“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, he fastened on me to-night; here, upon my coat; like a savage dog. Old as he is, and feeble as he is usually, I had some trouble to shake him off. You—Hush!—It's nothing. You told me the other woman's name. I forget it.”
“I mentioned Betsey Prig,” said Mrs Gamp.
“She is to be trusted, is she?”
“That she ain't!” said Mrs Gamp; “nor have I brought her, Mr Chuzzlewit. I've brought another, which engages to give every satigefaction.”
“What is her name?” asked Jonas.
Mrs Gamp looked at him in an odd way without returning any answer, but appeared to understand the question too.
“What is her name?” repeated Jonas.
“Her name,” said Mrs Gamp, “is Harris.”
It was extraordinary how much effort it cost Mrs Gamp to pronounce the name she was commonly so ready with. She made some three or four gasps before she could get it out; and, when she had uttered it, pressed her hand upon her side, and turned up her eyes, as if she were going to faint away. But, knowing her to labour under a complication of internal disorders, which rendered a few drops of spirits indispensable at certain times to her existence, and which came on very strong when that remedy was not at hand, Jonas merely supposed her to be the victim of one of these attacks.
“Well!” he said, hastily, for he felt how incapable he was of confining his wandering attention to the subject. “You and she have arranged to take care of him, have you?”
Mrs Gamp replied in the affirmative, and softly discharged herself of her familiar phrase, “Turn and turn about; one off, one on.”But she spoke so tremulously that she felt called upon to add, “which fiddle-strings is weakness to expredge my nerves this night!”
Jonas stopped to listen. Then said, hurriedly:
“We shall not quarrel about terms. Let them be the same as they were before. Keep him close, and keep him quiet. He must be restrained. He has got it in his head to-night that my wife's dead, and has been attacking me as if I had killed her. It's—it's common with mad people to take the worst fancies of those they like best. Isn't it?”
Mrs Gamp assented with a short groan.
“Keep him close, then, or in one of his fits he'll be doing me a mischief. And don't trust him at any time; for when he seems most rational, he's wildest in his talk. But that you know already. Let me see the other.”
“The t'other person, sir?” said Mrs Gamp.
“Aye! Go you to him and send the other. Quick! I'm busy.”
Mrs Gamp took two or three backward steps towards the door, and stopped there.
“It is your wishes, Mr Chuzzlewit,” she said, in a sort of quavering croak, “to see the t'other person. Is it?”
But the ghastly change in Jonas told her that the other person was already seen. Before she could look round towards the door, she was put aside by old Martin's hand; and Chuffey and John Westlock entered with him.
“Let no one leave the house,” said Martin. “This man is my brother's son. Ill-met, ill-trained, ill-begotten. If he moves from the spot on which he stands, or speaks a word above his breath to any person here, open the window, and call for help!”
“What right have you to give such directions in this house?” asked Jonas faintly.
“The right of your wrong-doing. Come in there!”
An irrepressible exclamation burst from the lips of Jonas, as Lewsome entered at the door. It was not a groan, or a shriek, or a word, but was wholly unlike any sound that had ever fallen on the ears of those who heard it, while at the same time it was the most sharp and terrible expression of what was working in his guilty breast, that nature could have invented.
He had done murder for this! He had girdled himself about with perils, agonies of mind, innumerable fears, for this! He had hidden his secret in the wood; pressed and stamped it down into the bloody ground; and here it started up when least expected, miles upon miles away; known to many; proclaiming itself from the lips of an old man who had renewed his strength and vigour as by a miracle, to give it voice against him!
He leaned his hand on the back of a chair, and looked at them. It was in vain to try to do so scornfully, or with his usual insolence. He required the chair for his support. But he made a struggle for it.
