Martin Chuzzlewit
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 Fips; 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, for
give John an inch that way and he was sure to take several ells, 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 Fips, of Austin
Friars.’
‘After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Fips
is an eccentric man; has some knowledge of Pecksniff; 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
Fips wear shorts and powder, and Mr Fips’s next-door neighbour boots and
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 friend’s 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 Fips 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 carriage-way 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 flour on Ruth’s hands when she received them in the
triangular parlour, 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 bye, 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, too impartial eyes, it was enough for any one
to stand before them, and, straightway, 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 mountebanks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be
trying how far asunder they could possibly stretch their legs without
converting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it
wanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china; no, nor 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. They were
exceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said
concerning it; but John was not as fair in his behaviour 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 in 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 Pecksniff’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, at 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 Pecksniff had got the poor old doting
grandfather into his power; and how he basely 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 honour, 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 favourer 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 an
idiot’s folly, weighed against a simple heart!
Well, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to
be so eager touching that same theatre, of which John said, when tea was
done, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without
the payment of a sixpence 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 parlour next morning, with the
beef-steak-pudding-leaf turned down and blotted out. There! Let
the record stand! Thy quality of soul was simple, simple, quite
contemptible, Tom Pinch!
CHAPTER FORTY
THE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR
SURPRISE AND WONDER
There was a ghostly air about these uninhabited chambers in the Temple,
and attending every circumstance of Tom’s employment there, which had a
strange charm in it. Every morning when he shut his door at Islington,
he turned his face towards an atmosphere of unaccountable fascination,
as surely as he turned it to the London smoke; and from that moment it
thickened round and round him all day long, until the time arrived for
going home again, and leaving it, like a motionless cloud, behind.
It seemed to Tom, every morning, that he approached this ghostly
mist, and became enveloped in it, by the easiest succession of degrees
imaginable. Passing from the roar and rattle of the streets into the
quiet court-yards of the Temple, was the first preparation. Every echo
of his footsteps sounded to him like a sound from the old walls and
pavements, wanting language to relate the histories of the dim, dismal
rooms; to tell him what lost documents were decaying in forgotten
corners of the shut-up cellars, from whose lattices such mouldy sighs
came breathing forth as he went past; to whisper of dark bins of rare
old wine, bricked up in vaults among the old foundations of the Halls;
or mutter in a lower tone yet darker legends of the cross-legged
knights, whose marble effigies were in the church. With the first
planting of his foot upon the staircase of his dusty office, all these
mysteries increased; until, ascending step by step, as Tom ascended,
they attained their full growth in the solitary labours of the day.
Every day brought one recurring, never-failing source of speculation.
This employer; would he come to-day, and what would he be like? For
Tom could not stop short at Mr Fips; he quite believed that Mr Fips had
spoken truly, when he said he acted for another; and what manner of man
that other was, became a full-blown flower of wonder in the garden of
Tom’s fancy, which never faded or got trodden down.
At one time, he conceived that Mr Pecksniff, repenting of his falsehood,
might, by exertion of his influence with some third person have
devised these means of giving him employment. He found this idea so
insupportable after what had taken place between that good man and
himself, that he confided it to John Westlock on the very same day;
informing John that he would rather ply for hire as a porter, than fall
so low in his own esteem as to accept the smallest obligation from the
hands of Mr Pecksniff. But John assured him that he (Tom Pinch) was far
from doing justice to the character of Mr Pecksniff yet, if he supposed
that gentleman capable of performing a generous action; and that he
might make his mind quite easy on that head until he saw the sun turn
green and the moon black, and at the same time distinctly perceived with
the naked eye, twelve first-rate comets careering round those planets.
In which unusual state of things, he said (and not before), it might
become not absolutely lunatic to suspect Mr Pecksniff of anything
so monstrous. In short he laughed the idea down completely; and Tom,
abandoning it, was thrown upon his beam-ends again, for some other
solution.
In the meantime Tom attended to his duties daily, and made considerable
progress with the books; which were already reduced to some sort of
order, and made a great appearance in his fairly-written catalogue.
During his business hours, he indulged himself occasionally with
snatches of reading; which were often, indeed, a necessary part of
his pursuit; and as he usually made bold to carry one of these goblin
volumes home at night (always bringing it back again next morning, in
case his strange employer should appear and ask what had become of it),
he led a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart.
But though the books were never so interesting, and never so full of
novelty to Tom, they could not so enchain him, in those mysterious
chambers, as to render him unconscious, for a moment, of the lightest
sound. Any footstep on the flags without set him listening attentively
and when it turned into that house, and came up, up, up the stairs, he
always thought with a beating heart, ‘Now I am coming face to face with
him at last!’ But no footstep ever passed the floor immediately below:
except his own.