Martin Chuzzlewit - Charles Dickens (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📗

constantly running between Mark and Martin, shaking hands with them alternately, and presenting them over and over again to his sister.

‘I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday,’ said Tom. ‘What a day it was! and what a passion you were in! And don’t you remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I was going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him, and you were looking out for a situation? And don’t you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury, Martin, with John Westlock, eh! Good gracious me! Ruth, my dear, Mr Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the Dragon. More cups and saucers, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both!’

And then Tom (as John Westlock had done on his arrival) ran off to the loaf to cut some bread and butter for them; and before he had spread a single slice, remembered something else, and came running back again to tell it; and then he shook hands with them again; and then he introduced his sister again; and then he did everything he had done already all over again; and nothing Tom could do, and nothing Tom could say, was half sufficient to express his joy at their safe return.

Mr Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space of time he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as waiter, or attendant upon the party; a fact which was first suggested to them by his temporary absence in the kitchen, and speedy return with a kettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the tea-pot with a self-possession that was quite his own.

‘Sit down, and take your breakfast, Mark,’ said Tom. ‘Make him sit down and take his breakfast, Martin.’

‘Oh! I gave him up, long ago, as incorrigible,’ Martin replied. ‘He takes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew his value.’

‘She knows it, bless you!’ said Tom. ‘I have told her all about Mark Tapley. Have I not, Ruth?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘Not all,’ returned Martin, in a low voice. ‘The best of Mark Tapley is only known to one man, Tom; and but for Mark he would hardly be alive to tell it!’

‘Mark!’ said Tom Pinch energetically; ‘if you don’t sit down this minute, I’ll swear at you!’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘sooner than you should do that, I’ll com-ply. It’s a considerable invasion of a man’s jollity to be made so partickler welcome, but a Werb is a word as signifies to be, to do, or to suffer (which is all the grammar, and enough too, as ever I wos taught); and if there’s a Werb alive, I’m it. For I’m always a-bein’, sometimes a-doin’, and continually a-sufferin’.’

‘Not jolly yet?’ asked Tom, with a smile.

‘Why, I was rather so, over the water, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘and not entirely without credit. But Human Natur’ is in a conspiracy again’ me; I can’t get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be wrote upon my tomb: “He was a man as might have come out strong if he could have got a chance. But it was denied him.”’

Mr Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin, and subsequently attacking the breakfast, with an appetite not at all expressive of blighted hopes, or insurmountable despondency.

In the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his sister, and related to them what had passed at Mr Pecksniff’s house; adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and disappointments he had undergone since he left England.

‘For your faithful stewardship in the trust I left with you, Tom,’ he said, ‘and for all your goodness and disinterestedness, I can never thank you enough. When I add Mary’s thanks to mine—’

Ah, Tom! The blood retreated from his cheeks, and came rushing back, so violently, that it was pain to feel it; ease though, ease, compared with the aching of his wounded heart.

‘When I add Mary’s thanks to mine,’ said Martin, ‘I have made the only poor acknowledgment it is in our power to offer; but if you knew how much we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure.’

And if they had known how much Tom felt—but that no human creature ever knew—they would have set some store by him. Indeed they would.

Tom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it, as it gave Martin pleasure; but he was unable, at that moment. No drop of envy or bitterness was in his soul; but he could not master the firm utterance of her name.

He inquired what Martin’s projects were.

‘No longer to make your fortune, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘but to try to live. I tried that once in London, Tom; and failed. If you will give me the benefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under your guidance. I will do anything Tom, anything, to gain a livelihood by my own exertions. My hopes do not soar above that, now.’

High-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find the pride of his old companion humbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once, at once, he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep emotions, and spoke out bravely.

‘Your hopes do not soar above that!’ cried Tom. ‘Yes they do. How can you talk so! They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe that you were ever cast down in spirit, or poor in pocket, Martin. Advice, and friendly counsel! Why, of course. But you shall have better advice and counsel (though you cannot have more friendly) than mine. You shall consult John Westlock. We’ll go there immediately. It is yet so early that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to business; they are in my way; and I can leave you there, to talk over your affairs with him. So come along. Come along. I am a man of occupation now, you know,’ said Tom, with his pleasantest smile; ‘and have no time to lose. Your hopes don’t soar higher than that? I dare say they don’t. I know you, pretty well. They’ll be soaring out of sight soon, Martin, and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind.’

