Chapter Fifty

Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

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 then grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon
the summer weather, she would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if
she were about to throw herself upon his neck; then check the
impulse, and when he looked round, show a laughing face, and speak to
him very merrily; when she had anything to give Tom, or had any
excuse for coming near him, she would flutter about him, and lay her
bashful hand upon his shoulder, and not be willing to withdraw it;
and would show by all such means that there was something on her
heart which in her great love she longed to say to him, but had not
the courage to utter.

So they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not
working, and Tom with his book beside him, but not reading, when
Martin knocked at the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to
open it; and he and Martin came back into the room together. Tom
looked surprised, for in answer to his cordial greeting Martin had
hardly spoken a word.

Ruth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of
their visitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom's face, as if
she were seeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made
the same mute appeal to Martin.

Martin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood
there looking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but
hastily averted his head again, without doing so.

'What has happened, Martin?' Tom anxiously inquired. 'My dear
fellow, what bad news do you bring?'

'Oh, Tom!' replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. 'To hear
you feign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even
more than your ungenerous dealing.'

'My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My--' Tom could say no
more.

'How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so
fervently and sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a
man, that you had deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest!
Was it worthy of what you used to be--of what I am sure you used to
be-- to tempt me, when you had turned against me, into pouring out my
heart! Oh, Tom!'

His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief
for the loss of a friend he had trusted in--it expressed such high
past love for Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed
unworthiness--that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face,
and had no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a
monster of deceit and falsehood.

'I protest, as I must die,' said Martin, 'that I grieve over the
loss of what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of
my own injuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a
discovery, that we know the full measure of our old regard for the
subject of it. I swear, little as I showed it--little as I know I
showed it--that when I had the least consideration for you, Tom, I
loved you like a brother.'

Tom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of
Truth, in a homely dress--it very often wears a homely dress, thank
God!--when he replied to him.

'Martin,' he said, 'I don't know what is in your mind, or who
has abused it, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are
false. There is no truth whatever in the impression under which you
labour. It is a delusion from first to last; and I warn you that you
will deeply regret the wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I
have been true to you, and to myself. You will be very sorry for
this. Indeed, you will be very sorry for it, Martin.'

'I am sorry,' returned Martin, shaking his head. 'I think I
never knew what it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.'

'At least,' said Tom, 'if I had always been what you charge me
with being now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had
always been despised by you, and had always deserved it, you should
tell me in what you have found me to be treacherous; and on what
grounds you proceed. I do not intreat you, therefore, to give me
that satisfaction as a favour, Martin, but I ask it of you as a
right.'

'My own eyes are my witnesses,' returned Martin. 'Am I to
believe them?'

'No,' said Tom, calmly. 'Not if they accuse me.'

'Your own words. Your own manner,' pursued Martin. 'Am I to
believe them?'

'No,' replied Tom, calmly. 'Not if they accuse me. But they
never have accused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose,
has wronged me almost as cruelly'--his calmness rather failed him
here-- 'as you have done.'

'I came here,' said Martin; 'and I appeal to your good sister to
hear me--'

'Not to her,' interrupted Tom. 'Pray, do not appeal to her.
She will never believe you.'

He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.

'I believe it, Tom!'

'No, no,' cried Tom, 'of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut,
tut. What a silly little thing you are!'

'I never meant,' said Martin, hastily, 'to appeal to you against
your brother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely
appealed to you to hear my declaration, that I came here for no
purpose of reproach--I have not one reproach to vent--but in deep
regret. You could not know in what bitterness of regret, unless you
knew how often I have thought of Tom; how long in almost hopeless
circumstances, I have looked forward to the better estimation of his
friendship; and how steadfastly I have believed and trusted in
him.'

'Tut, tut,' said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak.
'He is mistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure
to be set right at last.'

'Heaven bless the day that sets me right!' cried Martin, 'if it
could ever come!'

'Amen!' said Tom. 'And it will!'

Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:

'You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our
parting. It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side--'

'There is none on mine,' said Tom.

'--It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring
about. I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the
choice that might have been expected in most people situated as you
are, but which I did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should
blame my own judgment more than you. There is wealth and favour
worth having, on one side; and there is the worthless friendship of
an abandoned, struggling fellow, on the other. You were free to make
your election, and you made it; and the choice was not difficult.
But those who have not the courage to resist such temptations, should
have the courage to avow what they have yielded to them; and I do
blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a show of warmth,
encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me to confide in
you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when you had sold
yourself to others. I do not believe,' said Martin, with
emotion--'hear me say it from my heart--I cannot believe, Tom, now
that I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in
your nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not
discovered, by chance, in whose employment you were. But I should
have encumbered you; I should have led you into more double-dealing;
I should have hazarded your retaining the favour for which you have
paid so high a price, bartering away your former self; and it is best
for both of us that I have found out what you so much desired to keep
secret.'

'Be just,' said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from
Martin's face since the commencement of this last address; 'be just
even in your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told
me what your accusation is!'

'Why should I?' returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving
towards the door. 'You could not know it the better for my dwelling
on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to
me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take
leave of you at this moment, and in this place--in which you are so
amiable and so good--as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I
have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom!--I--'

'You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?' said Tom.

