found himself at last hard by the monument. The man in the monument was quite as mysterious a being to Tom as the man in the moon. It immediately occurred to him that the lonely creature who held himself aloof from all mankind in that pillar, like some old hermit, was the very man of whom to ask his way. Cold he might be, little sympathy he had perhaps with human passion, the column seemed too tall for that. But if truth didn't live in the base of the monument, notwithstanding Pope's couplet about the outside of it, where in London thought Tom was she likely to be found. Going close below the pillar it was a great encouragement to Tom to find that the man in the monument had simple tastes. That stony and artificial as his residence was, he still preserved some rustic recollections. That he liked plants, hung up bird cages, was not wholly cut off from fresh ground soil, and kept young trees in tubs. The man in the monument himself was sitting outside the door, his own door, the monument door. He had a grand idea, and was actually yawning as if there were no monument to stop his mouth and give him a perpetual interest in his own existence. Tom was advancing towards this remarkable creature to inquire the way to Furnables Inn when two people came to see the monument. They were a gentleman and a lady, and the gentleman said, how much a piece? The man in the monument replied, a tanner. It seemed a low expression compared with the monument. The gentleman put a shilling into his hand, and the man in the monument opened a dark little door. When the gentleman and lady had passed out of view, he shut it again and came slowly back to his chair. He sat down and laughed. They don't know what a many steps there is, he said. It's worth twice the money to stop here, oh my eye. The man in the monument was a cynic, a worldly man. Tom couldn't ask his way of him. He was prepared to put no confidence in anything he said. My gracious, quite a well-known voice behind Mr. Pinch, would it be sure it is? At the same time, he was poked in the back by a parasol. Turning round to inquire into this salute, he beheld the eldest daughter of his late patron. Miss Peck sniff, said Tom. Why, my goodness, Mr. Pinch, cried Cherry, what are you doing here? I have rather wandered from my way, said Tom. I hope you have run away, said Charity. It would be quite spirited and proper if you had, when my papa so far forgets himself. I have left him, returned Tom, but it was perfectly understood on both sides. It was not done clandestinely. Has he married, asked Cherry, with a spasmodic shake of her chin? No, not yet, said Tom, coloring. To tell you the truth, I don't think he is likely to be, if Miss Graham is the object of his passion. Pch, Mr. Pinch, cried Charity, with sharp impatience. You're very easily deceived. You don't know the arts of which such a creature is capable. Oh, it's a wicked world. You are not married. Tom hinted to divert the conversation. No, said Cherry, tracing out one particular paving-stone in Monument Yard with the end of her parasol, but really it's quite impossible to explain. Won't you walk in? You live here, then, said Tom. Yes, returned Miss Peck-Sniff, pointing with her parasol to Todgers's. I reside with this lady, at present. The great stress on the two last words suggested to Tom that he was expected to say something in reference to them. So he said, only at present? Are you going home again soon? No, Mr. Pinch, returned Charity. No, thank you, no. A mother-in-law who is younger than, I mean to say, who is as nearly as possible about the same age as oneself, would not quite suit my spirit. Not quite, said Cherry, with a spiteful shiver. I thought from your saying, at present, Tom observed, really, upon my word I had no idea you would press me so very closely on the subject, Mr. Pinch, said Charity, blushing, or I should not have been so foolish as to allude to—oh, really—won't you walk in? Tom mentioned to excuse himself that he had an appointment in Furnivell's Inn, and that coming from Islington he had taken a few wrong turnings and arrived at the Monument instead. Ms. Pexniff simpered very much when he asked her if she knew the way to Furnivell's Inn, and at length found courage to reply. A gentleman who was a friend of mine, or at least who was not exactly a friend so much as a sort of acquaintance, oh, upon my word I hardly know what I say, Mr. Pinch. You mustn't suppose there is any engagement between us, or at least if there is that it is at all a settled thing as yet, is going to Furnivell's Inn immediately, I believe, upon a little business, and I am sure he would be very glad to accompany you so as to prevent your going wrong again. You had better walk in. You will very likely find my sister Mary here, she said with a curious toss of her head, and anything but an agreeable smile. Then I think I'll endeavor to find my way alone, said Tom, for I fear she would not be very glad to see me. That unfortunate occurrence in relation to which you and I had some amicable words together in private is not likely to have impressed her with any friendly feeling towards me, though it really was not my fault. She has never heard of that, you may depend, said Cherry, gathering up the corners of her mouth and nodding at Tom. I am far from sure that she would bear you any mighty ill will for it if she had. You don't say so, cried Tom, who was really concerned by this insinuation. I say nothing, said Charity. If I had not already known what shocking things treachery and deceit are in themselves, Mr. Pinch, I might perhaps have learned it from the success they meet with. From the success they meet with. Here she smiled as before. But I don't say anything. On the contrary, I should scorn it. You had better walk in. There was something hidden here which piqued Tom's interest and troubled his tender heart, when, in a moment's irresolution, he looked at Charity, he could not but observe a struggle in her face between a sense of triumph and a sense of shame. Nor could he but remark how, meeting even his eyes, which she cared so little for, she turned away her own for all this splinetic defiance in her manner. An uneasy thought entered Tom's head, a shadowy misgiving that the altered relations between himself and Pexnip were somehow to involve an altered knowledge on his part of other people, and were to give him an insight into much of which he had had no previous suspicion. And yet he put no definite construction upon Charity's proceedings. He certainly had no idea that, as he had been the audience and spectator of her mortification, she grasped with eager delight at any opportunity of reproaching her sister with his presence in her far deeper misery, for he knew nothing of it, and only pictured that sister is the same giddy, careless, trivial creature she always had been, with the same slight estimation of himself which she had never been at the least pains to conceal. In short, he had merely a confused impression that Miss Pexnip was not quite sisterly or kind, and being curious to set it right, accompanied her as she desired. The house door being opened, she went in before Tom, requesting him to follow her, and led the way to the parlor door. Oh, Mary, she said, looking in, I am so glad you have not gone home. Who do you think I have met in the street and brought to see you? Mr. Pinch, there. Now, you are surprised, I am sure. Not more surprised than Tom was when he looked upon her. Not so much, not half so much. Mr. Pinch has left papa, my dear, said Charity, and his prospects are quite flourishing. I have promised that Augustus, who is going that way, shall escort him to the place he wants. Augustus, my child, where are you? With these words, Miss Pexnip screamed her way out of the parlor, calling on Augustus model to appear, and left Tom Pinch alone with her sister. If she had always been his kindest friend, if she had treated him through all his servitude, with such consideration as was never yet received by struggling man, if she had lightened every moment of those many years and had ever spared and never wounded him, his honest heart could not have swelled before her with a deeper pity or a purer freedom from all base remembrance than it did then. My gracious me, you are really the last person in the world I should have thought of seeing, I am sure. Tom was sorry to hear her speaking in her old manner. He had not expected that, yet he did not feel at a contradiction that he should be sorry to see her so unlike her old self, and sorry at the same time to hear her speaking in her old manner. The two things seemed quite natural. I wonder you find any gratification in coming to see me. I can't think what put it in your head. I never had much in seeing you. There was no love lost between us, Mr. Pinch, at any time, I think. Her bonnet lay beside her on the sofa, and she was very busy with the ribbons as she spoke. Much too busy to be conscious of the work her fingers did. We never quarreled, said Tom. Tom was right in that, for one person can no more quarrel without an adversary than one person can play at chess or fight a duel. I hoped you would be glad to shake hands with an old friend. Don't let us break up bygones, said Tom. If I ever offended you, forgive me. She looked at him for a moment, dropped her bonnet from her hands, spread them before her altered face and burst into tears. Oh, Mr. Pinch, she said, although I never used you well, I did believe your nature was forgiving. I did not think you could be cruel. She spoke as little like her old self now for certain as Tom could possibly have wished, but she seemed to be appealing to him reproachfully, and he did not understand her. I seldom showed it. Never. I know that. But I had that belief in you that if I had been asked to name the person in the world least likely to retort upon me, I would have named you confidently. Would have named me, Tom repeated. Yes, she said with energy, and I have often thought so. After a moment's reflection, Tom sat himself upon a chair beside her. Do you believe, said Tom, oh, can you think that what I said just now I said was any but the true and plain intention which my words professed? I mean it in the spirit and the letter. If I ever offended you, forgive me. I may have done so many times. You never injured or offended me. How then could I possibly retort if even I were stern and bad enough to wish to do it? After a little while she thanked him through her tears and sobs, and