“I know that fellow,” he said, fetching his breath at every word, and pointing his trembling finger towards Lewsome. “He's the greatest liar alive. What's his last tale? Ha, ha! You're rare fellows, too! Why, that uncle of mine is childish; he's even a greater child than his brother, my father, was, in his old age; or than Chuffey is. What the devil do you mean,” he added, looking fiercely at John Westlock and Mark Tapley (the latter had entered with Lewsome), “by coming here, and bringing two idiots and a knave with you to take my house by storm? Hallo, there! Open the door! Turn these strangers out!”
“I tell you what,” cried Mr Tapley, coming forward, “if it wasn't for your name, I'd drag you through the streets of my own accord, and single-handed I would! Ah, I would! Don't try and look bold at me. You can't do it! Now go on, sir,” this was to old Martin. “Bring the murderin” wagabond upon his knees! If he wants noise, he shall have enough of it; for as sure as he's a shiverin” from head to foot I'll raise a uproar at this winder that shall bring half London in. Go on, sir! Let him try me once, and see whether I'm a man of my word or not.”
With that, Mark folded his arms, and took his seat upon the windowledge, with an air of general preparation for anything, which seemed to imply that he was equally ready to jump out himself, or to throw Jonas out, upon receiving the slightest hint that it would be agreeable to the company.
Old Martin turned to Lewsome:
“This is the man,” he said, extending his hand towards Jonas. “Is it?”
“You need do no more than look at him to be sure of that, or of the truth of what I have said,” was the reply. “He is my witness.”
“Oh, brother!” cried old Martin, clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes. “Oh, brother, brother! Were we strangers half our lives that you might breed a wretch like this, and I make life a desert by withering every flower that grew about me! Is it the natural end of your precepts and mine, that this should be the creature of your rearing, training, teaching, hoarding, striving for; and I the means of bringing him to punishment, when nothing can repair the wasted past!”
He sat down upon a chair as he spoke, and turning away his face, was silent for a few moments. Then with recovered energy he proceeded:
“But the accursed harvest of our mistaken lives shall be trodden down. It is not too late for that. You are confronted with this man, you monster there; not to be spared, but to be dealt with justly. Hear what he says! Reply, be silent, contradict, repeat, defy, do what you please. My course will be the same. Go on! And you,” he said to Chuffey, “for the love of your old friend, speak out, good fellow!”
“I have been silent for his love!” cried the old man. “He urged me to it. He made me promise it upon his dying bed. I never would have spoken, but for your finding out so much. I have thought about it ever since; I couldn't help that; and sometimes I have had it all before me in a dream; but in the day-time, not in sleep. Is there such a kind of dream?” said Chuffey, looking anxiously in old Martin's face.
As Martin made him an encouraging reply, he listened attentively to his voice, and smiled.
“Ah, aye!” he cried. “He often spoke to me like that. We were at school together, he and I. I couldn't turn against his son, you know—his only son, Mr Chuzzlewit!”
“I would to Heaven you had been his son!” said Martin.
“You speak so like my dear old master,” cried the old man with a childish delight, “that I almost think I hear him. I can hear you quite as well as I used to hear him. It
makes me young again. He never spoke unkindly to me, and I always understood him. I could always see him too, though my sight was dim. Well, well! He's dead, he's dead. He was very good to me, my dear old master!”
He shook his head mournfully over the brother's hand. At this moment Mark, who had been glancing out of the window, left the room.
“I couldn't turn against his only son, you know,” said Chuffey. “He has nearly driven me to do it sometimes; he very nearly did tonight. Ah!” cried the old man, with a sudden recollection of the cause. “Where is she? She's not come home!”
“Do you mean his wife?” said Mr Chuzzlewit.
“Yes.”
“I have removed her. She is in my care, and will be spared the present knowledge of what is passing here. She has known misery enough, without that addition.”
Jonas heard this with a sinking heart. He knew that they were on his heels, and felt that they were resolute to run him to destruction. Inch by inch the ground beneath him was sliding from his feet; faster and faster the encircling ruin contracted and contracted towards himself, its wicked centre, until it should close in and crush him.