'I--you--you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I--I hope it was a
rash choice,' Martin faltered. 'I think it was. I am sure it was!
Good- bye!'

And he was gone.

Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own.
He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said
aloud, turning a leaf as he spoke: 'He will be very sorry for this.'
And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.

Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms
about his neck.

'No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!'

'I am quite--comforted,' said Tom. 'It will be set right.'

'Such a cruel, bad return!' cried Ruth.

'No, no,' said Tom. 'He believes it. I cannot imagine why.
But it will be set right.'

More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her
heart would break.

'Don't. Don't,' said Tom. 'Why do you hide your face, my
dear!'

Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.

'Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it
out; you couldn't hide the truth from me. Why didn't you tell me? I
am sure I could have made you happier, if you had! You love her,
Tom, so dearly!'

Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his
sister hurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little
history was written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in
the silent touch.

'In spite of that,' said Ruth, 'you have been so faithful and so
good, dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-
denying, and have struggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have
been so gentle, and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never
seen you give a hasty look, or heard you say one irritable word. In
spite of all, you have been so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom,
will this be set right too! Will it, Tom? Will you always have this
sorrow in your breast; you who deserve to be so happy; or is there
any hope?'

And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the
neck, and wept for him, and poured out all her woman's heart and soul
in the relief and pain of this disclosure.

It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by
side, and she was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom's face.
Then Tom spoke to her thus, cheerily, though gravely:

'I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not
because it assures me of your tender affection (for I was well
assured of that before), but because it relieves my mind of a great
weight.'

Tom's eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he
kissed her on the cheek.

'My dear girl,' said Tom; 'with whatever feeling I regard
her'--they seemed to avoid the name by mutual consent--'I have long
ago--I am sure I may say from the very first--looked upon it as a
dream. As something that might possibly have happened under very
different circumstances, but which can never be. Now, tell me. What
would you have set right?'

She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged
to take it for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.

'By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed
to Martin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence.
You would have her betrothed to me?'

'Yes,' she said directly.

'Yes,' rejoined Tom, 'but that might be setting it wrong,
instead of right. Do you think,' said Tom, with a grave smile, 'that
even if she had never seen him, it is very likely she would have
fallen in love with Me?'

'Why not, dear Tom?'

Tom shook his head, and smiled again.

'You think of me, Ruth,' said Tom, 'and it is very natural that
you should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a
sort of poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or
other, come, at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a
much higher justice than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not
order events upon the same principle. Accordingly, people who read
about heroes in books, and choose to make heroes of themselves out of
books, consider it a very fine thing to be discontented and gloomy,
and misanthropical, and perhaps a little blasphemous, because they
cannot have everything ordered for their individual accommodation.
Would you like me to become one of that sort of people?'

'No, Tom. But still I know,' she added timidly, 'that this is a
sorrow to you in your own better way.'

Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been
mere folly, and he gave it up.

'My dear,' said Tom, 'I will repay your affection with the Truth
and all the Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so
sometimes, though I have always striven against it. But somebody who
is precious to you may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven
with the departed spirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the
life on earth, which is no harder to be borne than when you fell
asleep. It is sorrowful to me to contemplate my dream which I always
knew was a dream, even when it first presented itself; but the
realities about me are not to blame. They are the same as they were.
My sister, my sweet companion, who makes this place so dear, is she
less devoted to me, Ruth, than she would have been, if this vision
had never troubled me? My old friend John, who might so easily have
treated me with coldness and neglect, is he less cordial to me? The
world about me, is there less good in that? Are my words to be harsh
and my looks to be sour, and is my heart to grow cold, because there
has fallen in my way a good and beautiful creature, who but for the
selfish regret that I cannot call her my own, would, like all other
good and beautiful creatures, make me happier and better! No, my
dear sister. No,' said Tom stoutly. 'Remembering all my means of
happiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a sorrow; but
whatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me
more sensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty
ways. Not less happy. Not less happy, Ruth!'

She could not speak to him, but she loved him, as he well
deserved. Even as he deserved, she loved him.

'She will open Martin's eyes,' said Tom, with a glow of pride,
'and that (which is indeed wrong) will be set right. Nothing will
persuade her, I know, that I have betrayed him. It will be set right
through her, and he will be very sorry for it. Our secret, Ruth, is
our own, and lives and dies with us. I don't believe I ever could
have told it you,' said Tom, with a smile, 'but how glad I am to
think you have found it out!'

They had never taken such a pleasant walk as they took that
night. Tom told her all so freely and so simply, and was so desirous
to return her tenderness with his fullest confidence, that they
prolonged it far beyond their usual hour, and sat up late when they
came home. And when they parted for the night there was such a
tranquil, beautiful expression in Tom's face, that she could not bear
to shut it out, but going back on tiptoe to his chamber-door, looked
in and stood there till he saw her, and then embracing him again,
withdrew. And in her prayers and in her sleep--good times to be
remembered with such fervour, Tom!--his name was uppermost.

