Martin Chuzzlewit
attentive ears, might fire the train of suspicion, and destroy him. His
watchfulness of every avenue by which the discovery of his guilt might
be approached, sharpened with his sense of the danger by which he was
encompassed. With murder on his soul, and its innumerable alarms and
terrors dragging at him night and day, he would have repeated the crime,
if he had seen a path of safety stretching out beyond. It was in his
punishment; it was in his guilty condition. The very deed which his
fears rendered insupportable, his fears would have impelled him to
commit again.
But keeping the old man close, according to his design, would serve his
turn. His purpose was to escape, when the first alarm and wonder had
subsided; and when he could make the attempt without awakening instant
suspicion. In the meanwhile these women would keep him quiet; and if
the talking humour came upon him, would not be easily startled. He knew
their trade.
Nor had he spoken idly when he said the old man should be gagged. He had
resolved to ensure his silence; and he looked to the end, not the means.
He had been rough and rude and cruel to the old man all his life; and
violence was natural to his mind in connection with him. ‘He shall be
gagged if he speaks, and pinioned if he writes,’ said Jonas, looking at
him; for they sat alone together. ‘He is mad enough for that; I’ll go
through with it!’
Hush!
Still listening! To every sound. He had listened ever since, and it
had not come yet. The exposure of the Assurance office; the flight of
Crimple and Bullamy with the plunder, and among the rest, as he feared,
with his own bill, which he had not found in the pocket-book of the
murdered man, and which with Mr Pecksniff’s money had probably been
remitted to one or other of those trusty friends for safe deposit at the
banker’s; his immense losses, and peril of being still called to account
as a partner in the broken firm; all these things rose in his mind at
one time and always, but he could not contemplate them. He was aware of
their presence, and of the rage, discomfiture, and despair, they brought
along with them; but he thought--of his own controlling power and
direction he thought--of the one dread question only. When they would
find the body in the wood.
He tried--he had never left off trying--not to forget it was there, for
that was impossible, but to forget to weary himself by drawing vivid
pictures of it in his fancy; by going softly about it and about it
among the leaves, approaching it nearer and nearer through a gap in the
boughs, and startling the very flies that were thickly sprinkled all
over it, like heaps of dried currants. His mind was fixed and fastened
on the discovery, for intelligence of which he listened intently to
every cry and shout; listened when any one came in or went out; watched
from the window the people who passed up and down the street; mistrusted
his own looks and words. And the more his thoughts were set upon the
discovery, the stronger was the fascination which attracted them to
the thing itself; lying alone in the wood. He was for ever showing and
presenting it, as it were, to every creature whom he saw. ‘Look here!
Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?’ If he had been
condemned to bear the body in his arms, and lay it down for recognition
at the feet of every one he met, it could not have been more constantly
with him, or a cause of more monotonous and dismal occupation than it
was in this state of his mind.
Still he was not sorry. It was no contrition or remorse for what he had
done that moved him; it was nothing but alarm for his own security. The
vague consciousness he possessed of having wrecked his fortune in the
murderous venture, intensified his hatred and revenge, and made him set
the greater store by what he had gained The man was dead; nothing could
undo that. He felt a triumph yet, in the reflection.
He had kept a jealous watch on Chuffey ever since the deed; seldom
leaving him but on compulsion, and then for as short intervals as
possible. They were alone together now. It was twilight, and the
appointed time drew near at hand. Jonas walked up and down the room. The
old man sat in his accustomed corner.
The slightest circumstance was matter of disquiet to the murderer, and
he was made uneasy at this time by the absence of his wife, who had left
home early in the afternoon, and had not returned yet. No tenderness
for her was at the bottom of this; but he had a misgiving that she
might have been waylaid, and tempted into saying something that would
criminate him when the news came. For anything he knew, she might have
knocked at the door of his room, while he was away, and discovered his
plot. Confound her, it was like her pale face to be wandering up and
down the house! Where was she now?
‘She went to her good friend, Mrs Todgers,’ said the old man, when he
asked the question with an angry oath.
Aye! To be sure! Always stealing away into the company of that woman.
She was no friend of his. Who could tell what devil’s mischief they
might hatch together! Let her be fetched home directly.
The old man, muttering some words softly, rose as if he would have gone
himself, but Jonas thrust him back into his chair with an impatient
imprecation, and sent a servant-girl to fetch her. When he had charged
her with her errand he walked to and fro again, and never stopped till
she came back, which she did pretty soon; the way being short, and the
woman having made good haste.
Well! Where was she? Had she come?
No. She had left there, full three hours.
‘Left there! Alone?’
The messenger had not asked; taking that for granted.
‘Curse you for a fool. Bring candles!’
She had scarcely left the room when the old clerk, who had been
unusually observant of him ever since he had asked about his wife, came
suddenly upon him.
‘Give her up!’ cried the old man. ‘Come! Give her up to me! Tell me what
you have done with her. Quick! I have made no promises on that score.
Tell me what you have done with her.’
He laid his hands upon his collar as he spoke, and grasped it; tightly
too.
‘You shall not leave me!’ cried the old man. ‘I am strong enough to cry
out to the neighbours, and I will, unless you give her up. Give her up
to me!’