told him she had never been at once so sorry and so comforted since she left home. Still she wept bitterly, and it was the greater pain to Tom to see her weeping from her standing in a special knee just then of sympathy and tenderness. Come, come, said Tom, you used to be as cheerful as the day was long. Ah, used. She cried in such a tone as rent Tom's heart. And we'll be again, said Tom, no, never more, no, never, never more. If you should talk with old Mr. Chuzzlewood at any time, she added, looking hurriedly into his face. I sometimes thought he liked you, but suppressed it. Will you promise me to tell him that you saw me here? And then I said I bore in mind the time we talked together in the churchyard. Tom promised that he would. Many times since then, when I have wished I had been carried there before that day, I have recalled his words. I wish that he should know how true they were, although the least acknowledgment to that effect has never passed my lips and never will. Tom promised this, conditionally, too. He did not tell her how improbable it was that he and the old man would ever meet again because he thought it might disturb her more. If he should ever know this, through your means, dear Mr. Pinch, said Mercy, tell him that I sent the message, not for myself, but that he might be more forbearing and more patient and more trustful to some other person in some other time of need. Tell him that if he could know how my heart trembled in the balance that day and what a very little would have turned the scale his own would bleed with pity for me. Yes, yes, said Tom, I will. When I appeared to him the most unworthy of his help, I was—I know I was, for I have often, often thought about it since—the most inclined to yield to what he showed me. Oh, if he had relented but a little more. If he had thrown himself in my way for but one other quarter of an hour. If he had extended his compassion for a vain, unthinking, miserable girl in but the least degree, he might, and I believe he would, have saved her. Tell him that I don't blame him, but am grateful for the effort that he made. But ask him for the love of God and youth, and in merciful consideration for the struggle, which an ill-advised and unwakened nature makes to hide the strength that thinks its weakness. Ask him never, never to forget this when he deals with one again. Although Tom did not hold the clue to her full meaning, he could guess it pretty nearly. Much to the quick he took her hand and said, or meant to say, some words of consolation. She felt and understood them, whether they were spoken or no. He was not quite certain afterwards, but that she had tried to kneel down at his feet and bless him. He found that he was not alone in the room when she had left it. Mrs. Todgers was there shaking her head. Tom had never seen Mrs. Todgers, it is needless to say, but he had a perception of her being the lady of the house, and he saw some genuine compassion in her eyes that won his good opinion. Ah, sir, you are an old friend, I see, said Mrs. Todgers. Yes, said Tom. And yet, close Mrs. Todgers, shutting the door softly, she hasn't told you what her troubles are, I'm certain. Tom was struck by these words, for they were quite true. Indeed, he said, she has not. Never would, said Mrs. Todgers, if you saw her daily. She never makes the least complaint to me or others a single word of explanation or reproach. But I know, said Mrs. Todgers, drawing in her breath, I know. Tom nodded sorrowfully, so do I. I fully believe, said Mrs. Todgers, taking her pocket handkerchief from the flat reticule, that nobody can tell one half of what that poor young creature has to undergo, but though she comes here constantly to ease her poor, full heart without his knowing it, and saying, Mrs. Todgers, I am very low today, I think that I shall soon be dead, sits crying in my room until the fit is past. I know no more from her, and I believe, said Mrs. Todgers, putting back her handkerchief again, that she considers me a good friend, too. Mrs. Todgers might have said her best friend. Commercial gentlemen and gravy had tried Mrs. Todgers' temper. The main chance, it was such a very small one in her case that she might have been excused for looking sharp after it, lest it should entirely vanish from her sight, had taken a firm hold on Mrs. Todgers' attention. But in some odd nook in Mrs. Todgers' breast, up a great many steps, and in a corner easy to be overlooked, there was a secret door with woman written on the spring which, at a touch from Mercy's hand, had flown wide open and admitted her for shelter. When boarding-house accounts are balanced with all other ledgers, and the books of the recording angel are made up forever, perhaps there may be seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs. Todgers, which shall make thee beautiful. She was growing beautiful so rapidly in Tom's eyes, for he saw that she was poor, and that this good had sprung up in her from among the sordid strivings of her life, that she might have been a very venous in a minute more if Mrs. Pexnip had not entered with her friend. Mr. Thomas Pinch, said Charity, performing the ceremony of introduction with evident pride, Mr. Model, where's my sister? Gone, Mrs. Pexnip, Mrs. Todgers answered. She had appointed to be home. Ah, said Charity, looking at Tom. Oh, dear me. She's greatly altered since she's been married, Mrs. Todgers, observed Model. My dear Augustus, said Mrs. Pexnip, in a low voice. I verily believe you have said that 50,000 times in my hearing what a prose you are. This was succeeded by some trifling love passages which appeared to originate with, if not to be wholly carried on, by Mrs. Pexnip. At any rate, Mr. Model was much slower in his responses than his customary with young lovers and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite oppressive. He did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets but sighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of cheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy. Joy, cried Model, ha-ha. What an extraordinary young man, thought Tom. The scornor has not set his seal upon you. You care what becomes of you, said Model. Tom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some interest. I don't, said Mr. Model. The elements may have me when they please, I'm ready. Tom inferred from these and other expressions of the same nature that he was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course, which was such a gloomy one that he felt a load removed from his mind when they parted company at the gate of Furnables Inn. It was now a couple of hours past John Westlock's dinner time, and he was walking up and down the room quite anxious for Tom's safety. The table was spread, the wine was carefully decanted, and the dinner smelt delicious. Why, Tom, old boy, where on earth have you been? Your box is here. Get your boots off instantly and sit down. I am sorry to say I can't stay, John, replied Tom Pinch, who was breathless with the haste he had made in running up the stairs. Can't stay? If you'll go on with your dinner, said Tom, I'll tell you my reason in a while. I mustn't eat myself, or I shall have no appetite for the chops. There are no chops here, my good fellow. No, but there are at Islington, said Tom. John Westlock was perfectly confounded by this reply, and vowed he would not touch a morsel until Tom had explained himself fully, so Tom sat down and told him all to which he listened with the greatest interest. He knew Tom too well and respected his delicacy too much to ask him why he had taken these measures without communicating with him first. He quite concurred in the expediency of Tom's immediately returning to his sister, as he knew so little of the place in which he had left her, and good humoredly proposed to ride back with him in a cab in which he might convey his box. Tom's proposition that he should sup with them that night, he flatly rejected, but made an appointment with him for the morrow. And now, Tom, he said, as they rode along, I have a question to ask you, to which I expect a manly and straightforward answer. Do you want any money? I am pretty sure you do. I don't indeed, said Tom. I believe you are deceiving me. No, with many thanks to you I am quite in earnest, Tom replied. My sister has some money, and so have I. If I had nothing else, John, I have a five-pound note which that good creature, Mrs. Lupin, of the dragon, handed up to me outside the coach, in a letter begging me to borrow it, and then drove off as hard as she could go. And a blessing on every dimple in her, handsome face, say I, cried John, though why you should give her the preference over me, I don't know. Never mind, I bide my time, Tom. And I hope you'll continue to bide it, returned Tom gaily, for I owe you more already in a hundred other ways than I can ever hope to pay. They parted at the door of Tom's new residence. John Westlock, sitting in the cab and catching a glimpse of a blooming little busy creature darting out to kiss Tom and to help him with his box, would not have had the least objection to change places with him. Well, she was a cheerful little thing and had a quaint, bright quietness about her that was infinitely pleasant. Surely she was the best sauce for chops ever invented. The potatoes seemed to take a pleasure in sending up their grateful steam before her. The froth upon the pint of porter pouted to attract her notice. But it was all in vain. She saw nothing but Tom. Tom was the first and last thing in the world. As she sat opposite to Tom at supper, fingering one of Tom's pet tunes upon the tablecloth, and smiling in his face, he had never been so happy in his life. CHAPTER 38 OF LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTEN CHUZZLEWIT This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTEN CHUZZLEWIT by Charles Dickens. CHAPTER 38 SECRET SERVICE In walking from the city with his sentimental friend, Tom Pinch had looked into the face and brushed against the threadbare sleeve of Mr. Nagit, man of mystery to the Anglo-Bengali disinterested loan and life assurance company. Mr. Nagit naturally passed away from Tom's remembrance as he passed out of his view, for he didn't know him and had never heard his name. As there are a vast number of people in the huge metropolis of England who rise up every morning not knowing where their heads will rest at night, so there are a multitude whose shooting arrows overhouses as their