And now he heard the voice of his accomplice stating to his face, with every circumstance of time and place and incident; and openly proclaiming, with no reserve, suppression, passion, or concealment; all the truth. The truth, which nothing would keep down; which blood would not smother, and earth would not hide; the truth, whose terrible inspiration seemed to change dotards into strong men; and on whose avenging wings, one whom he had supposed to be at the extremest corner of the earth came swooping down upon him.
He tried to deny it, but his tongue would not move. He conceived some desperate thought of rushing away, and tearing through the streets; but his limbs would as little answer to his will as his stark, stiff staring face. All this time the voice went slowly on, denouncing him. It was as if every drop of blood in the wood had found a voice to jeer him with.
When it ceased, another voice took up the tale, but strangely; for the old clerk, who had watched, and listened to the whole, and had wrung his hands from time to time, as if he knew its truth and could confirm it, broke in with these words:
“No, no, no! you're wrong; you're wrong—all wrong together! Have patience, for the truth is only known to me!”
“How can that be,” said his old master's brother, “after what you have heard? Besides, you said just now, above-stairs, when I told you of the accusation against him, that you knew he was his father's murderer.”
“Aye, yes! and so he was!” cried Chuffey, wildly. “But not as you suppose—not as you suppose. Stay! Give me a moment's time. I have it all here—all here! It was foul, foul, cruel, bad; but not as you suppose. Stay, stay!”
He put his hands up to his head, as if it throbbed or pained him. After looking about him in a wandering and vacant manner for some moments, his eyes rested upon Jonas, when they kindled up with sudden recollection and intelligence.
“Yes!” cried old Chuffey, “yes! That's how it was. It's all upon me now. He—he got up from his bed before he died, to be sure, to say that he forgave him; and he came down with me into this room; and when he saw him—his only son, the son he loved—his speech forsook him; he had no speech for what he knew—and no one understood him except me. But I did—I did!”
Old Martin regarded him in amazement; so did his companions. Mrs Gamp, who had said nothing yet; but had kept two-thirds of herself behind the door, ready for escape, and one-third in the room, ready for siding with the strongest party; came a little further in and remarked, with a sob, that Mr Chuffey was “the sweetest old creetur goin”.”
“He bought the stuff,” said Chuffey, stretching out his arm towards Jonas while an unwonted fire shone in his eye, and lightened up his face; “he bought the stuff, no doubt, as you have heard, and brought it home. He mixed the stuff—look at him!—with some sweetmeat in a jar, exactly as the medicine for his father's cough was mixed, and put it in a drawer; in that drawer yonder in the desk; he knows which drawer I mean! He kept it there locked up. But his courage failed him or his heart was touched—my God! I hope it was his heart! He was his only son!—and he did not put it in the usual place, where my old master would have taken it twenty times a day.”
The trembling figure of the old man shook with the strong emotions that possessed him. But, with the same light in his eye, and with his arm outstretched, and with his grey hair stirring on his head, he seemed to grow in size, and was like a man inspired. Jonas shrunk from looking at him, and cowered down into the chair by which he had held. It seemed as if this tremendous Truth could make the dumb speak.
“I know it every word now!” cried Chuffey. “Every word! He put it in that drawer, as I have said. He went so often there, and was so secret, that his father took notice of it; and when he was out, had it opened. We were there together, and we found the mixture—Mr Chuzzlewit and I. He took it into his possession, and made light of it at the time; but in the night he came to my bedside, weeping, and told me that his own son had it in his mind to poison him. “Oh, Chuff,” he said, “oh, dear old Chuff! a voice came into my room to-night, and told me that this crime began with me. It began when I taught him to be too covetous of what I have to leave, and made the expectation of it his great business!” Those were his words; aye, they are his very words! If he was a hard man now and then, it was for his only son. He loved his only son, and he was always good to me!”
Jonas listened with increased attention. Hope was breaking in upon him.
