Chapter Forty-Seven

Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

CONCLUSION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

Did no men passing through the dim streets shrink without
knowing why, when he came stealing up behind them? As he glided on,
had no child in its sleep an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow
falling on its bed, that troubled its innocent rest? Did no dog
howl, and strive to break its rattling chain, that it might tear him;
no burrowing rat, scenting the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw a
passage after him, that it might hold a greedy revel at the feast of
his providing? When he looked back, across his shoulder, was it to
see if his quick footsteps still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or
were already moist and clogged with the red mire that stained the
naked feet of Cain!

He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached
it; riding a part of the way, then alighting and walking on again.
He travelled for a considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-
coach, which came up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of
his road, bribed the driver of a return post-chaise to take him on
with him; and then made across the country at a run, and saved a mile
or two before he struck again into the road. At last, as his plan
was, he came up with a certain lumbering, slow, night-coach, which
stopped wherever it could, and was stopping then at a public- house,
while the guard and coachman ate and drank within.

He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he
quitted it no more until it was within a few miles of its
destination, but occupied the same place all night.

All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by
night. It is a false fancy, as who should know better than he?

The fishes slumbered in the cold, bright, glistening streams and
rivers, perhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees;
and in their stalls and pastures beasts were quiet; and human
creatures slept. But what of that, when the solemn night was
watching, when it never winked, when its darkness watched no less
than its light! The stately trees, the moon and shining stars, the
softly stirring wind, the over-shadowed lane, the broad, bright
countryside, they all kept watch. There was not a blade of growing
grass or corn, but watched; and the quieter it was, the more intent
and fixed its watch upon him seemed to be.

And yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he
slept, and did not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot
it in his troubled dreams, it came up steadily, and woke him. But it
never woke him to remorse, or to abandonment of his design.

He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed,
thinking of a moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old
clerk put his head in at the door, and beckoned him. At this signal
he arose immediately--being already dressed in the clothes he
actually wore at that time--and accompanied him into a strange city,
where the names of the streets were written on the walls in
characters quite new to him; which gave him no surprise or
uneasiness, for he remembered in his dream to have been there before.
Although these streets were very precipitous, insomuch that to get
from one to another it was necessary to descend great heights by
ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep bells, and
swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him little
emotion beyond the first thrill of terror; his anxieties being
concentrated on his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival
that was about to be holden there, and in which he had come to take a
part. Already, great crowds began to fill the streets, and in one
direction myriads of people came rushing down an interminable
perspective, strewing flowers and making way for others on white
horses, when a terrible figure started from the throng, and cried out
that it was the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread,
there was a wild hurrying on to Judgment; and the press became so
great that he and his companion (who was constantly changing, and was
never the same man two minutes together, though he never saw one man
come or another go), stood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying the
multitude; in which there were many faces that he knew, and many that
he did not know, but dreamed he did; when all at once a struggling
head rose up among the rest--livid and deadly, but the same as he had
known it--and denounced him as having appointed that direful day to
happen. They closed together. As he strove to free the hand in
which he held a club, and strike the blow he had so often thought of,
he started to the knowledge of his waking purpose and the rising of
the sun.

The sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a
world astir, to divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of
Night--of wakeful, watchful, silent, and attentive Night, with so
much leisure for the observation of his wicked thoughts--that he
dreaded most. There is no glare in the night. Even Glory shows to
small advantage in the night, upon a crowded battle-field. How then
shows Glory's blood-relation, bastard Murder!

Aye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself
now. Murder. He had come to do it.

'Let me get down here' he said

'Short of the town, eh!' observed the coachman.

'I may get down where I please, I suppose?'

'You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please
yourself. It won't break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn't have
broken 'em if we'd never found you. Be a little quicker. That's
all.'

The guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his
money. In the jealousy and distrust of what he contemplated, he
thought this man looked at him with more than common curiosity

'What are you staring at?' said Jonas.

'Not at a handsome man,' returned the guard. 'If you want your
fortune told, I'll tell you a bit of it. You won't be drowned.
That's a consolation for you.'

Before he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to
the dialogue by giving him a cut with his whip, and biddig him get
out for a surly dog. The guard jumped up to his seat at the same
moment, and they drove off, laughing; leaving him to stand in the
road and shake his fist at them. He was not displeased though, on
second thoughts, to have been taken for an ill-conditioned common
country fellow; but rather congratulated himself upon it as a proof
that he was well disguised.

Wandering into a copse by the road-side--but not in that place;
two or three miles off--he tore out from a fence a thick, hard,
knotted stake; and, sitting down beneath a hayrick, spent some time
in shaping it, in peeling off the bark, and fashioning its jagged
head with his knife.

The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.