‘Aye! But I may be a little changed,’ said Martin, ‘since you knew me pretty well, Tom.’

‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Why should you be changed? You talk as if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow! Come to John Westlock’s, come. Come along, Mark Tapley. It’s Mark’s doing, I have no doubt; and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your companion.’

‘There’s no credit to be got through being jolly with YOU, Mr Pinch, anyways,’ said Mark, with his face all wrinkled up with grins. ‘A parish doctor might be jolly with you. There’s nothing short of goin’ to the U-nited States for a second trip, as would make it at all creditable to be jolly, arter seein’ you again!’

Tom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out into the street, and away to John Westlock’s by the nearest road; for his hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on always being exact to his time.

John Westlock was at home, but, strange to say, was rather embarrassed to see them; and when Tom was about to go into the room where he was breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a mysterious stranger, for John shut that door as he said it, and led them into the next room.

He was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley; and received Martin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not inspire John Westlock with any unusual interest; and twice or thrice observed that he looked at Tom Pinch doubtfully; not to say compassionately. He thought, and blushed to think, that he knew the cause of this.

‘I apprehend you are engaged,’ said Martin, when Tom had announced the purport of their visit. ‘If you will allow me to come again at your own time, I shall be glad to do so.’

‘I AM engaged,’ replied John, with some reluctance; ‘but the matter on which I am engaged is one, to say the truth, more immediately demanding your knowledge than mine.’

‘Indeed!’ cried Martin.

‘It relates to a member of your family, and is of a serious nature. If you will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to me to have it privately communicated to you, in order that you may judge of its importance for yourself.’

‘And in the meantime,’ said Tom, ‘I must really take myself off, without any further ceremony.’

‘Is your business so very particular,’ asked Martin, ‘that you cannot remain with us for half an hour? I wish you could. What IS your business, Tom?’

It was Tom’s turn to be embarrassed now; but he plainly said, after a little hesitation:

‘Why, I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin; though I hope soon to be in a condition to do so, and am aware of no other reason to prevent my doing so now, than the request of my employer. It’s an awkward position to be placed in,’ said Tom, with an uneasy sense of seeming to doubt his friend, ‘as I feel every day; but I really cannot help it, can I, John?’

John Westlock replied in the negative; and Martin, expressing himself perfectly satisfied, begged them not to say another word; though he could not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held, and why he was so secret, and embarrassed, and unlike himself, in reference to it. Nor could he help reverting to it, in his own mind, several times after Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was ended, taking Mr Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might accompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury.

‘And what do you mean to do, Mark?’ asked Tom, as they walked on together.

‘Mean to do, sir?’ returned Mr Tapley.

‘Aye. What course of life do you mean to pursue?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘The fact is, that I have been a-thinking rather of the matrimonial line, sir.’

‘You don’t say so, Mark!’ cried Tom.

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been a-turnin’ of it over.’

‘And who is the lady, Mark?’

‘The which, sir?’ said Mr Tapley.

‘The lady. Come! You know what I said,’ replied Tom, laughing, ‘as well as I do!’

Mr Tapley suppressed his own inclination to laugh; and with one of his most whimsically-twisted looks, replied:

‘You couldn’t guess, I suppose, Mr Pinch?’

‘How is it possible?’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know any of your flames, Mark. Except Mrs Lupin, indeed.’

‘Well, sir!’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘And supposing it was her!’

Tom stopping in the street to look at him, Mr Tapley for a moment presented to his view an utterly stolid and expressionless face; a perfect dead wall of countenance. But opening window after window in it with astonishing rapidity, and lighting them all up as for a general illumination, he repeated:

‘Supposin’, for the sake of argument, as it was her, sir!’

‘Why I thought such a connection wouldn’t suit you, Mark, on any terms!’ cried Tom.

‘Well, sir! I used to think so myself, once,’