“Never mind what you do in the city,” said Tom. “What have you got to say to me?”
“Just this, Mister Pinch,” retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so close to Tom's that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. “I advise you to keep your own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut in where you're not wanted. I've heard something of you, my friend, and your meek ways; and I recommend you to forget “em till I am married to one of Pecksniff's gals, and not to curry favour among my relations, but to leave the course clear. You know, when curs won't leave the course clear, they're whipped off; so this is kind advice. Do you understand? Eh? Damme, who are you,” cried Jonas, with increased contempt, “that you should walk home with THEM, unless it was behind “em, like any other servant out of livery?”
“Come!” cried Tom, “I see that you had better get off the stile, and let me pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.”
“Don't think it!” said Jonas, spreading out his legs. “Not till I choose. And I don't choose now. What! You're afraid of my making you split upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?”
“I am not afraid of many things, I hope,” said Tom; “and certainly not of anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all meanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!” cried Tom, indignantly. “Is this manly from one in your position to one in mine? Please to make room for me to pass. The less I say, the better.”
“The less you say!” retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more, and taking no heed of this request. “You say very little, don't you? Ecod, I should like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond member of my family. There's very little in that too, I dare say!”
“I know no vagabond member of your family,” cried Tom, stoutly,
“You do!” said Jonas.
“I don't,” said Tom. “Your uncle's namesake, if you mean him, is no vagabond. Any comparison between you and him'—Tom snapped his fingers at him, for he was rising fast in wrath—'is immeasurably to your disadvantage.”
“Oh indeed!” sneered Jonas. “And what do you think of his deary— his beggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?”
“I don't mean to say another word, or stay here another instant,” replied Tom.
“As I told you before, you're a liar,” said Jonas, coolly. “You'll stay here till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you are, will you?”
He flourished his stick over Tom's head; but in a moment it was spinning harmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in the ditch. In the momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought it into violent contact with his opponent's forehead; and the blood welled out profusely from a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first apprised of this by seeing that he pressed his handkerchief to the wounded part, and staggered as he rose, being stunned.
“Are you hurt?” said Tom. “I am very sorry. Lean on me for a moment. You can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me malice. But I don't know why; for I never offended you before we met on this spot.”
He made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him, or even to know that he was hurt, though he several times took his handkerchief from the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it. After one of these examinations, he looked at Tom, and then there was an expression in his features, which showed that he understood what had taken place, and would remember it.
Nothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept a little in advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the grief which the knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent benefactor. When Jonas knocked at the door, Tom's heart beat high; higher when Miss Mercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover, shireked aloud; higher, when he followed them into the family parlour; higher than at any other time, when Jonas spoke.
“Don't make a noise about it,” he said. “It's nothing worth mentioning. I didn't know the road; the night's very dark; and just as I came up with Mr Pinch'—he turned his face towards Tom, but not his eyes—'I ran against a tree. It's only skin deep.”
“Cold water, Merry, my child!” cried Mr Pecksniff. “Brown paper! Scissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a bandage. Bless me, Mr Jonas!”
“Oh, bother YOUR nonsense,” returned the gracious son-in-law elect. “Be of some use if you can. If you can't, get out!”
Miss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in one corner, with a smile upon her face, and didn't move a finger. Though Mercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the patient's head between his two hands, as if without that assistance it must inevitably come in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty agitation, shook a bottle of Dutch Drops until they were nothing but English Froth, and in his other hand sustained a formidable carvingknife, really intended to reduce the swelling, but apparently designed for the ruthless infliction of another wound as soon as that was dressed; Charity rendered not the least assistance, nor uttered a word. But when Mr Jonas's head was bound up, and he had gone to bed, and everybody else had retired, and the house was quiet, Mr Pinch, as he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating, heard a gentle tap at his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great astonishment, standing before him with her finger on her lip.
“Mr Pinch,” she whispered. “Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth! You did that? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck him? I am sure of it!”
It was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all the many years they had passed together. He was stupefied with amazement.
“Was it so, or not?” she eagerly demanded.
“I was very much provoked,” said Tom.
“Then it was?” cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.
“Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,” said Tom. “But I didn't mean to hurt him so much.”
“Not so much!” she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her foot, to Tom's great wonder. “Don't say that. It was brave of you. I honour you for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don't spare him for the world, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not a word of this to anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from tonight. I am always your friend from this time.”
She turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its kindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to render it at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of observation was by no means remarkable, knew from the energy with which she did it that she would have fondled any hand, no matter how bedaubed or dyed, that had broken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.
Tom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable thoughts. That there should be any such tremendous division in the family as he knew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff into his friend, for any reason, but, above all, for that which was clearly the real one; that Jonas, who had assailed him with such exceeding coarseness, should have been sufficiently magnanimous to keep the secret of their quarrel; and that any train of circumstances should have led to the commission of an assault and battery by Thomas Pinch upon any man calling himself the friend of Seth Pecksniff; were matters of such deep and painful cogitation that he could not close his eyes. His own violence, in particular, so preyed upon the generous mind of Tom, that coupling it with the many former occasions on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain and anxiety (occasions of which that gentleman often reminded him), he really began to regard himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be the evil genius and bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last, and dreamed—new source of waking uneasiness—that he had betrayed his trust, and run away with Mary Graham.
It must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom's position in reference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw of her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable qualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a few days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and kindness between the angry sisters. Whe
n she spoke, Tom held his breath, so eagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced. She touched his organ, and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence.