daily business never know on whom they fall. Mr. Nagit might have passed Tom Pinch ten thousand times, might even have been quite familiar with his face, his name, pursuits and character, yet never once have dreamed that Tom had any interest in any act or mystery of his. Tom might have done the like by him, of course, but the same private man out of all the men alive was in the mind of each at the same moment, was prominently connected, though in a different manner, with the day's adventures of both, informed when they passed each other in the street, the one absorbing topic of their thoughts. Why Tom had Jonas Chuzzlewood in his mind requires no explanation. Why Mr. Nagit should have had Jonas Chuzzlewood in his is quite another thing. But somehow or other that amiable and worthy orphan had become a part of the mystery of Mr. Nagit's existence. Mr. Nagit took an interest in his lightest proceedings and it never flagged or wavered. He watched him in and out of the assurance office, where he was now formally installed as a director. He dogged his footsteps in the streets. He stood listening when he talked. He sat in coffee rooms, entering his name in the great pocketbook over and over again. He wrote letters to himself about him constantly, and when he found them in his pocket put them in the fire, with such distrust and caution that he would bend down to watch the crumpled tinder while it floated upwards, as if his mind misgave him that the mystery it had contained might come out of the chimney pot. And yet all this was quite a secret. Mr. Nagit kept it to himself and kept it close. Jonas had no more idea that Mr. Nagit's eyes were fixed on him than he had that he was living under the daily inspection and report of a whole order of Jesuits. Indeed Mr. Nagit's eyes were seldom fixed on any other objects than the ground, the clock, or the fire, but every button on his coat might have been an eye he saw so much. The secret manner of the man disarmed suspicion in this wise, suggesting not that he was watching anyone, but that he thought some other man was watching him. He went about so stealthily and kept himself so wrapped up in himself that the whole object of his life appeared to be to avoid notice and preserve his own mystery. Jonas sometimes saw him in the street, hovering in the outer office, waiting at the door for the man who never came, or slinking off with his immovable face and drooping head, and the one beaver-glove dangling before him. But he would as soon have thought of the cross upon the top of St. Paul's Cathedral taking note of what he did, or slowly whining a great net about his feet, as of Nagit's being engaged in such an occupation. Mr. Nagit made a mysterious change about this time in his mysterious life, for whereas he had until now been first seen every morning coming down Cornhill, so exactly like the Nagit of the day before, as to occasion a popular belief that he never went to bed or took his clothes off. He was now first seen in Holburn, coming out of Kingsgate Street, and it was soon discovered that he actually went every morning to a barber's shop in that street to get shaved, and that the barber's name was Sweetlepipe. He seemed to make appointments with the man who never came to meet him at this barber's, for he would frequently take long spells of waiting in the shop and would ask for pen and ink, and pull out his pocketbook and be very busy over it for an hour at a time. Mrs. Gamp and Mr. Sweetlepipe had many deep discorsings on the subject of this mysterious customer, but they usually agreed that he had speculated too much and was keeping out of the way. He must have appointed the man who never kept his word to meet him at another new place, too, for one day he was found, for the first time, by the waiter at the morning coach house, the house of call for undertakers down in the city there, making figures with a pipe stem in the sawdust of a clean spittoon, and declining to call for anything on the ground of expecting a gentleman presently. As the gentleman was not honorable enough to keep his engagement, he came again next day with his pocketbook in such a state of distention that he was regarded in the bar as a man of large property. After that he repeated his visits every day and had so much writing to do that he made nothing of emptying a capacious leaden ink stand in two sittings. Though he never talked much, still, by being there among the regular customers, he made their acquaintance, and in course of time became quite intimate with Mr. Tacker, Mr. Mould's foreman, and even with Mr. Mould himself, who openly said he was a long-headed man, a dry one, a saltfish, a deepfile, a rasper, and made him the subject of many other flattering encomiums. At the same time, too, he told the people at the Assurance Office, in his own mysterious way, that there was something wrong, secretly wrong, of course, in his liver, and that he feared he must put himself under the doctor's hands. He was delivered over to Jabbling upon this representation, and though Jabbling could not find out where his liver was wrong, Mr. Natchit said it was, observing that it was his own liver, and he hoped he ought to know. Suddenly he became Mr. Jabbling's patient, and detailing his symptoms in his slow and secret way was in and out of that gentleman's room a dozen times a day. As he pursued all these occupations at once, and all steadily, and all secretly, and never slackened in his watchfulness of everything that Mr. Jonas said and did, and left unsaid and undone, it is not improbable that they were, secretly, essential parts of some great scheme which Mr. Natchit had on foot. It was on the morning of this very day on which so much had happened to Tom Pinch that Natchit suddenly appeared before Mr. Montague's house in Palmall. He always made his appearance, as if he had, at that moment, come up a trap, when the clocks were striking nines. He rang the bell in a covert, underhanded way, as though it were a treasonable act, and passed in at the door the moment it was opened wide enough to receive his body. That done he shut it immediately with his own hands. Mr. Bailey, taking up his name without delay, returned with a request that he would follow him into his master's chamber. The chairman of the Anglo-Bengali Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board was dressing, and received him as a businessperson who was often backwards and forwards, and was received at all times for his business sake. Well, Mr. Natchit? Mr. Natchit put his hat upon the ground and coughed. The boy, having withdrawn and shut the door, he went to it softly, examined the handle, and returned to within a pace or two of the chair in which Mr. Montague sat. Any news, Mr. Natchit? I think we have some news at last, sir. I am happy to hear it. I began to fear you were off the scent, Mr. Natchit. No, sir. It grows cold occasionally. It will sometimes. We can't help that. You are truth itself, Mr. Natchit. Do you report a great success? That depends upon your judgment and construction of it, was his answer, as he put on his spectacles. What do you think of it yourself? Have you pleased yourself? Mr. Natchit rubbed his hands slowly, stroked his chin, looked round the room, and said, yes, yes, I think it's a good case. I am disposed to think it's a good case. Will you go into it at once? By all means. Mr. Natchit picked out a certain chair from among the rest, and having planted it in a particular spot as carefully as if he had been going to vault over it, placed another chair in front of it, leaving room for his own legs between them. He then sat down in chair number two and laid his pocketbook very carefully on chair number one. He then untied the pocketbook and hung the string over the back of chair number one. He then drew both the chairs a little nearer, Mr. Montague, and opening the pocketbook spread out its contents. Finally, he selected a certain memorandum from the rest and held it out to his employer, who during the whole of these preliminary ceremonies had been making violent efforts to conceal his impatience. I wish you wouldn't be so fond of making notes, my excellent friend, said TIG Montague with a ghastly smile. I wish you would consent to give me their purport by word of mouth. I don't like word of mouth, said Mr. Natchit gravely. We never know who's listening. Mr. Montague was going to retort when Natchit handed him the paper and said, with quiet exultation in his tone, we'll begin at the beginning and take that one first, if you please, sir. The chairman cast his eyes upon it coldly, and with a smile which did not render any great homage to the slow and methodical habits of his spy, but he had not read half a dozen lines when the expression of his face began to change, and before he had finished a perusal of the paper it was full of grave and serious attention. Number two, said Mr. Natchit, handing him another, and receiving back the first, read number two, sir, if you please, there is more interest as you go on. Mr. Montague leaned backward in his chair and cast upon his emissary such a look of vacant wonder, not unmingled with a long arm, that Mr. Natchit considered it necessary to repeat the request he had already twice preferred, with a view to recalling his attention to the point in hand. Profiting by the hint, Mr. Montague went on with number two and afterwards with numbers three and four and five and so on. These documents were all in Mr. Natchit's writing and were apparently a series of memoranda jotted down from time to time upon the backs of old letters or any scrap of paper that came first to hand. Loose straggling scrawls they were and a very uninviting exterior, but they had weighty purpose in them if the chairman's face were any index to the character of their contents. The progress of Mr. Natchit's secret satisfaction arising out of the effect they made kept pace with the emotions of the reader. At first Mr. Natchit sat with his spectacles low down upon his nose, looking over them at his employer and nervously rubbing his hands. After a little while he changed his posture in his chair for one of greater ease and leisurely perused the next document he held ready as if an occasional glance at his employer's face were now enough and all occasion for anxiety or doubt were gone. And finally he rose and looked out of the window where he stood with a triumphant air until Tig Montague had finished. And this is the last, Mr. Natchit, said that