At that serene and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came
out of the city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on
which Mr Pecksniff had agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his
appointment, and was now going home. His host was riding with him
for a short distance; meaning to return by a pleasant track, which Mr
Pecksniff had engaged to show him, through some fields. Jonas knew
their plans. He had hung about the inn-yard while they were at
dinner and had heard their orders given.

They were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have
been heard at some distance; far above the sound of their carriage
wheels or horses' hoofs. They came on noisily, to where a stile and
footpath indicated their point of separation. Here they stopped.

'It's too soon. Much too soon,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'But this
is the place, my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through
the little wood you'll come to. The path is narrower there, but you
can't miss it. When shall I see you again? Soon I hope?'

'I hope so,' replied Montague.

'Good night!'

'Good night. And a pleasant ride!'

So long as Mr Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at
intervals to salute him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and
waving his hand. But when his new partner had disappeared, and this
show was no longer necessary, he sat down on the stile with looks so
altered, that he might have grown ten years older in the meantime.

He was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had
succeeded, but he showed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his
difficult part before his late companion had fatigued him, perhaps,
or it may be that the evening whispered to his conscience, or it may
be (as it has been) that a shadowy veil was dropping round him,
closing out all thoughts but the presentiment and vague foreknowledge
of impending doom.

If there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a
coming wind, or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide
themselves in their glass arteries; may not that subtle liquor of the
blood perceive, by properties within itself, that hands are raised to
waste and spill it; and in the veins of men run cold and dull as his
did, in that hour!

So cold, although the air was warm; so dull, although the sky
was bright; that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily
resumed his walk. He checked himself as hastily; undecided whether
to pursue the footpath, which was lonely and retired, or to go back
by the road.

He took the footpath.

The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of
the birds was in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him.
Thatched roofs of poor men's homes were in the distance; and an old
grey spire, surmounted by a Cross, rose up between him and the coming
night.

He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had
ever mocked and turned away from it; but, before going down into a
hollow place, he looked round, once, upon the evening prospect,
sorrowfully. Then he went down, down, down, into the dell.

It brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood,
through which the path went winding on, dwindling away into a slender
sheep- track. He paused before entering; for the stillness of this
spot almost daunted him.

The last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant, making a path
of golden light along the stems and branches in its range, which,
even as he looked, began to die away, yielding gently to the twilight
that came creeping on. It was so very quiet that the soft and
stealthy moss about the trunks of some old trees, seemed to have
grown out of the silence, and to be its proper offspring. Those
other trees which were subdued by blasts of wind in winter time, had
not quite tumbled down, but being caught by others, lay all bare and
scathed across their leafy arms, as if unwilling to disturb the
general repose by the crash of their fall. Vistas of silence opened
everywhere, into the heart and innermost recesses of the wood;
beginning with the likeness of an aisle, a cloister, or a ruin open
to the sky; then tangling off into a deep green rustling mystery,
through which gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs, and ivy-covered
stems, and trembling leaves, and bark-stripped bodies of old trees
stretched out at length, were faintly seen in beautiful confusion.

As the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he
entered it. Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping bough
which stretched across his path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals
a narrow opening showed him passing on, or the sharp cracking of some
tender branch denoted where he went; then, he was seen or heard no
more.

Never more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear; one man
excepted. That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other
side, near where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon
afterwards.

What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if
it were a hell!

The body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary spot, it lay
among the last year's leaves of oak and beech, just as it had fallen
headlong down. Sopping and soaking in among the leaves that formed
its pillow; oozing down into the boggy ground, as if to cover itself
from human sight; forcing its way between and through the curling
leaves, as if those senseless things rejected and forswore it and
were coiled up in abhorrence; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the
whole summer night from earth to heaven.

The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely,
that he cast into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn
away in his passage, and fell with violence upon the grass. But he
quickly gained his feet again, and keeping underneath a hedge with
his body bent, went running on towards the road. The road once
reached, he fell into a rapid walk, and set on toward London.

And he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened
when he thought of it--when did he not think of it!--but he was not
sorry. He had had a terror and dread of the wood when he was in it;
but being out of it, and having committed the crime, his fears were
now diverted, strangely, to the dark room he had left shut up at
home. He had a greater horror, infinitely greater, of that room than
of the wood. Now that he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond
comparison more dismal and more dreadful than the wood. His hideous
secret was shut up in the room, and all its terrors were there; to
his thinking it was not in the wood at all.

He walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for
a coach, which he knew would pass through, on its way to London,
before long; and which he also knew was not the coach he had
travelled down by, for it came from another place. He sat down
outside the door here, on a bench, beside a man who was smoking his
pipe. Having called for some beer, and drunk, he offered it to this
companion, who thanked him, and took a draught. He could not help
thinking that, if the man had known all, he might scarcely have
relished drinking out of the same cup with him.

'A fine night, master!' said this person. 'And a rare
sunset.'

'I didn't see it,' was his hasty answer.

'Didn't see it?' returned the man.

