“There are so many people, and so much motion, and so many objects,” said Tom, “that I find it difficult to—no, I really don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak, and a lady in a black shawl. There’s a lady in a red shawl over there!”
“No, no, no!” cried his landlord, pointing eagerly again, “not there. The other way; the other way. Look at the cabin steps. To the left. They must be near the cabin steps. Do you see the cabin steps? There’s the bell ringing already! Do you see the steps?”
“Stay!” said Tom, “you’re right. Look! there they go now. Is that the gentleman you mean? Descending at this minute, with the folds of a great cloak trailing down after him?”
“The very man!” returned the other, not looking at what Tom pointed out, however, but at Tom’s own face. “Will you do me a kindness, sir, a great kindness? Will you put that letter in his hand? Only give him that! He expects it. I am charged to do it by my employers, but I am late in finding him, and, not being as young as I have been, should never be able to make my way on board and off the deck again in time. Will you pardon my boldness, and do me that great kindness?”
His hands shook, and his face bespoke the utmost interest and agitation, as he pressed the letter upon Tom, and pointed to its destination, like the Tempter in some grim old carving.
To hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office was not in Tom’s way. He took the letter; whispered Ruth to wait till he returned, which would be immediately; and ran down the steps with all the expedition he could make. There were so many people going down, so many others coming up, such heavy goods in course of transit to and fro, such a ringing of bell, blowing-off of steam, and shouting of men’s voices, that he had much ado to force his way, or keep in mind to which boat he was going. But he reached the right one with good speed, and going down the cabin-stairs immediately, descried the object of his search standing at the upper end of the saloon, with his back towards him, reading some notice which was hung against the wall. As Tom advanced to give him the letter, he started, hearing footsteps, and turned round.
What was Tom’s astonishment to find in him the man with whom he had had the conflict in the field—poor Mercy’s husband. Jonas!
Tom understood him to say, what the devil did he want; but it was not easy to make out what he said; he spoke so indistinctly.
“I want nothing with you for myself,” said Tom; “I was asked, a moment since, to give you this letter. You were pointed out to me, but I didn’t know you in your strange dress. Take it!”
He did so, opened it, and read the writing on the inside. The contents were evidently very brief; not more perhaps than one line; but they struck upon him like a stone from a sling. He reeled back as he read.
His emotion was so different from any Tom had ever seen before that he stopped involuntarily. Momentary as his state of indecision was, the bell ceased while he stood there, and a hoarse voice calling down the steps, inquired if there was any to go ashore?
“Yes,” cried Jonas, “I—I am coming. Give me time. Where’s that woman! Come back; come back here.”
He threw open another door as he spoke, and dragged, rather than led, her forth. She was pale and frightened, and amazed to see her old acquaintance; but had no time to speak, for they were making a great stir above; and Jonas drew her rapidly towards the deck.
“Where are we going? What is the matter?”
“We are going back,” said Jonas. “I have changed my mind. I can’t go. Don’t question me, or I shall be the death of you, or someone else. Stop there! Stop! We’re for the shore. Do you hear? We’re for the shore!”
He turned, even in the madness of his hurry, and scowling darkly back at Tom, shook his clenched hand at him. There are not many human faces capable of the expression with which he accompanied that gesture.
He dragged her up, and Tom followed them. Across the deck, over the side, along the crazy plank, and up the steps, he dragged her fiercely; not bestowing any look on her, but gazing upwards all the while among the faces on the wharf. Suddenly he turned again, and said to Tom with a tremendous oath:
“Where is he?”
Before Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to a question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind, and saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign appearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with a polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and desperate manner.
“Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!” said the gentleman, raising his hat in compliment to Mrs. Chuzzlewit, “I ask your pardon twenty thousand times. I am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this nature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I have not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great infelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the beehive—will you introduce me?”
“This is Mr. Montague,” said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.
“The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs. Chuzzlewit,” pursued that gentleman, “for having been the means of spoiling this excursion; but as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short little continental trip, my dear friend, of course?”
Jonas maintained a dogged silence.
“May I die,” cried Montague, “but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am shocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city