gentleman drawing a long breath. That sir is the last. You are a wonderful man, Mr. Natchit. I think it is a pretty good case, he returned as he gathered up his papers. It cost some trouble, sir. The trouble shall be well rewarded, Mr. Natchit. Natchit bowed. There is a deeper impression of somebody's hoof here than I had expected, Mr. Natchit. I may congratulate myself upon your being such a good hand at a secret. Oh, nothing has an interest to me that's not a secret, replied Natchit as he tied the string about his pocketbook and put it up. It always takes away any pleasure I may have had in this inquiry even to make it known to you. A most invaluable constitution, Tig retorted, a great gift for a gentleman employed as you are, Mr. Natchit. Much better than discretion, though you possess that quality also in an eminent degree. I think I heard a double knock. Will you put your hand out of window and tell me whether there is anybody at the door? Mr. Natchit softly raised the sash and peered out from the very corner as a man might who was looking down into a street from once a brisk discharge of musketry might be expected at any moment. Drawing in his head with equal caution he observed, not altering his voice or manner, Mr. Jonas chuzzle-wit. I thought so, Tig retorted. Shall I go? I think you had better. Stay, though. No, remain here, Mr. Natchit, if you please. It was remarkable how pale and flurried he had become in an instant. There was nothing to account for it. His eye had fallen on his razors, but what of them? Mr. Chuzzle-wit was announced. Show him up directly. Natchit, don't you leave us alone together. Mind you don't now. By the Lord, he added in a whisper to himself, we don't know what may happen. Saying this, he hurriedly took up a couple of hairbrushes and began to exercise them on his own head as if his toilet had not been interrupted. Mr. Natchit withdrew to the stove in which there was a small fire for the convenience of heating curling irons and taking advantage of so favorable an opportunity for drying his pocket-hankerchief produced it without loss of time. There he stood during the whole interview, holding it before the bars and sometimes, but not often, glancing over his shoulder. My dear Chuzzle-wit, cried Montague, as Jonas entered, you rise with the lark. Though you go to bed with the nightingale, you rise with the lark. You have superhuman energy, my dear Chuzzle-wit. E. Codd, said Jonas, with an air of languor and ill-humour, as he took a chair. I should be very glad not to get up with the lark if I could help it, but I am a light sleeper, and it's better to be up than lying awake, counting the dismal old church clocks in bed. A light sleeper, cried his friend. Now, what is a light sleeper? I often hear the expression, but upon my life I have not the least conception what a light sleeper is. Hello, said Jonas, who's that? Oh, old What's-his-name, looking, as usual, as if he wanted to skulk up the chimney. Ha-ha, I have no doubt he does. Well, he's not wanted here, I suppose, said Jonas. He may go, may he? Oh, let him stay, let him stay, said Tig. He's a mere piece of furniture. He has been making his report and is waiting for further orders. He has been told, said Tig, raising his voice, not to lose sight of certain friends of ours, or to think that he has done with them by any means. He understands his business. He need, replied Jonas, for of all the precious old dummies and appearance that I ever saw, he's about the worst. He's afraid of me, I think. It's my belief, said Tig, that you are poisoned to him. Nadget, give me that towel. He had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start, but Nadget brought it quickly and having lingered for a moment, fell back upon his old post by the fire. You see, my dear fellow, resumed Tig, you are too—what's the matter with your lips? How white they are! I took some vinegar just now, said Jonas. I had oysters for my breakfast. Where are they white, he added, muttering an oath and rubbing them upon his handkerchief. I don't believe they are white. Now I look again, they are not, replied his friend. They are coming right again. Say what you were going to say, cried Jonas angrily, and let my face be. As long as I can show my teeth when I want to, and I can do that pretty well, the color of my lips is not material. Quite true, said Tig. I was only going to say that you are too quick and active for our friend. He is too shy to cope with such a man as you, but does his duty well. Oh, very well. But what is a light sleeper? Hang a light sleeper, exclaimed Jonas petishly. No, no, oh, interrupted Tig. No, we'll not do that. A light sleeper ain't a heavy one, said Jonas in his sulky way. Don't sleep much, and don't sleep well, and don't sleep sound. And dreams, said Tig, and cries out in an ugly manner. And when the candle burns down in the night, is in an agony, and all that sort of thing, I see. They were silent for a little time, then Jonas spoke. Now we've done with child's talk. I want to have a word with you. I want to have a word with you before we meet up yonder today. I am not satisfied with a state of affairs. Not satisfied, cried Tig. The money comes in well. The money comes in well enough, retorted Jonas, but it don't come out well enough. It can't be got at easily enough. I haven't sufficient power. It is all in your hands. Eek, God, what was one of your bylaws, and another of your bylaws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes in that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights, and other people's rights who are only you again, there are no rights left for me. Everybody else's rights are my wrongs. What's the use of my having a voice if it's always drowned? I might as well be dumb. And it would be much less aggravating. I'm not going to stand that, you know. No, said Tig in an insinuating tone. No, return Jonas, I'm not indeed. I'll play old gooseberry with the office and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure if you try any of your tricks with me. I give you my honor, well, Tig you began. Oh, confound your honor, interrupted Jonas, who became more chorus and quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of Mr. Montague's intention. I want a little more control over the money. You may have all the honor, if you like. I'll never bring you to book for that. But I'm not going to stand it as it is now. If you should take it into your honorable head to go abroad with the bank, I don't see much to prevent you. Well, that won't do. I've had some very good dinners here, but they'd come to dear on such terms, and therefore that won't do. I am unfortunate to find you in this humor, said Tig, with a remarkable kind of smile, for I was going to propose to you for your own advantage, solely for your own advantage, that you should venture a little more with us. Was you by G, said Jonas, with a short laugh? Yes, and to suggest, pursued Montague, that surely you have friends, indeed I know you have, who would answer our purpose admirably, and whom we should be delighted to receive. How kind of you. You'd be delighted to receive them, would you, said Jonas, bantering? I give you my sacred honor, quite transported, as your friends observe. Exactly, said Jonas, as my friends, of course, you'll be very much delighted when you get them, I have no doubt, and it'll be all to my advantage, won't it? It will be very much to your advantage, answered Montague, poising a brush in each hand and looking steadily upon him. It will be very much to your advantage, I assure you. And you can tell me how, said Jonas, can't you? Shall I tell you how? returned the other. I think you had better, said Jonas. Strange things have been done in the assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to take care of myself. Chuzzle wit, replied Montague, leaning forward with his arms upon his knees, and looking full into his face. Strange things have been done and are done every day, not only in our way, but in a variety of other ways, and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend, is a strange way, and we strangely happen sometimes to come into the knowledge of very strange events. He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer, and looking slightly round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadget, whispered in his ear. From red to white, from white to red again, from red to yellow, then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzle wit, and when at last he lay his hand upon the whisperer's mouth, appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present. It was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of death. He drew his chair away, and sat, a spectacle of terror, misery, and rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject, crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he bore than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel. His companion leisurely resumed his dressing and completed it, glancing sometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never speaking once. You'll not object, he said, when he was quite equipped, to venture further with us, Chuzzle wit, my friend. His pale lips faintly stammered out a, no. Well, said, that's like yourself, do you know I was thinking yesterday that your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great sagacity and money-manors, as no doubt you are, would join us if the thing were well presented to him. He has money. Yes, he has money. Shall I leave Mr. Pexnip to you? Will you undertake for Mr. Pexnip? I'll try. I'll do my best. A thousand thanks, replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder. Shall we walk downstairs? Mr. Nadgett, follow us, if you please. They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to Montague, whatever sense he had of being caged and barred and trapped, and having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin, whatever thoughts came crowding on his mind even at that early time of one terrible chance of escape, of one red glimmer in the sky of blackness, he no more thought that the slinking figure half a dozen stairs behind him was his pursuing fate than that the other figure at his side was his good angel. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Part 1 of Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens. Chapter 39, containing some further particulars of the domestic economy of the pinches, with strange news from the city narrowly concerning Tom. Pleasant little Ruth, tearful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth, no dowel's house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress than little Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular parlor in the two small bedrooms. To be Tom's housekeeper, what dignity, housekeeping upon the commonest terms associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and kinds, but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of the little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar and out of the two little damp cupboards down by the fireplace where the very black beetle's got moldy and had the shine taken out of their backs by envious mildew and jingle them upon a ring before Tom's eyes when he came down to breakfast. Well might she, laughing musically, put them up in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride, for it was such a grand novelty to be mistress of anything that if she had been the most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might have pleaded just that much for her excuse and had been honorably acquitted. So far from being despotic, however, there was a coiness about her very way of pouring out the tea which Tom quite reveled in. And when she asked him what he would like to have for dinner and faltered out chops as a reasonably good suggestion after their last night's successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious and rallied her desperately. I don't know Tom, said his sister, blushing. I am not quite confident, but I think I could make a beefsteak pudding if I tried, Tom. In the whole catalog of cookery, there is nothing I should like so much as a beefsteak pudding, cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the greater force to this reply. Yes, dear, that's excellent. But if it should happen not to come quite right the first time, his sister faltered, if it should happen not to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew or a soup or something of that sort, you'll not be vexed, Tom, will you? The serious way in which she looked at Tom, the way in which Tom looked at her, and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at her own expense would have enchanted you. Why, said Tom, this is capital. It gives us a new and quite an uncommon interest in the dinner. We put into a lottery for a beefsteak pudding, and it is impossible to say what we may get. We may make some wonderful discovery, perhaps, and produce such a dish as never was known before. They shall not be at all surprised if we do, Tom, returned to his sister, still laughing merrily, or if it should prove to be such a dish that we shall not feel very anxious to produce again. But the meat must come out of the saucepan at last, somehow or other, you know. We can't cook it into nothing at all. That's a great comfort. So if you like to venture, I will. I have not the least doubt, rejoined Tom, that it will come out an excellent pudding, or at all events I am sure that I shall think it so. There is naturally something so handy and brisk about you, Ruth, that if you said you could make a bowl of faultless turtle soup, I should believe you. And Tom was right. She was precisely that sort of person. Nobody ought to have been able to resist her coaxing manner, and nobody had any business to try. Yet she never seemed to know it was her manner at all. That was the best of it. Well, she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time, and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass and copper founder, put everything in its place, made the room as neat as herself. You must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers, though, or anything like it. And brushed Tom's old hat round and round and round again until it was as sleek as Mr. Peck's sniff. Then she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom's shirt collar was frayed at the edge, and flying upstairs for a needle and thread came flying down again with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness, never once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming his pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of her left hand upon his neck cloth. She had no sooner done this than off she was again, and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a bee, tying that compact little chin of hers into an equally compact little bonnet, intent on bustling out to the butchers without a minute's loss of time, and inviting Tom to come and see the stake cut with his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere, so off they trotted, arm in arm, as nimbly as you please, saying to each other what a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy situation. To see the butchers slap the stake before he laid it on the block, and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was agreeable too, it really was, to see him cut it off so smooth and juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large and keen. It was a piece of art, high art. There was delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It was a triumph of mind over matter, quite. Perhaps the greenest cabbage leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped about this stake before it was delivered over to Tom, but the butcher had a sentiment for his business and knew how to refine upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him. For meat, he said with some emotion, must be humored, not drove. Back they went to the lodgings again after they had bought some eggs and flour and such small matters, and Tom sat gravely down to write at one end of the parlor table while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at the other end. For there was nobody in the house but an old woman, the landlord being a mysterious sort of man who went out early in the morning and was scarcely ever seen, and saving in mere household drudgery they waited on themselves. "'What are you writing, Tom?' inquired his sister, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "'Why, you see, my dear,' said Tom, leaning back in his chair and looking up in her face. "'I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some suitable employment, and before Mr. Westlock comes this afternoon, I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my qualifications, such as he could show to any friend of his. "'You had better do the same for me, Tom,' also,' said his sister, casting down her eyes. "'I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care of you always, Tom, but we are not rich enough for that. "'We are not rich,' returned Tom, certainly, and we may be much poorer, but we will not part if we can help it. "'No, no, we will make up our minds, Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will battle it out together. "'I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together, don't you think we shall?' "'Think, Tom. "'Oh, tut, tut,' interposed Tom tenderly, you mustn't cry. "'No, no, I won't, Tom, but you can't afford it, dear, you can't, indeed.' "'We don't know that,' said Tom. "'How are we to know that yet a while and without trying? "'Lord bless my soul.' Tom's energy became quite grand. "'There is no knowing what may happen if we try hard, "'and I am sure we can live contentedly upon a very little "'if we can only get it. "'Yes, that I am sure we can, Tom.' "'Why then,' said Tom, we must try for it. "'My friend John Westlock is a capital fellow "'and very shrewd and intelligent. "'I'll take his advice. "'We'll talk it over with him, both of us together. "'You'll like John very much when you come to know him. "'I am certain. "'Don't cry, don't cry. "'You make a beefsteak pudding, indeed,' said Tom, "'giving her a gentle push, "'while you haven't boldness enough for a dumpling. "'You will call it a pudding, Tom. "'Mind, I told you not. "'I may as well call it that "'till it proves to be something else,' said Tom. "'Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?' "'I, I, that she was, "'and in such pleasant earnest, moreover, "'that Tom's attention wandered "'from his writing every moment. "'First she tripped downstairs into the kitchen "'for the flour, then for the pie board, "'then for the eggs, then for the butter, "'then for a jug of water, then for the rolling pin, "'then for a pudding basin, "'then for the pepper, then for the salt, "'making a separate journey for everything "'and laughing every time she started off afresh. "'When all the materials were collected, "'she was horrified to find she had no apron on, "'and so ran upstairs by way of variety to fetch it. "'She didn't put it on upstairs, "'but came dancing down with it in her hand, "'and being one of those little women "'to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, "'it took an immense time to arrange. "'Having to be carefully smoothed down beneath a whole heaven "'what a wicked little stomacher, "'and to be gathered up into little plates by the strings "'before it could be tied, "'and to be tapped, rebuked, "'and weedled at the pockets before it would set right. "'Which at last it did, "'and when it did, put it never mind, "'this is a sober chronicle. "'And then there were her cuffs to be tucked up "'for fear of flower, "'and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, "'which wouldn't come off, foolish little ring. "'And during the whole of these preparations "'she looked demurely every now and then at Tom "'from under her dark eyelashes, "'as if they were all a part of the pudding "'and indispensable to its composition. "'For the life and soul of him, Tom, "'could get no further in his writing "'than a respectable young man aged 35. "'And this, notwithstanding the show she made "'of being supernaturally quiet "'and going about on tiptoe, "'less she should disturb him, "'which only served as an additional means "'of distracting his attention and keeping it upon her. "'Tom,' she said at last, in high glee, "'Tom, what now?' said Tom, "'repeating to himself, aged 35. "'Will you look here a moment, please? "'As if he hadn't been looking all the time. "'I am going to begin, Tom. "'Don't you wonder why I butter the inside of the basin, "'said his busy little sister? "'Not more than you do, I dare say,' replied Tom, "' Laughing, for I believe you don't know anything about it. "'What an infiddle you are, Tom. "'How else do you think it would turn out easily "'when it was done? "'For a civil engineer and land surveyor, "'not to know that. "'My