God's love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee, for three summer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over the jingling anatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour, could have missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit it was dimly known to thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy cheek when leaning down to listen, after hours of labour, for the sound of one incorrigible note, thou foundest that it had a voice at last, and wheezed out a flat something, distantly akin to what it ought to be, would not have known that it was destined for no common touch, but one that smote, though gently as an angel's hand, upon the deepest chord within thee! And if a friendly glance—aye, even though it were as guileless as thine own, Dear Tom—could have but pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in a voice well tempered to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she first sang to the altered instrument, and wondered at the change; and thou, sitting apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a swelling heart— must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a story, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!
Tom Pinch's situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult by the fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin. Honourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all kinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in the village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these places he might have spoken freely. But no; at all such times she carefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could not be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little delicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled him out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of kindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never returned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom's cheek grew red with self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.
All this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat among the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little intercourse with any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not willful in other things, or troublesome, or morose; being never better pleased than when they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own amusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in whom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them. Unless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or eyes for anything that passed.
One day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree in the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by the imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas, felt that a new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the expectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to see old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his seat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:
“When are you to be married?”
“Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I'm sure I don't know. Not yet awhile, I hope.”
“You hope?” said the old man.
It was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled excessively.
“Come!” said the old man, with unusual kindness, “you are young, good-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to be, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.”
“I have not given it all away, I can tell you,” said Merry, nodding her head shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.
“Have you parted with any of it?”
She threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.
Martin repeated his question.
“Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you are.”
“If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man whom I understand you are to marry, I AM very odd,” said Martin. “For that is certainly my wish.”
“He's such a monster, you know,” said Merry, pouting.
“Then you don't love him?” returned the old man. “Is that your meaning?”
“Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I'm sure I tell him a hundred times a day that I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.”
“Often,” said Martin.
“And so I do,” cried Merry. “I do positively.”
“Being at the same time engaged to marry him,” observed the old man.
“Oh yes,” said Merry. “But I told the wretch—my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I told him when he asked me—that if I ever did marry him, it should only be that I might hate and tease him all my life.”
She had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with anything but favour, and intended these remarks to be extremely captivating. He did not appear, however, to regard them in that light by any means; for when he spoke again, it was in a tone of severity.
“Look about you,” he said, pointing to the graves; “and remember that from your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low as these, and laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against him. Think, and speak, and act, for once, like an accountable creature. Is any control put upon your inclinations? Are you forced into this match? Are you insidiously advised or tempted to contract it, by any one? I will not ask by whom; by any one?”
“No,” said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. “I don't know that I am.”
“Don't know that you are! Are you?”
“No,” replied Merry. “Nobody ever said anything to me about it. If any one had tried to make me have him, I wouldn't have had him at all.”
“I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister's admirer,” said Martin.
“Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very hard to make him, though he IS a monster, accountable for other people's vanity,” said Merry. “And poor dear Cherry is the vainest darling!”
“It was her mistake, then?”
“I hope it was,” cried Merry; “but, all along, the dear child has been so dreadfully jealous, and SO cross, that, upon my word and honour, it's impossible to please her, and it's of no use trying.”
“Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,” said Martin, thoughtfully. “And that's true, I see. There is one chance yet. You may have lapsed into this engagement in very giddiness. It may have been the wanton act of a light head. Is that so?”
“My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,” simpered Merry, “as to light-headedness, there never was such a feather of a head as mine. It's perfect balloon, I declare! You never DID, you know!”
He waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily and slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her confidence:
“Have you any wish—or is there anything within your breast that whispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think—to be released from this engagement?”
Again Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass, and shrugged her shoulders. No. She didn't know that she had. She was pretty sure she hadn't. Quite sure, she might say. She “didn't mind it.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” said Martin, “that your married life may perhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most unhappy?”
Merry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the roots.
“My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall quarrel with him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people always quarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter, and all those dreadful things, you know, why I couldn't be absolutely that, unless he always had the best of it; and I mean to have the best of it myself. I always do now,” cried Merry, nodding her head and giggling very much; “for I make a perfect slave of the creature.”
“Let it go on,” said Martin, rising. “Let it go on!
I sought to know your mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you joy. Joy!” he repeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the wicket-gate where Jonas entered at the moment. And then, without waiting for his nephew, he passed out at another gate, and went away.
“Oh, you terrible old man!” cried the facetious Merry to herself. “What a perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the broad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don't come here, Griffin, or I'll go away directly.”
Mr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in spite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:
“What's my uncle been a-talking about?”
“About you,” rejoined Merry. “He says you're not half good enough for me.”
“Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some present worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?”
“THAT he didn't!” cried Merry, most decisively.
“A stingy old dog he is,” said Jonas. “Well?”
“ Griffin!” cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; “what are you doing, Griffin?”
“Only giving you a squeeze,” said the discomfited Jonas. “There's no harm in that, I suppose?”
“But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don't consider it agreeable,” returned his cousin. “Do go along, will you? You make me so hot!”
Mr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more like a murderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees, and broke silence with:
“I say, Mel!”
“What do you say, you vulgar thing—you low savage?” cried his fair betrothed.
“When is it to be? I can't afford to go on dawdling about here half my life, I needn't tell you, and Pecksniff says that father's being so lately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as quiet as we please down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to the neighbours for taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he knew. As to crossbones (my uncle, I mean), he's sure not to put a spoke in the wheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only this morning, that if YOU liked it he'd nothing at all to say. So, Mel,” said Jonas, venturing on another squeeze; “when shall it be?”
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 49
