He was a young man; with deep black hair and eyes. He was gaunt and pale; and evidently had not long recovered from a severe illness. He stood as Martin entered, but sat again at John’s desire. His eyes were cast downward; and but for one glance at them both, half in humiliation and half in entreaty, he kept them so, and sat quite still and silent.
“This person’s name is Lewsome,” said John Westlock, “whom I have mentioned to you as having been seized with an illness at the inn near here, and undergone so much. He has had a very hard time of it, ever since he began to recover; but, as you see, he is now doing well.”
As he did not move or speak, and John Westlock made a pause, Martin, not knowing what to say, said that he was glad to hear it.
“The short statement that I wish you to hear from his own lips, Mr. Chuzzlewit,” John pursued—looking attentively at him, and not at Martin—“he made to me for the first time yesterday, and repeated to me this morning, without the least variation of any essential particular. I have already told you that he informed me before he was removed from the Inn, that he had a secret to disclose to me which lay heavy on his mind. But, fluctuating between sickness and health and between his desire to relieve himself of it, and his dread of involving himself by revealing it, he has, until yesterday, avoided the disclosure. I never pressed him for it (having no idea of its weight or import, or of my right to do so), until within a few days past; when, understanding from him, on his own voluntary avowal, in a letter from the country, that it related to a person whose name was Jonas Chuzzlewit; and thinking that it might throw some light on that little mystery which made Tom anxious now and then; I urged the point upon him, and heard his statement, as you will now, from his own lips. It is due to him to say, that in the apprehension of death, he committed it to writing sometime since, and folded it in a sealed paper, addressed to me; which he could not resolve, however, to place of his own act in my hands. He has the paper in his breast, I believe, at this moment.”
The young man touched it hastily; in corroboration of the fact.
“It will be well to leave that in our charge, perhaps,” said John. “But do not mind it now.”
As he said this, he held up his hand to bespeak Martin’s attention. It was already fixed upon the man before him, who, after a short silence said, in a low, weak, hollow voice:
“What relation was Mr. Anthony Chuzzlewit, who—”
“—Who died—to me?” said Martin. “He was my grandfather’s brother.”
“I fear he was made away with. Murdered!”
“My God!” said Martin. “By whom?”
The young man, Lewsome, looked up in his face, and casting down his eyes again, replied:
“I fear, by me.”
“By you?” cried Martin.
“Not by my act, but I fear by my means.”
“Speak out!” said Martin, “and speak the truth.”
“I fear this is the truth.”
Martin was about to interrupt him again, but John Westlock saying softly, “Let him tell his story in his own way,” Lewsome went on thus:
“I have been bred a surgeon, and for the last few years have served a general practitioner in the City, as his assistant. While I was in his employment I became acquainted with Jonas Chuzzlewit. He is the principal in this deed.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Martin, sternly. “Do you know he is the son of the old man of whom you have spoken?”
“I do,” he answered.
He remained silent for some moments, when he resumed at the point where he had left off.
“I have reason to know it; for I have often heard him wish his old father dead, and complain of his being wearisome to him, and a drag upon him. He was in the habit of doing so, at a place of meeting we had—three or four of us—at night. There was no good in the place, you may suppose, when you hear that he was the chief of the party. I wish I had died myself, and never seen it!”
He stopped again; and again resumed as before.
“We met to drink and game; not for large sums, but for sums that were large to us. He generally won. Whether or no, he lent money at interest to those who lost; and in this way, though I think we all secretly hated him, he came to be the master of us. To propitiate him we made a jest of his father; it began with his debtors; I was one; and we used to toast a quicker journey to the old man, and a swift inheritance to the young one.”
He paused again.
“One night he came there in a very bad humour. He had been greatly tried, he said, by the old man that day. He and I were alone together; and he angrily told me, that the old man was in his second childhood; that he was weak, imbecile, and drivelling; as unbearable to himself as he was to other people; and that it would be a charity to put him out of the way. He swore that he had often thought of mixing something with the stuff he took for his cough, which should help him to die easily. People were sometimes smothered who were bitten by mad dogs, he said; and why not help these lingering old men out of their troubles too? He looked full at me as he said so, and I looked full at him; but it went no farther that night.”
He stopped once more, and was