'How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?'

'Asleep! Aye, aye.' The man appeared surprised by his
unexpected irritability, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in
silence. They had not sat very long, when there was a knocking
within.

'What's that?' cried Jonas.

'Can't say, I'm sure,' replied the man.

He made no further inquiry, for the last question had escaped
him in spite of himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the
closed-up room; of the possibility of their knocking at the door on
some special occasion; of their being alarmed at receiving no answer;
of their bursting it open; of their finding the room empty; of their
fastening the door into the court, and rendering it impossible for
him to get into the house without showing himself in the garb he
wore, which would lead to rumour, rumour to detection, detection to
death. At that instant, as if by some design and order of
circumstances, the knocking had come.

It still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he
had conjured up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his
beer and walked on again. And having slunk about, in places unknown
to him all day; and being out at night, in a lonely road, in an
unusual dress and in that wandering and unsettled frame of mind; he
stopped more than once to look about him, hoping he might be in a
dream.

Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and
had been bent, too desperately and too long, on setting himself free.
If the thing could have come over again, he would have done it again.
His malignant and revengeful passions were not so easily laid.
There was no more penitence or remorse within him now than there had
been while the deed was brewing.

Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted
on, and could not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly
afraid of that infernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy
murderous, mad way, not only fearful for himself, but of himself; for
being, as it were, a part of the room: a something supposed to be
there, yet missing from it: he invested himself with its mysterious
terrors; and when he pictured in his mind the ugly chamber, false and
quiet, false and quiet, through the dark hours of two nights; and the
tumbled bed, and he not in it, though believed to be; he became in a
manner his own ghost and phantom, and was at once the haunting spirit
and the haunted man.

When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place
outside and was carried briskly onward towards home. Now, in taking
his seat among the people behind, who were chiefly country people, he
conceived a fear that they knew of the murder, and would tell him
that the body had been found; which, considering the time and place
of the commission of the crime, were events almost impossible to have
happened yet, as he very well knew. But although he did know it, and
had therefore no reason to regard their ignorance as anything but the
natural sequence to the facts, still this very ignorance of theirs
encouraged him. So far encouraged him, that he began to believe the
body never would be found, and began to speculate on that
probability. Setting off from this point, and measuring time by the
rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and what had gone before the
bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and disordered images of
which he was the constant prey; he came by daylight to regard the
murder as an old murder, and to think himself comparatively safe
because it had not been discovered yet. Yet! When the sun which
looked into the wood, and gilded with its rising light a dead man's
lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win him to a thought of
Heaven, on its going down last night!

But here were London streets again. Hush!

It was but five o'clock. He had time enough to reach his own
house unobserved, and before there were many people in the streets,
if nothing had happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped
down from the coach without troubling the driver to stop his horses;
and hurrying across the road, and in and out of every by-way that lay
near his course, at length approached his own dwelling. He used
additional caution in his immediate neighbourhood; halting first to
look all down the street before him; then gliding swiftly through
that one, and stopping to survey the next, and so on.

The passage-way was empty when his murderer's face looked into
it. He stole on, to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb
his own imaginary rest.

He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a
trembling hand, and pushed the door softly open with his knee, a
monstrous fear beset his mind.

What if the murdered man were there before him!

He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing
there.

He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through
the dust and damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up
as of old. He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready
for carrying away and sinking in the river before night, and locked
it up in a cupboard. These precautions taken, he undressed and went
to bed.

The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay
beneath the clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut
it out from his view; the agony of listening, in which he paid
enforced regard to every sound, and thought the most unlikely one the
prelude to that knocking which should bring the news; the starts with
which he left his couch, and looking in the glass, imagined that his
deed was broadly written in his face, and lying down and burying
himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating
Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed; what words can paint tremendous
truths like these!

The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He
heard the blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a
stealthy tread outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than
once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At
last he sat up in his bed, and cried:

'Who's there?'

It was his wife.

He asked her what it was o'clock? Nine.

'Did--did no one knock at my door yesterday?' he faltered.
'Something disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down,
you would have got no notice from me.'

'No one,' she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost
breathless, for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything
could be.

'Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,' she said, 'but I told him you
were tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of
little consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let
in the cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning,
very early; but he hasn't been again.'

Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas
trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him
himself; even him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak
on unobserved, and keep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.

He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go
upstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he
came into that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In
his secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after
what he had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that
they might see him without looking in his face; and left it ajar
while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the
pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice.
Even when he had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he
had seen or spoken to them all, he could not muster courage for a
long while to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening
to the murmur of their distant conversation.

He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last
glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have
been because of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them
to see if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.

And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help
listening, and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to
their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or
held his peace, or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse
clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into
eager listening. For he knew it must come. And his present
punishment, and torture and distraction, were, to listen for its
coming.

Hush!