“Now we've done with child's talk, I want to have a word with you. I want to have a word with you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not satisfied with the state of affairs.”
“Not satisfied!” cried Tigg. “The money comes in well.”
“The money comes in well enough,” retorted Jonas, “but it don't come out well enough. It can't be got at easily enough. I haven't sufficient power; it is all in your hands. Ecod! what with one of your by-laws, and another of your by-laws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes in that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights, and other people's rights who are only you again, there are no rights left for me. Everybody else's rights are my wrongs. What's the use of my having a voice if it's always drowned? I might as well be dumb, and it would be much less aggravating. I'm not a-going to stand that, you know.”
“No!” said Tigg in an insinuating tone.
“No!” returned Jonas, “I'm not indeed. I'll play old Gooseberry with the office, and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure, if you try any of your tricks with me.”
“I give you my honour—” Montague began.
“Oh! confound your honour,” interrupted Jonas, who became more coarse and quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of Mr Montague's intention; “I want a little more control over the money. You may have all the honour, if you like; I'll never bring you to book for that. But I'm not a-going to stand it, as it is now. If you should take it into your honourable head to go abroad with the bank, I don't see much to prevent you. Well! That won't do. I've had some very good dinners here, but they'd come too dear on such terms; and therefore, that won't do.”
“I am unfortunate to find you in this humour,” said Tigg, with a remarkable kind of smile; “for I was going to propose to you—for your own advantage; solely for your own advantage—that you should venture a little more with us.”
“Was you, by G—?” said Jonas, with a short laugh.
“Yes. And to suggest,” pursued Montague, “that surely you have friends; indeed, I know you have; who would answer our purpose admirably, and whom we should be delighted to receive.”
“How kind of you! You'd be delighted to receive “em, would you?” said Jonas, bantering.
“I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends, observe!”
“Exactly,” said Jonas; “as my friends, of course. You'll be very much delighted when you get “em, I have no doubt. And it'll be all to my advantage, won't it?”
“It will be very much to your advantage,” answered Montague poising a brush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. “It will be very much to your advantage, I assure you.”
“And you can tell me how,” said Jonas, “can't you?”
“SHALL I tell you how?” returned the other.
“I think you had better,” said Jonas. “Strange things have been done in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to take care of myself.”
“Chuzzlewit!” replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his knees, and looking full into his face. “Strange things have been done, and are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other ways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend, is a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the knowledge of very strange events.”
He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his ear.
From red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last he laid his hand upon the whisperer's mouth, appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.
He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject, crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.
His companion leisurely resumed his dressing, and completed it, glancing sometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never speaking once.
“You'll not object,” he said, when he was quite equipped, “to venture further with us, Chuzzlewit, my friend?”
His pale lips faintly stammered out a “No.”
“Well said! That's like yourself. Do you know I was thinking yesterday that your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great sagacity in money matters, as no doubt you are, would join us, if the thing were well presented to him. He has money?”
“Yes, he has money.”
“Shall I leave Mr Pecksniff to you? Will you undertake for Mr Pecksniff.”
“I'll try. I'll do my best.”
“A thousand thanks,” replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder. “Shall we walk downstairs? Mr Nadgett! Follow us, if you please.”
They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to Montague; whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped, and having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts came crowding on his mind even at that early time, of one terrible chance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; he no more thought that the slinking figure half-a-dozen stairs behind him was his pursuing Fate, than that the other figure at his side was his Good Angel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE PINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM
Pleasant little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth! No doll's house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress, than little Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular parlour and the two small bedrooms.
To be Tom's housekeeper. What dignity! Housekeeping, upon the commonest terms, associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and kinds; but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of the little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar; and out of the two little damp cupboards down by the fireplace, where the very black beetles got mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their backs by envious mildew; and jingle them upon a ring before Tom's eyes when he came down to breakfast! Well might she, laughing musically, put them up in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride! For it was such a grand novelty to be mistress of anything, that if she had been the most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might have pleaded just that much for her excuse, and have been honourably acquitted.
So far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very way of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when she asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered out “chops” as a reasonably good suggestion after their last night's successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her desperately.
“I don't know, Tom,” said his sister, blushing, “I am not quite confident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried, Tom.”
“In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so much as a beef-steak pudding!” cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the greater force to this reply.
“Yes, dear, that's excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite right the first time,” his sister faltered; “if it should happen not to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or something of that sort, you'll not be vexed, Tom, will you?”
The serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked at her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at her own expense, would have enchanted you.
“Why,” said Tom “this is capital. It gives us a new, and quite an uncommon interest in the dinner. We put