goodness, Tom.' "'It was wholly out of the question to try to write. "'Tom lined out, respectable young man, aged 35, "'and sat looking on, pen and hand, "'with one of the most loving smiles imaginable. "'Such a busy little woman as she was, "'so full of self-importance "'in trying so hard not to smile, "'or seem uncertain about anything. "'It was a perfect treat to Tom "'to see her with her browsed knit "'and her rosy lips pursed up, "'needing away at the crust, "'rolling it out, cutting it up into strips, "'lining the basin with it, "'shaving it off fine round the rim, "'chopping up the steak into small pieces, "'raining down pepper and salt upon them, "'packing them into the basin, "'pouring in cold water for gravy, "'and never venturing to steal a look in his direction "'lest her gravity should be disturbed. "'Until it last the basin, "'being quite full and only wanting the top crust, "'she clapped her hands, "'all covered with paste and flour at Tom, "'and burst out heartily "'into such a charming little laugh of triumph "'that the pudding need have had no other seasoning "'to commend it to the taste "'of any reasonable man on earth. "'Where's the pudding?' said Tom, "'for he was cutting his jokes, Tom was. "'Where?' she answered, holding it up with both hands. "'Look at it. "'That a pudding?' said Tom. "'It will be, you stupid fellow, "'when it's covered in,' returned his sister. "'Tom's still pretending to look incredulous. "'She gave him a tap on the head with the rolling pin, "'and still laughing merrily, "'had returned to the composition of the top crust "'when she started and turned very red. "'Tom started, too, for following her eyes, "'he saw John Westlock in the room. "'Well, my goodness, John, how did you come in?' "'I beg pardon,' said John, "'your sister's pardon especially. "'But I met an old lady at the street door "'who requested me to enter here, "'and as you didn't hear me knock, "'and the door was open, "'I made bold to do so. "'I hardly know,' said John with a smile, "'why any of us should be disconcerted "'at my having accidentally intruded "'upon such an agreeable domestic occupation, "'so very agreeably and skillfully pursued. "'But I must confess that I am, Tom. "'Will you kindly come to my relief?' "'Mr. John Westlock,' said Tom, "'my sister. "'I hope that as the sister of so old a friend,' said John, laughing, "'you will have the goodness to detach "'your first impressions of me from my unfortunate entrance. "'My sister is not indisposed, perhaps, "'to say the same to you on her own behalf,' retorted Tom. "'John said, of course, that this was quite unnecessary, "'for he had been transfixed in silent admiration, "'and he held out his hand to Miss Pinch, "'who couldn't take it, however, "'by reason of the flower and paste upon her own. "'This, which might seem calculated "'to increase the general confusion "'and render matters worse, "'had in reality the best effect in the world, "'for neither of them could help laughing, "'and so they both found themselves "'on easy terms immediately. "'I am delighted to see you,' said Tom, sit down. "'I can only think of sitting down "'on one condition,' returned his friend, "'and that is that your sister goes on with the pudding, "'as if you were still alone. "'That I am sure she will,' said Tom, "'on one other condition, "'and that is that you stay and help us to eat it.' "'Poor little Ruth was seized "'with a palpitation of the heart "'when Tom committed this appalling indiscretion, "'for she felt that if the dish turned out of failure, "'she never would be able to hold up her head "'before John Westlock again. "'Quite unconscious of her state of mind, "'John accepted the invitation "'with all imaginable heartiness, "'and after a little more pleasantry "'concerning this same pudding "'and the tremendous expectations "'he made believed to entertain of it, "'she blushingly resumed her occupation, "'and he took a chair. "'I am here much earlier than I intended, Tom, "'but I will tell you what brings me, "'and I think I can answer for your being glad to hear it. "'Is that anything you wish to show me? "'Oh, dear no,' cried Tom, "'who had forgotten the blotted scrap of paper in his hand, "'until this inquiry brought it to his recollection. "'A respectable young man aged 35, "'the beginning of a description of myself, that's all. "'I don't think you will have occasion to finish it, Tom. "'But how is it you never told me you had friends in London?' "'Tom looked at his sister with all his might, "'and certainly his sister looked with all her might at him. "'Friends in London,' echoed Tom, "'Ah,' said Westlock, to be sure. "'Have you any friends in London, Ruth, my dear?' asked Tom. "'No, Tom. "'I am very happy to hear that I have,' said Tom, "'but it's news to me. "'I never knew it. "'They must be capital people to keep a secret, John. "'You shall judge for yourself,' returned the other. "'Seriously, Tom, here is the plain state of the case. "'As I was sitting at breakfast this morning, "'there comes a knock at my door, "'on which you cried out very loud, "'come in,' suggested Tom. "'So I did. "'And the person who knocked, "'not being a respectable young man aged 35 "'from the country, came in when he was invited "'instead of standing gaping and staring about him "'on the landing. "'Well, when he came in, I found he was a stranger, "'a grave business-like sedate-looking stranger. "'Mr. Westlock,' said he. "'That is my name,' said I. "'The favour of a few words with you,' said he. "'Pray be seated, sir,' said I. "'Here John stopped for an instant "'to glance towards the table, "'where Tom's sister, listening attentively, "'was still busy with the basin, "'which by this time made a noble appearance.' Then he resumed. "'The pudding, having taken a chair, Tom.' "'What?' cried Tom. "'Having taken a chair, you said a pudding.' "'No, no,' replied John, coloring rather, "'a chair. "'The idea of a stranger coming into my rooms "'at half past eight o'clock in the morning "'and taking a pudding. "'Having taken a chair, Tom, a chair, "'amazed me by opening the conversation thus. "'I believe you are acquainted, sir, "'with Mr. Thomas Pinch.' "'No,' cried Tom. "'His very words, I assure you, I told him I was. "'Did I know where you were at present residing?' "'Yes.' "'In London?' "'Yes.' "'He had casually heard, in a roundabout way, "'that you had left your situation with Mr. Pexniff. "'Was that the fact?' "'Yes, it was.' "'Did you want another?' "'Yes, you did. "'Certainly,' said Tom, nodding his head. "'Just what I impressed upon him. "'You may rest assured that I set that point "'beyond the possibility of any mistake "'and gave him distinctly to understand "'that he might make up his mind about it. "'Very well.' "'Then,' said he, "'I think I can accommodate him.' "'Tom's sister stopped short. "'Lord bless me,' cried Tom. "'Ruth, my dear, think I can accommodate him. "'Of course, I begged him,' pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom's sister, "'who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, "'to proceed and said that I would undertake "'to see you immediately.' "'He replied that he had very little to say, "'being a man of few words, "'but such as it was, it was to the purpose. "'And so, indeed, it turned out, "'for he immediately went on to tell me "'that a friend of his was in want "'of a kind of secretary and librarian, "'and that although the salary was small, "'being only a hundred pounds a year, "'with neither board nor lodging, "'still the duties were not heavy, "'and there the post was, vacant and ready "'for your acceptance. "'Good gracious me,' cried Tom, "'a hundred pounds a year, "'my dear John, Ruth, my love, a hundred pounds a year.' "'But the strangest part of the story,' "'resumed John Westlock, "'laying his hand on Tom's wrist "'to bespeak his attention "'and repress his ecstasies for the moment. "'The strangest part of the story, Miss Pinch, is this. "'I don't know this man from Adam. "'Neither does this man know Tom.' "'He can't,' said Tom, "'in great perplexity, "'if he's a Londoner, I don't know anyone in London.' "'And on my observing, John resumed, "'still keeping his hand upon Tom's wrist, "'that I had no doubt he would excuse the freedom "'I took in inquiring who directed him to me, "'how he came to know of the change, "'which had taken place in my friend's position, "'and how he came to be acquainted "'with my friend's peculiar fitness "'for such an office as he had described. "'He dryly said that he was not at liberty "'to enter into any explanations.' "'Not at liberty to enter into any explanations,' "'repeated Tom, drawing a long breath.' "'I must be perfectly aware,' he said, John added, "'that to any person who had ever been "'in Mr. Pexnip's neighborhood, "'Mr. Thomas Pinch and his requirements "'were as well known as the Church Steeple "'or the Blue Dragon.' "'The Blue Dragon,' repeated Tom, "'staring alternately at his friend and his sister. "'I think of that.' "'He spoke as familiarly of the Blue Dragon. "'I give you my word as if he had been marked happily. "'I opened my eyes, I can tell you, when he did so. "'But I could not fancy I had ever seen the man before. "'Although he said with a smile, "'you know the Blue Dragon, Mr. Westlock, "'you kept it up there once or twice yourself. "'Kept it up there, so I did. "'You remember, Tom?' "'Tom nodded with great significance, "'and falling into a state of deeper perplexity "'than before, observed that this was the most "'unaccountable and extraordinary circumstance "'he had ever heard of in his life. "'Unaccountable,' his friend repeated, "'I became afraid of the man. "'Though it was broad day and bright sunshine, "'I was positively afraid of him. "'I declare I half suspected him "'to be a supernatural visitor and not a mortal, "'until he took out a commonplace description of pocketbook "'and handed me this card.' "'Mr. Phipps,' said Tom, reading it aloud, "'Austin Friars.' "'Austin Friars' sounds ghostly, John. "'Phipps don't, I think,' was John's reply. "'But there he lives, Tom, "'and there he expects us to call this morning. "'And now you know as much of this strange incident "'as I do, upon my honor.' "'Tom's face between his exaltation "'and the hundred pounds a year, "'and his wonder at this narration, "'was only to be equaled by the face of his sister, "'on which there sat the very best expression "'of blooming surprise that any painter "'could have wished to see. "'What the beefsteak