“He shall not weary for my death, Chuff;” that was what he said next,” pursued the old clerk, as he wiped his eyes; “that was what he said next, crying like a little child: “He shall not weary for my death, Chuff. He shall have it now; he shall marry where he has a fancy, Chuff, although it don't please me; and you and I will go away and live upon a little. I always loved him; perhaps he'll love me then. It's a dreadful thing to have my own child thirsting for my death. But I might have known it. I have sown, and I must reap. He shall believe that I am taking this; and when I see that he is sorry, and has all he wants, I'll tell him that I found it out, and I'll forgive him. He'll make a better man of his own son, and be a better man himself, perhaps, Chuff!”
Poor Chuffey paused to dry his eyes again. Old Martin's face was hidden in his hands. Jonas listened still more keenly, and his breast heaved like a swollen water, but with hope. With growing hope.
“My dear old master made believe next day,” said Chuffey, “that he had opened the drawer by mistake with a key from the bunch, which happened to fit it (we had one made and hung upon it); and that he had been surprised to find his fresh supply of cough medicine in such a place, but supposed it had been put there in a hurry when the drawer stood open. We burnt it; but his son believed that he was taking it—he knows he did. Once Mr Chuzzlewit, to try him, took heart to say it had a strange taste; and he got up directly, and went out.”
Jonas gave a short, dry cough; and, changing his position for an easier one, folded his arms without looking at them, though they could now see his face.
“Mr Chuzzlewit wrote to her father; I mean the father of the poor thing who's his wife,” said Chuffey; “and got him to come up, intending to hasten on the marriage. But his mind, like mine, went a little wrong through grief, and then his heart broke. He sank and altered from the time when he came to me in the night; and never held up his head again. It was only a few days, but he had never changed so much in twice the years. “Spare him, Chuff!” he said, before he died. They were the only words he could speak. “Spare him, Chuff!” I promised him I would. I've tried to do it. He's his only son.”
On his recollection of the last scene in his old friend's life, poor Chuffey's voice, which had grown weaker and weaker, quite deserted him. Making a motion with his hand, as if he would have said that Anthony had taken it, and had died with it in his, he retreated to the corner where he usually concealed his sorrows; and was silent.
Jonas could lo
ok at his company now, and vauntingly too. “Well!” he said, after a pause. “Are you satisfied? or have you any more of your plots to broach? Why that fellow, Lewsome, can invent “em for you by the score. Is this all? Have you nothing else?”
Old Martin looked at him steadily.
“Whether you are what you seemed to be at Pecksniff's, or are something else and a mountebank, I don't know and I don't care,” said Jonas, looking downward with a smile, “but I don't want you here. You were here so often when your brother was alive, and were always so fond of him (your dear, dear brother, and you would have been cuffing one another before this, ecod!), that I am not surprised at your being attached to the place; but the place is not attached to you, and you can't leave it too soon, though you may leave it too late. And for my wife, old man, send her home straight, or it will be the worse for her. Ha, ha! You carry it with a high hand, too! But it isn't hanging yet for a man to keep a penn'orth of poison for his own purposes, and have it taken from him by two old crazy jolter-heads who go and act a play about it. Ha, ha! Do you see the door?”
His base triumph, struggling with his cowardice, and shame, and guilt, was so detestable, that they turned away from him, as if he were some obscene and filthy animal, repugnant to the sight. And here that last black crime was busy with him too; working within him to his perdition. But for that, the old clerk's story might have touched him, though never so lightly; but for that, the sudden removal of so great a load might have brought about some wholesome change even in him. With that deed done, however; with that unnecessary wasteful danger haunting him; despair was in his very triumph and relief; wild, ungovernable, raging despair, for the uselessness of the peril into which he had plunged; despair that hardened him and maddened him, and set his teeth a-grinding in a moment of his exultation.
“My good friend!” said old Martin, laying his hand on Chuffey's sleeve. “This is no place for you to remain in. Come with me.”
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 95