When he was left alone, Tom pondered very much on this discovery
of hers, and greatly wondered what had led her to it. 'Because,'
thought Tom, 'I have been so very careful. It was foolish and
unnecessary in me, as I clearly see now, when I am so relieved by her
knowing it; but I have been so very careful to conceal it from her.
Of course I knew that she was intelligent and quick, and for that
reason was more upon my guard; but I was not in the least prepared
for this. I am sure her discovery has been sudden too. Dear me!'
said Tom. 'It's a most singular instance of penetration!'

Tom could not get it out of his head. There it was, when his
head was on his pillow.

'How she trembled when she began to tell me she knew it!'
thought Tom, recalling all the little incidents and circumstances;
'and how her face flushed! But that was natural! Oh, quite natural!
That needs no accounting for.'

Tom little thought how natural it was. Tom little knew that
there was that in Ruth's own heart, but newly set there, which had
helped her to the reading of his mystery. Ah, Tom! He didn't
understand the whispers of the Temple Fountain, though he passed it
every day.

Who so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early
tap at Tom's door, and her light foot outside, would have been music
to him though she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest
morning ever seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she
would have made it so to Tom.

She was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs,
and had her bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news,
that Tom was lost in wonder. She might have been up all night,
collecting it for his entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come
home yet, and there was bread down a penny a loaf, and there was
twice as much strength in this tea as in the last, and the milk-
woman's husband had come out of the hospital cured, and the curly-
headed child over the way had been lost all yesterday, and she was
going to make all sorts of preserves in a desperate hurry, and there
happened to be a saucepan in the house which was the very saucepan
for the purpose; and she knew all about the last book Tom had brought
home, all through, though it was a teaser to read; and she had so
much to tell him that she had finished breakfast first. Then she had
her little bonnet on, and the tea and sugar locked up, and the keys
in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom's coat, and was in
all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew she had
begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence in
his own assertion which amounted to a defiance of the public in
general, there never was such a little woman.

She made Tom talkative. It was impossible to resist her. She
put such enticing questions to him; about books, and about dates of
churches, and about organs and about the Temple, and about all kinds
of things. Indeed, she lightened the way (and Tom's heart with it)
to that degree, that the Temple looked quite blank and solitary when
he parted from her at the gate.

'No Mr Fips's friend to-day, I suppose,' thought Tom, as he
ascended the stairs.

Not yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom
opened it with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now,
and had mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs,
and substituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked a
different place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride in
comtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one to
approve or disapprove of it.

He was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught
of the catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfully
concentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had ever
expended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff's workroom. It was a very
marvel of a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really
getting his money too easily, and he had determined within himself
that this document should take a little of his superfluous leisure
out of him.

So with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and
pencil, and black ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning.
He thought a good deal about Martin, and their interview of
yesterday, and would have been far easier in his mind if he could
have resolved to confide it to his friend John, and to have taken his
opinion on the subject. But besides that he knew what John's boiling
indignation would be, he bethought himself that he was helping Martin
now in a matter of great moment, and that to deprive the latter of
his assistance at such a crisis of affairs, would be to inflict a
serious injury upon him.

'So I'll keep it to myself,' said Tom, with a sigh. 'I'll keep
it to myself.'

And to work he went again, more assiduously than ever, with the
pens, and the ruler, and the india-rubber, and the pencils, and the
red ink, that he might forget it.

He had laboured away another hour or more, when he heard a
footstep in the entry, down below.

'Ah!' said Tom, looking towards the door; 'time was, not long
ago either, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But
I have left off now.'

The footstep came on, up the stairs.

'Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,' said Tom, counting.
'Now you'll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth
stair.'

The person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the
footstep came again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.

The door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked
impatiently and eagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the
landing, and arriving in the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he
rose up from his chair, and half believed he saw a spirit.

Old Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr
Pecksniff's, weak and sinking!

The same? No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was
strong, and leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with
the other he signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the
resolute face, the watchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff,
the triumphant purpose in the figure, and such a light broke in on
Tom as blinded him.

'You have expected me,' said Martin, 'a long time.'

'I was told that my employer would arrive soon,' said Tom;
'but--'

'I know. You were ignorant who he was. It was my desire. I am
glad it has been so well observed. I intended to have been with you
much sooner. I thought the time had come. I thought I could know no
more, and no worse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you
last. But I was wrong.'

He had by this time come up to Tom, and now he grasped his
hand.

'I have lived in his house, Pinch, and had him fawning on me
days and weeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to
treat me like his tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me
there. I have undergone ten thousand times as much as I could have
endured if I had been the miserable weak old man he took me for. You
know it. I have seen him offer love to Mary. You know it; who
better-- who better, my true heart! I have had his base soul bare
before me, day by day, and have not betrayed myself once. I never
could have undergone such torture but for looking forward to this
time.'

He stopped, even in the passion of his speech--if that can be
called passion which was so resolute and steady--to press Tom's hand
again. Then he said, in great excitement:

'Close the door, close the door. He will not be long after me,
but may come too soon. The time now drawing on,' said the old man,
hurriedly--his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke--'will
make amends for all. I wouldn't have him die or hang himself, for
millions of golden pieces! Close the door!'

Tom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a
dream.