“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,” said Mark. “But I ain't so clear about it now. A dear, sweet creetur, sir!”
“A dear, sweet creature? To be sure she is,” cried Tom. “But she always was a dear, sweet creature, was she not?”
“WAS she not!” assented Mr Tapley.
“Then why on earth didn't you marry her at first, Mark, instead of wandering abroad, and losing all this time, and leaving her alone by herself, liable to be courted by other people?”
“Why, sir,” retorted Mr Tapley, in a spirit of unbounded confidence, “I'll tell you how it come about. You know me, Mr Pinch, sir; there ain't a gentleman alive as knows me better. You're acquainted with my constitution, and you're acquainted with my weakness. My constitution is, to be jolly; and my weakness is, to wish to find a credit in it. Wery good, sir. In this state of mind, I gets a notion in my head that she looks on me with a eye of—with what you may call a favourable sort of a eye in fact,” said Mr Tapley, with modest hesitation.
“No doubt,” replied Tom. “We knew that perfectly well when we spoke on this subject long ago; before you left the Dragon.”
Mr Tapley nodded assent. “Well, sir! But bein” at that time full of hopeful wisions, I arrives at the conclusion that no credit is to be got out of such a way of life as that, where everything agreeable would be ready to one's hand. Lookin” on the bright side of human life in short, one of my hopeful wisions is, that there's a deal of misery awaitin” for me; in the midst of which I may come out tolerable strong, and be jolly under circumstances as reflects some credit. I goes into the world, sir, wery boyant, and I tries this. I goes aboard ship first, and wery soon discovers (by the ease with which I'm jolly, mind you) as there's no credit to be got THERE. I might have took warning by this, and gave it up; but I didn't. I gets to the U-nited States; and then I DO begin, I won't deny it, to feel some little credit in sustaining my spirits. What follows? Jest as I'm a-beginning to come out, and am a-treadin” on the werge, my master deceives me.”
“Deceives you!” cried Tom.
“Swindles me,” retorted Mr Tapley with a beaming face. “Turns his back on everything as made his service a creditable one, and leaves me high and dry, without a leg to stand upon. In which state I returns home. Wery good. Then all my hopeful wisions bein” crushed; and findin” that there ain't no credit for me nowhere; I abandons myself to despair, and says, “Let me do that as has the least credit in it of all; marry a dear, sweet creetur, as is wery fond of me; me bein”, at the same time, wery fond of her; lead a happy life, and struggle no more again” the blight which settles on my prospects.”
“If your philosophy, Mark,” said Tom, who laughed heartily at this speech, “be the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs Lupin has said “yes,” of course?”
“Why, no, sir,” replied Mr Tapley; “she hasn't gone so far as that yet. Which I attribute principally to my not havin” asked her. But we was wery agreeable together—comfortable, I may say—the night I come home. It's all right, sir.”
“Well!” said Tom, stopping at the Temple Gate. “I wish you joy, Mark, with all my heart. I shall see you again to-day, I dare say. Good-bye for the present.”
“Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Mr Pinch!” he added by way of soliloquy, as he stood looking after him. “Although you ARE a damper to a honourable ambition. You little think it, but you was the first to dash my hopes. Pecksniff would have built me up for life, but your sweet temper pulled me down. Good-bye, Mr Pinch!”
While these confidences were interchanged between Tom Pinch and Mark, Martin and John Westlock were very differently engaged. They were no sooner left alone together than Martin said, with an effort he could not disguise:
“Mr Westlock, we have met only once before, but you have known Tom a long while, and that seems to render you familiar to me. I cannot talk freely with you on any subject unless I relieve my mind of what oppresses it just now. I see with pain that you so far mistrust me that you think me likely to impose on Tom's regardlessness of himself, or on his kind nature, or some of his good qualities.”
“I had no intention,” replied John, “of conveying any such impression to you, and am exceedingly sorry to have done so.”
“But you entertain it?” said Martin.
“You ask me so pointedly and directly,” returned the other, “that I cannot deny the having accustomed myself to regard you as one who, not in wantonness but in mere thoughtlessness of character, did not sufficiently consider his nature and did not quite treat it as it deserves to be treated. It is much easier to slight than to appreciate Tom Pinch.”
This was not said warmly, but was energetically spoken too; for there was no subject in the world (but one) on which the speaker felt so strongly.
“I grew into the knowledge of Tom,” he pursued, “as I grew towards manhood; and I have learned to love him as something, infinitely better than myself. I did not think that you understood him when we met before. I did not think that you greatly cared to understand him. The instances of this which I observed in you were, like my opportunities for observation, very trivial—and were very harmless, I dare say. But they were not agreeable to me, and they forced themselves upon me; for I was not upon the watch for them, believe me. You will say,” added John, with a smile, as he subsided into more of his accustomed manner, “that I am not by any means agreeable to you. I can only assure you, in reply, that I would not have originated this topic on any account.”
“I originated it,” said Martin; “and so far from having any complaint to make against you, highly esteem the friendship you entertain for Tom, and the very many proofs you have given him of it. Why should I endeavour to conceal from you'—he coloured deeply though—'that I neither understood him nor cared to understand him when I was his companion; and that I am very truly sorry for it now!”
It was so sincerely said, at once so modestly and manfully, that John offered him his hand as if he had not done so before; and Martin giving his in the same open spirit, all constraint between the young men vanished.
“Now pray,” said John, “when I tire your patience very much in what I am going to say, recollect that it has an end to it, and that the end is the point of the story.”
With this preface, he related all the circumstances connected with his having presided over the illness and slow recovery of the patient at the Bull; and tacked on to the skirts of that narrative Tom's own account of the business on the wharf. Martin was not a little puzzled when he came to an end, for the two stories seemed to have no connection with each other, and to leave him, as the phrase is, all abroad.
“If you will excuse me for one moment,” said John, rising, “I will beg you almost immediately to come into the next room.”
Upon that, he left Martin to himself, in a state of considerable astonishment; and soon came back again to fulfil his promise. Accompanying him into the next room, Martin found there a third person; no doubt the stranger of whom his host had spoken when Tom Pinch introduced him.
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.”
