Martin Chuzzlewit
‘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, notwithstanding, 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 FIPS 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 Fips’s clients.
Mr Fips, 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 Pinch’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 their
having been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie; but the
sight of Mr Fips, who was small and spare, and looked peaceable, and
wore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts.
‘Walk in,’ said Mr Fips.
They walked in. And a mighty yellow-jaundiced little office Mr Fips
had of it; with 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 Pinch, sir,’ said John Westlock.
‘Be pleased to sit,’ said Mr Fips.
They occupied the two chairs, and Mr Fips took the office stool from the
stuffing whereof he drew forth a piece of horse-hair of immense length,
which he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite.
He looked at Tom Pinch 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 Fips 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 Pinch.
John answered in the affirmative.
‘And you think it worth your while, sir, do you?’ Mr Fips 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 Fips. ‘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 endeavour 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 Fips appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the
conversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer-stamp, and began
stamping capital F’s all over his legs.
‘The fact is,’ said Mr Fips, ‘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 Fips 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
Fips, 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 Fips, ‘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 Fips, 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 Fips 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 Fips. ‘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 Fips, ‘you would like to see the place?’
‘Oh, dear!’ cried Tom. ‘I shall only be 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 Fips; ‘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 Fips, rising. ‘Then I will show you the place; and you
can begin your attendance to-morrow 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 Fips.
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 Fips 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
lock 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 Fips
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.
‘Aye, aye!’ said Mr Fips. ‘The dust lies rather thick here.’
Truly, it did. Mr Fips 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, let in the summer air, he showed the mouldering furniture,
discoloured wainscoting and ceiling, rusty stove, and ashy hearth, in
all their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candlestick,
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.
Movables of every kind lay strewn about, without the least attempt at
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 bales; 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 Fips called Tom’s
attention.
‘Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order,
catalogued, and ranged upon the book-shelves, 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 Fips; 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 Fips, pulling on his glove, ‘didn’t I? No, by-the-bye,
I don’t think I did. Ah! 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 Fips, Austin Friars 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 Fips 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 hat in one hand and the key in the other, looked
so prodigiously confounded, that his friend could not help laughing