Jonas was so dismayed and conscience-stricken, that he had not even
hardihood enough to unclench the old man’s hands with his own; but stood
looking at him as well as he could in the darkness, without moving a
finger. It was as much as he could do to ask him what he meant.
‘I will know what you have done with her!’ retorted Chuffey. ‘If you
hurt a hair of her head, you shall answer it. Poor thing! Poor thing!
Where is she?’
‘Why, you old madman!’ said Jonas, in a low voice, and with trembling
lips. ‘What Bedlam fit has come upon you now?’
‘It is enough to make me mad, seeing what I have seen in this house!’
cried Chuffey. ‘Where is my dear old master! Where is his only son that
I have nursed upon my knee, a child! Where is she, she who was the last;
she that I’ve seen pining day by day, and heard weeping in the dead of
night! She was the last, the last of all my friends! Heaven help me, she
was the very last!’
Seeing that the tears were stealing down his face, Jonas mustered
courage to unclench his hands, and push him off before he answered:
‘Did you hear me ask for her? Did you hear me send for her? How can I
give you up what I haven’t got, idiot! Ecod, I’d give her up to you and
welcome, if I could; and a precious pair you’d be!’
‘If she has come to any harm,’ cried Chuffey, ‘mind! I’m old and silly;
but I have my memory sometimes; and if she has come to any harm--’
‘Devil take you,’ interrupted Jonas, but in a suppressed voice still;
‘what harm do you suppose she has come to? I know no more where she is
than you do; I wish I did. Wait till she comes home, and see; she can’t
be long. Will that content you?’
‘Mind!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Not a hair of her head! not a hair of
her head ill-used! I won’t bear it. I--I--have borne it too long Jonas.
I am silent, but I--I--I can speak. I--I--I can speak--’ he stammered,
as he crept back to his chair, and turned a threatening, though a
feeble, look upon him.
‘You can speak, can you!’ thought Jonas. ‘So, so, we’ll stop your
speaking. It’s well I knew of this in good time. Prevention is better
than cure.’
He had made a poor show of playing the bully and evincing a desire to
conciliate at the same time, but was so afraid of the old man that
great drops had started out upon his brow; and they stood there yet. His
unusual tone of voice and agitated manner had sufficiently expressed his
fear; but his face would have done so now, without that aid, as he again
walked to and fro, glancing at him by the candelight.
He stopped at the window to think. An opposite shop was lighted up; and
the tradesman and a customer were reading some printed bill together
across the counter. The sight brought him back, instantly, to the
occupation he had forgotten. ‘Look here! Do you know of this? Is it
found? Do you suspect ME?’
A hand upon the door. ‘What’s that!’
‘A pleasant evenin’,’ said the voice of Mrs Gamp, ‘though warm, which,
bless you, Mr Chuzzlewit, we must expect when cowcumbers is three for
twopence. How does Mr Chuffey find his self to-night, sir?’
Mrs Gamp kept particularly close to the door in saying this, and
curtseyed more than usual. She did not appear to be quite so much at her
ease as she generally was.
‘Get him to his room,’ said Jonas, walking up to her, and speaking in
her ear. ‘He has been raving to-night--stark mad. Don’t talk while he’s
here, but come down again.’
‘Poor sweet dear!’ cried Mrs Gamp, with uncommon tenderness. ‘He’s all
of a tremble.’
‘Well he may be,’ said Jonas, ‘after the mad fit he has had. Get him
upstairs.’
She was by this time assisting him to rise.
‘There’s my blessed old chick!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a tone that was at
once soothing and encouraging. ‘There’s my darlin’ Mr Chuffey! Now come
up to your own room, sir, and lay down on your bed a bit; for you’re
a-shakin’ all over, as if your precious jints was hung upon wires.
That’s a good creetur! Come with Sairey!’
‘Is she come home?’ inquired the old man.
‘She’ll be here directly minit,’ returned Mrs Gamp. ‘Come with Sairey,
Mr Chuffey. Come with your own Sairey!’
The good woman had no reference to any female in the world in promising
this speedy advent of the person for whom Mr Chuffey inquired, but
merely threw it out as a means of pacifying the old man. It had its
effect, for he permitted her to lead him away; and they quitted the room
together.
Jonas looked out of the window again. They were still reading the
printed paper in the shop opposite, and a third man had joined in the
perusal. What could it be, to interest them so?’
A dispute or discussion seemed to arise among them, for they all looked
up from their reading together, and one of the three, who had been
glancing over the shoulder of another, stepped back to explain or
illustrate some action by his gestures.
Horror! How like the blow he had struck in the wood!
It beat him from the window as if it had lighted on himself. As he
staggered into a chair, he thought of the change in Mrs Gamp exhibited
in her new-born tenderness to her charge. Was that because it was
found?--because she knew of it?--because she suspected him?
‘Mr Chuffey is a-lyin’ down,’ said Mrs Gamp, returning, ‘and much good
may it do him, Mr Chuzzlewit, which harm it can’t and good it may; be
joyful!’
‘Sit down,’ said Jonas, hoarsely, ‘and let us get this business done.
Where is the other woman?’
‘The other person’s with him now,’ she answered.
‘That’s right,’ said Jonas. ‘He is not fit to be left to himself. Why,