“Quite true,” said John; “quite. I hope you have time to find another assistant, Mrs. Gamp?”
Between her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what was said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and murmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs. Prig had challenged—as if it were a talisman against all earthly sorrows—seemed to wander in her mind.
“I hope,” repeated John, “that you have time to find another assistant?”
“Which short it is, indeed,” cried Mrs. Gamp, turning up her languid eyes, and clasping Mr. Westlock’s wrist with matronly affection. “Tomorrow evenin’, sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr. Chuzzlewit apinted it from nine to ten.”
“From nine to ten,” said John, with a significant glance at Martin: “and then Mr. Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?”
“He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,” Mrs. Gamp replied with a mysterious air. “Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance from Betsey Prig. I little know’d that woman. She’d have let it out!”
“Let him out, you mean,” said John.
“Do I!” retorted Mrs. Gamp. “Oh!”
The severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very slow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs. Gamp’s mouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a short doze:
“But I am a-keepin’ of you gentlemen, and time is precious.”
Mingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with the belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd avoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had lately strayed, Mrs. Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its accustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity, proceeded to attire herself for a professional visit.
This preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than the snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens, and the indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a laying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs. Gamp had invested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and sitting down again, declared herself quite ready.
“It’s a appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,” she observed, “I’m sure. It isn’t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig inflicts is frightful!”
Closing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her commiseration for Betsey’s patients, she forgot to open them again until she dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals, like the fabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten, and of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her sleep was peaceful.
The two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin, stifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock’s ear,
“What shall we do now?”
“Stay here,” he replied.
Mrs. Gamp was heard to murmur “Mrs. Harris” in her sleep.
“Rely upon it,” whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, “that you shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs. Harris herself. We know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks to this quarrel, which confirms the old saying that when rogues fall out, honest people get what they want. Let Jonas Chuzzlewit look to himself; and let her sleep as long as she likes. We shall gain our end in good time.”
L
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