pudding would have come to, "'if it had not been, by this time finished, "'astrology itself could hardly determine.' "'Tom,' said Ruth, after a little hesitation, "'perhaps Mr. Westlock, in his friendship for you, "'knows more of this than he chooses to tell. "'No, indeed,' cried John, eagerly, "'it is not so, I assure you, I wish it were. "'I cannot take credit to myself, Miss Pinch, "'for any such thing. "'All that I know, or so far as I can judge "'im likely to know, I have told you.' "'Couldn't you know more, if you thought proper?' "'said Ruth, scraping the pie board industriously. "'No,' retorted John, "'indeed no. "'It is very ungenerous in you "'to be so suspicious of me, "'when I repose implicit faith in you. "'I have unbounded confidence in the pudding, Miss Pinch.' "'She laughed at this, but they soon got back "'into a serious vein, "'and discussed the subject with profound gravity. "'Whatever else was obscure in the business, "'it appeared to be quite plain "'that Tom was offered a salary of 100 pounds a year, "'and this, being the main point, "'the surrounding obscurity rather set it off "'than otherwise.' End of Chapter 39, Part 1. Chapter 39, Part 2 of Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewitt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewitt by Charles Dickens. Chapter 39, Part 2. Tom, being in a great flutter, wished to start for Austin Friars instantly, but they waited nearly an hour by John's advice before they departed. Tom made himself as spruce as he could before leaving home, and when John Westlock, through the half-opened parlor door, had glimpses of that brave little sister brushing the collar of his coat in the passage, taking up loose stitches in his gloves, and hovering lightly about and about him, touching him up here and there in the height of her quaint little old-fashioned tidiness, he called to mind the fancy portraits of her on the wall of the pecsniffian workroom and decided with uncommon indignation that they were gross libels and not half pretty enough. Though, as half been mentioned in its place, the artists always made those sketches beautiful, and he had drawn at least the score of them with his own hands. Tom, he said, as they were walking along, I begin to think you must be somebody's son. I suppose I am, Tom answered in his quiet way, but I mean somebody's of consequence. Bless your heart, replied Tom. My poor father was of no consequence, nor my mother either. You remember them perfectly then. Remember them, oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when Ruth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings of that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember? Oh, there's nothing romantic in our history, John. Very well, said John in quiet despair, then there is no way of accounting for my visitor of this morning, so we'll not try, Tom. They did try, not withstanding, and never left off trying until they got to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor, oddly situated at the back of a house across some leads, they found a little blear eyed glass door up in one corner with Mr. Phipps painted on it in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a wicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs upon the ribs of visitors, and an old mat worn into lattice work, which, being useless as a mat, even if anybody could have seen it, which was impossible, had for many years directed its industry into another channel and regularly tripped up every one of Mr. Phipps' clients. Mr. Phipps, hearing a violent concussion between a human hat and his office door, was apprised by the usual means of communication that somebody had come to call upon him, and giving that somebody admission observed that it was rather dark. Dark indeed, John whispered in Tom Pitch's ear, not a bad place to dispose of a countryman in, I should think, Tom. Tom had been already turning over in his mind the possibility of there having been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie, but the sight of Mr. Phipps, who was small in spare and looked peaceable, and wore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts. Walk in, said Mr. Phipps. They walked in, and a mighty yellow jaundiced little office Mr. Phipps had of it was a great black sprawling splash upon the floor in one corner, as if some old clerk had cut his throat there years ago and had let out ink instead of blood. I have brought my friend Mr. Pitch, sir, said John Westlock. Be pleased to sit, said Mr. Phipps. They occupied the two chairs, and Mr. Phipps took the office stool from the stuffing ware of, he drew forth a piece of horsehair of immense length, which he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite. He looked at Tom Pitch curiously, but with an entire freedom from any such expression as could be reasonably construed into an unusual display of interest. After a short silence, during which Mr. Phipps was so perfectly unembarrassed as to render it manifest that he could have broken it sooner without hesitation if he had felt inclined to do so, he asked if Mr. Westlock had made his offer fully known to Mr. Pitch. John answered in the affirmative. And do you think it worth your while, sir, do you, Mr. Phipps, inquired of Tom? I think it a piece of great good fortune, sir, said Tom. I am exceedingly obliged to you for the offer. Not to me, said Mr. Phipps, I act upon instructions. To your friend, sir, then, said Tom, to the gentleman with whom I am to engage and whose confidence I shall endeavor to deserve. When he knows me better, sir, I hope he will not lose his good opinion of me. He will find me punctual and vigilant and anxious to do what is right. That I think I can answer for, and so, looking towards him, can Mr. Westlock. Most assuredly, said John. Mr. Phipps appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the conversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer stamp and began stamping capital Fs all over his legs. The fact is, said Mr. Phipps, that my friend is not at this present moment in town. Tom's countenance fell, for he thought this equivalent to telling him that his appearance did not answer and that Phipps must look out for somebody else. When do you think he will be in town, sir? he asked. I can't say it's impossible to tell. I really have no idea. But, said Phipps, taking off a very deep impression of the wafer stamp upon the calf of his left leg and looking steadily at Tom, I don't know that it's a matter of much consequence. Poor Tom inclined his head deferentially but appeared to doubt that. I say, repeated Mr. Phipps, that I don't know it's a matter of much consequence. The business lies entirely between yourself and me, Mr. Pinch. With reference to your duties, I can set you going and with reference to your salary, I can pay it. Weekly, said Mr. Phipps, putting down the wafer stamp and looking at John Westlock and Tom Pinch by turns. Weekly in this office at any time between the hours of four and five o'clock in the afternoon. As Mr. Phipps said this, he made up his face as if he were going to whistle, but he didn't. You are very good, said Tom, whose countenance was now suffused with pleasure and nothing can be more satisfactory or straightforward. My attendance will be required from half past nine to four o'clock or so, I should say, interrupted Mr. Phipps about that. I did not mean the hours of attendance, retorted Tom, which are light and easy, I am sure, but the place. Oh, the place, the place is in the temple. Tom was delighted. Perhaps, said Mr. Phipps, you would like to see the place. Oh dear, cried Tom, I shall be only too glad to consider myself engaged if you will allow me without any further reference to the place. You may consider yourself engaged by all means, said Mr. Phipps. You couldn't meet me at the temple gate in Fleet Street in an hour from this time, I suppose, could you? Certainly, Tom could. Good, said Mr. Phipps Rising, then I will show you the place and you can begin your attendance tomorrow morning. In an hour, therefore, I shall see you. You too, Mr. Westlock? Very good. Take care how you go, it's rather dark. With this remark, which seemed superfluous, he shut them out upon the staircase and they groped their way into the street again. The interview had done so little to remove the mystery in which Tom's new engagement was involved and had done so much to thicken it that neither could help smiling at the puzzled looks of the other. They agreed, however, that the introduction of Tom to his new office and office companions could hardly fail to throw a light upon the subject and therefore postponed its further consideration until after the fulfillment of the appointment they had made with Mr. Phipps. After looking at John Westlock's chambers and devoting a few spare minutes to the boar's head, they issued forth again to the place of meeting. The time agreed upon had not quite come, but Mr. Phipps was already at the temple gate and expressed his satisfaction at their punctuality. He led the way through sundry lanes and courts into one more quiet and more gloomy than the rest and singling out a certain house ascended a common staircase, taking from his pocket as he went a bunch of rusty keys. Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing but a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the tenant's name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys very deliberately upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade. You had better have a little plug made, he said, looking round at Tom after blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. It's the only way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You'll find the lot go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil. Tom thanked him, but was too much occupied with his own speculations and John Westlock's looks to be very talkative. In the meantime, Mr. Phipps opened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly and with a horribly discordant sound. He took the key out when he had done so and gave it to Tom. I, I, said Mr. Phipps, the dust lies rather thick here. Truly it did. Mr. Phipps might have gone so far as to say very thick. It had accumulated everywhere, lay deep on everything, and in one part where a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck upon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round like a gigantic squirrel cage. Dust was the only thing in the place that had any motion about it. When their conductor admitted the light freely and lifting up the heavy window sash led in the summer air, he showed the moldering furniture, discolored wane scotting and sealing, rusty stove, and ashy hearth in all their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candle stick with an extinguisher upon it as if the last man who had been there had paused after securing a retreat to take a parting look at the dreariness he left behind and then had shut out light and life together and closed the place up like a tomb. There were two rooms on that floor and in the first or outer one a narrow staircase leading to two more above. These last were fitted up as bed chambers. Neither in them nor in the rooms below was any scarcity of convenient furniture observable, although the fittings were of a bygone fashion, but solitude and want of use seemed to have rendered it unfit for any purposes of comfort and to have given it a grisly haunted air. Moveables of every kind lay strewn about without the least attempt of order and were intermixed with boxes, hampers, and all sorts of lumber. On all the floors were piles of books, to the amount, perhaps, of some thousands of volumes. These still in bails, those wrapped in paper as they had been purchased, others scattered singly or in heaps, not one upon the shelves which lined the walls. To these, Mr. Phipps called Tom's attention. Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order, cataloged, and ranged upon the bookshelves, Mr. Pinch. That will do to begin with, I think, sir. Tom rubbed his hands in the pleasant anticipation of a task so congenial to his taste and said, an occupation full of interest for me, I assure you, it will occupy me perhaps until Mr. Until Mr. repeated Phipps as much as to ask Tom what he was stopping for. I forgot that you had not mentioned the gentleman's name, said Tom. Oh, cried Mr. Phipps, pulling on his glove, didn't I? No, by the by, I don't think I did. I dare say he'll be here soon. You will get on very well together, I have no doubt. I wish you success, I am sure. You won't forget to shut the door. It'll lock of itself if you slam it. Half past nine, you know, let us say from half past nine to four, or half past four, or thereabouts. One day perhaps a little earlier, another day perhaps a little later, according as you feel disposed, and as you arrange your work. Mr. Phipps, Austin Friar's, of course, you'll remember, and you won't forget to slam the door, if you please. He said all this in such a comfortable, easy manner that Tom could only rub his hands and nod his head and smile in acquiescence, which he was still doing when Mr. Phipps walked coolly out. Why, he's gone, cried Tom. And what's more, Tom, said John Westlock, seating himself upon a pile of books and looking up at his astonished friend. He is evidently not coming back again, so here you are, installed, under rather singular circumstances, Tom. It was such an odd affair throughout, and Tom standing there among the books with his head in one hand and the key in the other, looked so prodigiously confounded that his friend could not help laughing heartily. Tom himself was tickled, no less by the hilarity of his friend than by the recollection of the sudden manner in which he had been brought to a stop in the very height of his urbane conference with Mr. Phipps. So, by degrees, Tom burst out laughing, too, and each making the other laugh more, they fairly roared. When they had had their laugh out, which did not happen very soon, forgive John an inch that way, and he was sure to take several elves, being a jovial, good-tempered fellow, they looked about them more closely, groping among the lumber for any stray means of enlightenment that might turn up. But no scrap or shred of information could they find. The books were marked with a variety of owner's names, having no doubt been bought at sales and collected here and there at different times. But whether any one of these names belonged to Tom's employer, and if so, which of them, they had no means whatever of determining. It occurred to John as a very bright thought to make inquiry at the Steward's office to whom the chambers belonged, or by whom they were held. But he came back no wiser than he went, the answer being Mr. Phipps of Austin Fryer's. After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Phipps is an eccentric man, has some knowledge of pexnip, despises him, of course, has heard or seen enough of you to know that you are the man he wants and engages you in his own whimsical manner. But why in his own whimsical manner, asked Tom? Oh, why does any man entertain his own whimsical taste? Why does Mr. Phipps wear shorts and powder, and Mr. Phipps' next door neighbor boots in a wig? Tom being in that state of mind, in which any explanation is a great relief, adopted this last one, which indeed was quite as feasible as any other, readily, and said he had no doubt of it, nor was his faith at all shaken by his having said exactly the same thing to each suggestion of his friends in turn, and being perfectly ready to say it again if he had any new solution to propose. As he had not, Tom drew down the window sash and folded the shutter, and they left the rooms. He closed the door heavily, as Mr. Phipps had desired him, tried it, found it all safe, and put the key in his pocket. They made a pretty wide circuit in going back to Islington as they had time to spare, and Tom was never tired of looking about him. It was well he had John Westlock for his companion, for most people would have been weary of his perpetual stoppages at shop windows, and his frequent dashes into the crowded carriageway at the peril of his life to get the better view of church steeples and other public buildings. But John was charmed to see him so much interested, and every time Tom came back with a beaming face from among the wheels of carts and hackney coaches, wholly unconscious of the personal congratulations addressed to him by the drivers, John seemed to like him better than before. There was no flower on Ruth's hands when she received them in the triangular parlor, but there were pleasant smiles upon her face and a crowd of welcomes shining out of every smile and gleaming in her bright eyes. By the by, how bright they were, looking into them for but a moment when you took her hand you saw in each such a capital miniature of yourself, representing you as such a restless, flashing, eager, brilliant little fellow. Ah, if you could only have kept them for your own miniature, but wicked, roving, restless, two impartial eyes, it was enough for anyone to stand before them, and straight away there he danced and sparkled quite as merrily as you. The table was already spread for dinner, and though it was spread with nothing very choice in the way of glass or linen and with green-handled knives and very mount-a-banks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be trying how far as thunder they could possibly stretch their legs without converting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it wanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china, known or any other garniture at all. There it was, and being there, nothing else would have done as well. The success of that initiative dish, that first experiment of hers in cookery, was so entire, so unalloyed and perfect that John Westlock and Tom agreed she must have been studying the art in secret for a long time past and urged her to make a full confession of the fact. There were exceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said concerning it. But John was not as fair in his behavior as might have been expected, for after luring Tom pinch on for a long time, he suddenly went over to the enemy and swore to everything his sister said. However, as Tom observed the same night before going to bed, it was only a joke, and John had always been famous for being polite to ladies, even when he was quite a boy. Ruth said, oh, indeed, she didn't say anything else. It is astonishing how much three people may find to talk about. They scarcely left off talking once, and it was not all lively chat which occupied them, for when Tom related how he had seen Mr. Pexniff's daughters and what a change had fallen on the younger, they were very serious. John Westlock became quite absorbed in her fortunes, asking many questions of Tom pinch about her marriage, inquiring whether her husband was the gentleman whom Tom had brought to dine with him at Salisbury, in what degree of relationship they stood towards each other, being different persons, and taking in short the greatest interest in the subject. Tom then went into it full length. He told how Martin had gone abroad and had not been heard of for a long time. How Dragon Mark had borne him company, how Mr. Pexniff had got the poor old doting grandfather into his power, and how he basically sought the hand of Mary Graham. But not a word said Tom of what lay hidden in his heart, his heart so deep and true and full of honor, and yet with so much room for every gentle and unselfish thought, not a word. Tom, Tom, the man in all this world most confident in his sagacity and shrewdness, the man in all this world most proud of his distrust of other men and having most to show in gold and silver as the gains belonging to his creed, the meekest favor of that wise doctrine, every man for himself and God for us all, there being high wisdom in the thought that the eternal majesty of heaven ever was or can be on the side of selfish lust and love. Shall never find, oh, never find, be sure of that, the time come home to him when all his wisdom is in idiot's folly, weighed against the simple heart. Well, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to be so eager touching that same theater of which John said when he was done, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without the payment of a six pence was concerned, and simpler yet perhaps, never to suspect that when he went in first alone, he paid the money. Simple in thee, dear Tom, to laugh and cry so heartily at such a sorry show, so poorly shown, simple to be so happy and loquacious, trudging home with Ruth, simple to be so surprised to find that merry present of a cookery book awaiting her in the parlor next morning with the beef steak pudding leaf turned down and blotted out. There, let the record stand, thy quality of soul was simple, quite contemptible, Tom Pinch. End of chapter 39.