Martin Chuzzlewit
hanging up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words! But well
you mayn’t believe there’s no sech a creetur, for she wouldn’t demean
herself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention
of your name, which, to my sinful sorrow, I have done, “What, Sairey
Gamp! debage yourself to HER!” Go along with you!’
‘I’m a-goin’, ma’am, ain’t I?’ said Mrs Prig, stopping as she said it.
‘You had better, ma’am,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Do you know who you’re talking to, ma’am?’ inquired her visitor.
‘Aperiently,’ said Mrs Gamp, surveying her with scorn from head to foot,
‘to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go along with
you!’
‘And YOU was a-goin’ to take me under you!’ cried Mrs Prig, surveying
Mrs Gamp from head to foot in her turn. ‘YOU was, was you? Oh, how kind!
Why, deuce take your imperence,’ said Mrs Prig, with a rapid change from
banter to ferocity, ‘what do you mean?’
‘Go along with you!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I blush for you.’
‘You had better blush a little for yourself, while you ARE about it!’
said Mrs Prig. ‘You and your Chuffeys! What, the poor old creetur isn’t
mad enough, isn’t he? Aha!’
‘He’d very soon be mad enough, if you had anything to do with him,’ said
Mrs Gamp.
‘And that’s what I was wanted for, is it?’ cried Mrs Prig, triumphantly.
‘Yes. But you’ll find yourself deceived. I won’t go near him. We shall
see how you get on without me. I won’t have nothink to do with him.’
‘You never spoke a truer word than that!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Go along with
you!’
She was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs Prig from
the room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold
it, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the
bedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or
four of which came rattling on the head of Mrs Gamp so smartly, that
when she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs Prig was gone.
She had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey,
proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do
with Mr Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in
Kingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place
of Mrs Prig, Mr Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.
‘Why, bless my life!’ exclaimed the little barber, ‘what’s amiss? The
noise you ladies have been making, Mrs Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen
have been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time,
trying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs!
It’ll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his
own water. In his fright, he’s been a-straining himself all to bits,
drawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have
thought it was Fire!’
Mrs Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning
up her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the
following lamentation:
‘Oh, Mr Sweedlepipes, which Mr Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive,
and a friend not havin’ the pleasure of bein’ beknown, wot I have took
from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she
had abuged me, bein’ in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she
come, but could not so believe, not bein’ used myself’--Mrs Gamp, by the
way, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in
the room--‘I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she
spoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!’ said Mrs
Gamp, in a violent burst of feeling, ‘nor worms forget!’
The little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the
teapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a
chair, sat down on one side of Mrs Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the
bed, supported her on the other.
‘You wonder what we want, I daresay,’ observed John. ‘I’ll tell you
presently, when you have recovered. It’s not pressing, for a few minutes
or so. How do you find yourself? Better?’
Mrs Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs
Harris’s name.
‘Have a little--’ John was at a loss what to call it.
‘Tea,’ suggested Martin.
‘It ain’t tea,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘Physic of some sort, I suppose,’ cried John. ‘Have a little.’
Mrs Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. ‘On condition,’ she
passionately observed, ‘as Betsey never has another stroke of work from
me.’
‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘She shall never help to nurse ME.’
‘To think,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘as she should ever have helped to nuss that
friend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that--Ah!’
John looked at Martin.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was a narrow escape, Mrs Gamp.’
‘Narrer, in-deed!’ she returned. ‘It was only my having the night, and
hearin’ of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot
would she have said and done, if she had know’d what I know; that
perfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!’ cried Mrs Gamp, trampling
on the floor, in the absence of Mrs Prig, ‘that I should hear from that
same woman’s lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs Harris!’
‘Never mind,’ said John. ‘You know it is not true.’
‘Isn’t true!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘True! Don’t I know as that dear woman
is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin’ out of
window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls
me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs
of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father
says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him,
Mr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin’ in his throat,
where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin’ of
him on the floor a-lookin’ for it through the ouse and him a-choakin’
sweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you’ve showed
this night, but never shall you darken Sairey’s doors agen, you twining
serpiant!’
‘You were always so kind to her, too!’ said John, consolingly.
‘That’s the cutting part. That’s where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,’ Mrs
Gamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled
it.
‘Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!’ said John. ‘Chosen to help you
with Mr Chuffey!’
‘Chose once, but chose no more,’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘No pardnership with
Betsey Prig agen, sir!’
‘No, no,’ said John. ‘That would never do.’
‘I don’t know as it ever would have done, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied, with
a solemnity peculiar to a certain stage of intoxication. ‘Now that the
marks,’ by which Mrs Gamp is supposed to have meant mask, ‘is off
that creetur’s face, I do not think it ever would have done. There
are reagions in families for keeping things a secret, Mr Westlock, and
havin’ only them about you as you knows you can repoge in. Who could
repoge in Betsey Prig, arter her words of Mrs Harris, setting in that
chair afore my eyes!’
‘Quite true,’ said John; ‘quite. I hope you have time to find another
assistant, Mrs Gamp?’
Between her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what
was said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and
murmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs Prig had challenged--as if
it were a talisman against all earthly sorrows--seemed to wander in her
mind.
‘I hope,’ repeated John, ‘that you have time to find another assistant?’
‘Which short it is, indeed,’ cried Mrs Gamp, turning up her languid
eyes, and clasping Mr Westlock’s wrist with matronly affection.
‘To-morrow evenin’, sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr Chuzzlewit apinted
it from nine to ten.’
‘From nine to ten,’ said John, with a significant glance at Martin. ‘and
then Mr Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?’
‘He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,’ Mrs Gamp replied with a
mysterious air. ‘Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance
from Betsey Prig. I little know’d that woman. She’d have let it out!’
‘Let HIM out, you mean,’ said John.
‘Do I!’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘Oh!’
The severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very
slow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs Gamp’s
mouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a
short doze:
‘But I am a-keepin’ of you gentlemen, and time is precious.’
Mingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with
the belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd
avoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had
lately strayed, Mrs Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its
accustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity proceeded
to attire herself for a professional visit.
This preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than
the snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens and
the indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a
laying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs Gamp had
invested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and
sitting down again, declared herself quite ready.
‘It’s a ‘appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,’
she observed, ‘I’m sure. It isn’t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig
inflicts is frightful!’
Closing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her
commiseration for Betsey’s patients, she forgot to open them again until
she dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals like the
fabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten,
and of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her
sleep was peaceful.
The two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin,
stifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock’s ear,
‘What shall we do now?’
‘Stay here,’ he replied.
Mrs Gamp was heard to murmur ‘Mrs Harris’ in her sleep.
‘Rely upon it,’ whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, ‘that
you shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs Harris herself.
We know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks
to this quarrel, which confirms the old saying that when rogues fall
out, honest people get what they want. Let Jonas Chuzzlewit look to
himself; and let her sleep as long as she likes. We shall gain our end
in good time.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED
BETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER
It was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting together
before tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great many
things, but not at all about Lewsome’s story or anything connected with
it; for John Westlock--really John, for so young a man, was one of the
most considerate fellows in the world--had particularly advised Tom not
to mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her.
‘And I wouldn’t, Tom,’ he said, with a little hesitation, ‘I wouldn’t
have a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentle
heart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!’ Really John was
uncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tom
said, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.
But although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they were
less lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that this
originated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dull
himself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of her
quiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.
And there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tom
was looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towards
his face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, and